Long Shot (4 page)

“Yes, it was,” Kia said. “It was bad.”

“I can't imagine Coach Riley running a bad try-out.”

“He didn't run anything except the engine of his motor home,” I said.

“His motor home? What do you mean?” my father asked.

“Coach isn't our coach anymore. He's quit,” Kia explained.

“He's retired to travel,” I added.

“Wow, I can't believe that … his whole life is basketball.”

“And travelling. And that's what he's doing right now, him and his wife,” Kia said.

“He said goodbye to us and then got in his motor home and drove off.”

“He seemed pretty happy about it,” Kia said.

“Except he was crying at the end,” I said, not mentioning how close I had been to tears too.

“I guess we should be happy for him,” my father said.

“I guess so,” I agreed, although that sounded more like something my mother would say instead of my father.

“So who's in charge of the team?” my father asked.

Now that sounded more like him.

“Some guy.”

“He must have a name.”

“Three of them. Sir, Coach, and Mr. Barkley,” Kia said.

“Did he run a good try-out?”

“A tiring one. He had us running laps and doing suicides and —”

“And any time anybody even coughed he gave us all more laps to run.”

“Sounds like he's tough.”

“Tough doesn't even begin to describe him,” I said. “He's already made the first cuts … during the try-outs.”

“He did?” my father asked.

“I think so … although some of them probably didn't even know they were cut.”

“I don't understand, how can they not know they were cut?” my father asked.

“He picked out some players and sent them down to the far end of the gym, away from where the rest of us were trying out,” I explained.

“I saw that too,” Kia said. “They were all the weaker players.”

“It was too fast. He didn't even give them a chance,” I said.

“But aren't you the one who complained that Coach Riley always waited too long and kept kids around who had no chance to make the team?”

“Well …” I actually had always complained about that. I thought it was better for those kids to die in one quick blow rather than sort of linger around thinking they had a chance when everybody knew they didn't.

“And he said that he didn't want us to wear any part of our Magic uniform to the try-outs,” Kia said. “That just because we were on the team last year doesn't mean we're going to be on the team this year.”

“That's fair,” my father agreed. “Every year is a new year and you have to make the team on merit.”

“And he also said that our team last year was too soft and too nice,” I said.

“Hmm … that's interesting,” my father said quietly.

“What do you mean by that?” I asked.

“Well … you know how much I respected Coach Riley,” he began.

“But what?” I asked, knowing something had to follow.

“But at times I thought that he could have been harder on you guys.”

“What do you mean?”

“Things like making you run more in practices.”

“We ran in practices,” I argued.

“As hard as you did today?” he asked.

“Not really,” I reluctantly admitted. “But what else?”

“He was so quiet on the sidelines. It would have helped to yell out more instructions or to tell somebody — loudly — if they were making a mistake.”

“This guy has got no problem pointing out mistakes,” Kia said with a smirk.

I didn't want to go there right now. “So you wanted him to yell at us more?”

“And I think you all could have been more aggressive. Sometimes I think your team was just too nice,” my father said.

“That's what this new coach said too,” Kia explained.

I looked up and saw the smirk on my father's face in the rear view mirror.

“There are always changes when a new coach takes over,” my father said. “The important thing is, does he know about basketball?”

“I think he does,” Kia said. “He made some good suggestions and the drills were good.”

“And Coach Riley said he knew the game,” I added.

“Was your old coach part of picking the new guy?” my father asked.

“I think so. He's known him for years. He said he coached him in high school,” Kia said.

“And that he went on to play at university for four years and led his team to a bunch of championships.”

“So it sounds like he knows basketball and …” my father paused. “What did you say his name was?”

“Barkley.”

“Len Barkley?” he asked.

“I think that was it,” I said.

“I thought it was Ken,” Kia added.

“No, I'm pretty sure it's Len,” I disagreed.

“And how old is he?” my father asked as he pulled the car to a stop in our driveway.

“I don't know … it's hard to tell with adults,” I said.

My father turned around in his seat. “Is he
around my age?” he demanded excitedly.

“Sure … maybe … he could be,” I said.

“If I'm right, do either of you two have any idea who your coach is?”

“No, who?” I demanded.

“Yeah, who is he?”

Without answering my father jumped out of the car and slammed the door shut. Kia and I looked at each other in shock.

“What's wrong with your father?” Kia demanded.

“I don't know! Come on!”

We leaped out of the car, and chased after him. He was already in the house before we got close. I pulled open the door and charged into the house.

“Dad! Where are you?” I yelled.

My mother poked her head out of the living room and gave me a disapproving look.

“Do you know where Dad is?”

“I hoped he was with you . . . he did drive you two home, didn't he?”

“He did, but then he said something about our new coach, and then —”

“You have a new coach?” she asked.

“Yeah, but then he ran into the house and —”

“Your new coach?”

“No, Dad. He ran into the house and —”

“I found it!” Dad yelled as he came running up the stairs from the basement. “Here it is!”

He was waving something in the air.

“Is this your coach?” he asked as he passed a magazine to me.

I looked down at the page. There in the middle of an article was a picture of Mr. Barkley.

“Yeah, that's him,” I confirmed.

“Let me see,” Kia said, pushing in to see the picture.

“My goodness!” my father practically yelled. “You're being coached by Len Barkley!”

“Who's Len Barkley?” my mother asked.

“He's the new coach of the team!” my father sang out.

“I gathered that, but who is he?” she asked.

“And why is he in some magazine?” Kia asked.

“He's not in
some
magazine. He's in this month's
Sports Illustrated
!”

“But why is he in
Sports Illustrated
?” Kia asked.

“Because he's Len Barkley!” my father exclaimed.

“I think we all understand what his name is,” my mother said. “But who is he and why is he in
Sports Illustrated
?”

“It's a special feature each issue called ‘Catching Up With' and he's this month's celebrity,” my father explained.

I'd glanced at the article when this issue arrived at the house. Maybe that's why his picture and name seemed familiar to me.

“But why does anybody want to catch up with him?” my mother asked. 38

“Because he's Len Barkley! He was on the cover of
Sports Illustrated
twenty years ago. Don't any of you know who he is?”

“
If
we knew, we wouldn't be asking you,” she said.

“I'd looked at it a bit,” I admitted. It was usually the last thing I read in each issue. It was always about people I'd never heard of. My father, on the other hand, loved that feature.

“Len Barkley is probably the best basketball player this city ever produced,” my father explained.

“He is?” I asked.

“I even played against him one game. He was a senior on one of your old coach's teams and my school played against them.”

“Did you win?” I asked.

“Win? Nobody won against them. Barkley was like a one man wrecking crew! He scored more than thirty points, had a dozen assists and that many rebounds, and I think he put two of our players out of the game with injuries.”

“I can't believe that,” my mother said.

“No, he was really that good.”

“I don't mean that. I mean that you can't ever remember to pick up the three things I send you to the store to buy and you can remember his statistics from a game more than twenty years ago?” my mother asked in amazement.

“I'll never forget that game,” my father said. “Would either of you ever forget if you played against Julius the Jewel Johnson?”

“Of course not,” I agreed. “But we're not talking about the Jewel, just some high school player.”

“Some high school player?” my father questioned, sounding offended. “He was probably the best high school player of all time! A player who went on to university where he lead his team to three, count them, three national titles! Something that nobody, including Julius Johnson, ever did … something that nobody will probably ever do again.”

“If he's that good, how come we've never heard of him?” Kia asked.

“Probably because it was long before either of you were born,” my mother said.

“But I know lots of players who played before I was born,” I said. “People like Wilt Chamberlain, and Kareem Abdul-Jabar, Dr. J., Magic Johnson, Bill Russell, and of course Jordan and —”

“But they all had long careers in the pro's,” my father said. “Barkley didn't play … except for a couple of games.”

“I don't understand,” I said. “If he was that good, then why didn't he make the pro's?”

“Because of an injury.”

“The one he got in his senior year?” I asked.

“Yeah … how did you know about that?” my father questioned.

“He mentioned that he had some sort of injury that stopped him from leading his team one year.”

“His senior year. They were the odds-on favorite to win it all again when he got injured.”

“Was it a bad injury?” my mother asked.

“I still remember seeing it on TV,” my father said, shaking his head slowly. “It was probably the worst injury I've ever seen.”

“What happened?”

“There was a loose ball and Barkley and a couple of other guys were all scrambling for it and somehow they all got twisted around and somebody came down on his ankle.”

“Was it broken?” Kia asked.

“Not broken. It was shattered so badly that he was never able to play again.”

“Ever?” I questioned in amazement.

“Never the same way. He was drafted and played a few games the next year in the pro's but he was never able to play the way he had before the injury. So after having surgery a couple of times and playing in a handful of games over that first season, he retired.”

“That's too bad,” Kia said.

“Do you know what I remember most about the whole thing?” my father asked.

“Playing against him in high school?” I asked.

He shook his head. “It was what happened after the injury. It was a nationally televised game. Barkley was lying there on the floor and the camera captured his face and it looked like he was in unbelievable pain.”

“It would have been incredibly painful,” my mother agreed.

“But through it all he never let go of the ball.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“He got the ball in the scramble. He was taken out of the arena by stretcher … and he still had the ball in his hands. He wouldn't let go of it … wouldn't even give it to the referees. That's the sort of player he was.”

My father paused. “You know … he could have been the very best … could have been.”