Pull (24 page)

Mom looks like she could hug him. Kid slinks to the fridge, still not ready to engage with Bolden in any direct way. I decide it right then and there—when I take my official visits, Kid's coming with if he wants. Maybe it will be bittersweet for him, but these are the trips he should have been taking back in the day. I want him in this mix—as much for him as for me.

30.

Pike's not messing around. As soon as they step out for warmups, their whole demeanor is different. Last time they were jacking up twenty-five footers, probably thinking they could beat us in their sleep. This time, they're pushing it. Devin Drew sprints through their lay-up line like he's been lit on fire. It only takes a couple minutes before he's got a full sweat up. When he sees one of their back-up bigs try a step-back—out of the guy's range, I guess—he lights right into him. And it's not like any teammates jump to step in. No. They just keep warming up with a military focus. These guys are out for blood.

So is their crowd. People are in their seats early, clapping and stomping. It feels like their energy raises the temperature in the gym by a few extra degrees. The past two years, we've stolen what they thought belonged to them—title of Sectional champs—and they want it back.

As the clock ticks toward zeroes, a swell of sound rises. Their band drives the crowd into a bigger frenzy. At first, they just play bass and drums in a slow, pulsing beat. Then the horns come in and the beat
gets faster. It's not so much a song as a methodic noise—louder and faster with each tick. And by the time the lineups are announced, the whole place is chanting on the insistent beat—
Pike! Pike! Pike! Pike!
When I was in uniform, scenes like this would have just got me more amped. Nothing better than hitting the mute button on a wild crowd. Now it just makes me anxious. I silently worry that my boys can't hang.

It doesn't take long to find out. Pike controls the tip and sets up. Their crowd hums in anticipation. Drew tries getting right to the rim, but Rider does a good job keeping leverage. So Drew kicks it to the wing, and they go to work. A look to the post. A reversal to the left wing. Then Drew comes flying off a down-screen and catches up top. Rider plays it right—comes at him with false pressure, but keeps his balance. Drew's not waiting around though. He dips that shoulder and goes. This time Rider can't contain him, and Drew knifes into the lane. The Pike crowd rises, expecting a finish at the rim. Then,
whap!
Stanford arrives at the last moment and deposits Drew's shot into the third row.

I guess we are ready to hang.

Our crowd thinks so too. As Stanford swaggers, chest puffed, our section of the crowd makes some serious noise. We don't match the Pike crowd in numbers, but we meet their volume and then some. Most of the energy from the crowd is for the same reason Pike's crowd is hyped—Sectional championship. But I know people have fallen in love with our team a little more this year. Everyone loves an underdog, and my boys have shown they still have plenty of bite without me. A couple weeks ago, maybe I'd have resented that—like they're getting special props just because I'm not around to save them—but not anymore. Not after watching these guys pull together. Not after last night.

“Keep after ‘em,” I shout. Only Reynolds is close enough to hear me over the roar of the crowd, but he nods in enthusiastic agreement. And he responds too. He recognizes Pike's inbounds play, cuts off the entry to his man, then peels off at the last second. They try to just lob it out top to Drew, but Reynolds jumps it. He beats Drew to the spot, leaps, taps the rock away. Rider scoops and pushes. Fuller trails, sprinting for all he's worth. Rider takes it all the way to the rim, draws Drew to him, then drops the rock off for Fuller, who rips down an easy finish. 2-0, but it feels like a statement.

And we're not done. Even before Fuller scored, Bolden was on his feet. He stomps his heel on the floor three times and screams. “Full! Full!” He waves with both arms, telling everyone to pick Pike up in a press. Everyone plasters to their man. Even Jones, who's still down on the defensive end, a good 70 feet from the action, bodies up. It catches Pike on their heels. Drew retrieves the ball to in-bound it. Their two-guard tries to shake free. He creates a little space from Reynolds, but Drew's pass comes low. It ricochets off their two's shin right into Reynolds' hands. His momentum takes him away from the bucket, but it gives him a second to gather. When he does, he spots Rider baseline, wide open. Reynolds rifles it to him. Rider catches, squares, rises. Wet.

This one prompts a quick timeout from the Pike bench. We're not even a minute in, and they can feel things coming loose. While their players hustle to the bench, their coaches gather in a tight circle on the court. From this distance, I can't hear what they're saying, but the head coach's head is bobbing up and down with such ferocity that the assistants lean back in fear.

On our end, Bolden's just coaching the boys up. “Remember,” he
says, “their whole team is drive-happy. Even the bigs. That means help is important.” He jabs his marker at Stanford. “Just like you helped on the first possession. That's got to happen for us again and again and again.” Then he runs through some reminders about our offensive sets. When it's time to break, he just smiles. “Remember, this is what you practice for. This. You owe it to yourselves to lay it all out there tonight.”

I swear Bolden still can get to me. Right now, I'm ready to hit the boards, crutches and all.

They give everything Coach could ask and more. Fuller's knees look rubbed raw from floor burns. Rider's sporting a welt on his cheek from a stray elbow. Stanford looks like he's lost twenty pounds in water weight from sweating it out in the paint. And Reynolds and Jones have done everything but gouge eyes and pull hair fighting for loose balls. Even Coach has given it everything, screaming himself hoarse at the refs.

But all the effort's taken its toll. The Pike coaches aren't dummies. Except for Drew, they keep a steady rotation going, exploiting our lack of depth. Coach Bolden has always hated going to the bench—he picks five or six players he trusts. He tells us if a healthy 18-year-old can't play 32 minutes of basketball a night, he might as well just retire. But I look out at the court now and see some wobbly legs on our squad. I peep at the scoreboard. We're nursing a four-point lead with 1:30 to go in the third. Pike ball.
Hang tight here
, I think.
Get a breather between quarters. Then let adrenaline take us home.

Drew brings it up slowly. He checks the Pike bench for a signal from their coaches, then relays it to the team. Standing near the top of the circle, Rider's bent at the waist, his hands tugging down on his
shorts. He takes a deep breath, like a boxer getting called out for one last round. Seeing that, I expect Drew to just attack, but he kicks it to the wing. They run a series of ball-screens—drive middle and look for the screener rolling to the bucket. When it's not there, they reverse to the other side and basically run it right back to the middle. It's nothing complex, but I can see it wearing us down.

We defend it cleanly through three straight reversals. Then finally Fuller gets hung up on a screen. Jones jumps to stop the driver, but that leaves Jones' man rolling free. Pike gets him the rock—but there's Stanford again, challenging. He doesn't get another rejection, but he alters the shot. It banks off toward the baseline. Reynolds crashes down to clean it up, but he can't get a clean handle. The Pike players pounce in a pack. Their center ends up with it, gets a decent look from twelve. Long. Stanford has it for a second, but can't squeeze the orange. Pike scrapes it away, and then it's Drew with it for a leaner in the lane. Short. This one drops to the floor and it's another scrum.

Our entire bench, every voice in our crowd, urges—
Dig it out!
Even as it unfolds, I know this—we get this stop, we can hold for the last shot of the quarter, go to the break up six or even seven. But Pike simply has more fresh bodies. They get a fourth shot, then a fifth. Then, finally, with Jones, Stanford, and Fuller all standing there flat-footed, Pike gets a tip-in to fall. Two-point game.

While the Pike fans rise in unison, everyone wearing a Marion East jersey slumps down a little. Bolden sees it. “Come on,” he shouts to the other end. “Let's go! Bring it up! Keep digging!”

As Rider obeys, Bolden turns for a long look down the bench. I've seen this for three years now. He'll look toward the bench with
hope, as if—in some great season-long secret—we've been storing James Harden there, just waiting for the right time. And, of course, it's always the same old bench. Guys he didn't trust enough to give minutes to back in November, let alone Sectionals. And me. On crutches.

It's a good thing he's turned this way. He doesn't even see it go down. At mid-court, Rider gets jumped pretty good by Drew. Rider is about to back up, but he's straddling the mid-court stripe. Confused as to whether he can go back or not, he looks at the ref. That's all the opening Drew needs. He pokes the ball free, then has a clean run-out.

Bolden hears the crowd react, then turns just in time to see Rider hack at Drew on the shot. It still falls, of course. Plus the whistle.

It wasn't for a lack of fight. Just a lack of depth. And talent. And maybe luck.

Pike 62—Marion East 53. Final.

No tears. We know that rule. But it stings enough for tears, that's for sure. I feel for the guys that put so much into tonight, who fought so hard. And I know that now my junior year is officially over. Sure, my minutes were done the second my knee buckled in practice. But this is different. The book's closed on three-fourths of my high school career. Just one shot left.

I make sure to go from player to player, telling them how proud they should be. It's met with nods and fist bumps from Reynolds, Rider, and Jones. They mumble a thanks, but that's all I'm going to get from them. Not a problem. They're beat down, and players have a right to sulk out a rough loss in their own way.

When I tell Fuller the same thing, he reaches up for a handshake.
Then he pulls himself up—I've got to pinch down on my crutches to help support him. Then Fuller just hugs me. “We gonna get it right next year, D,” he says. “You and me, man.”

We pull away from each other. I don't know what to tell him. But he knows where we stand with each other. And right now my goals aren't about rehabbing my knee or setting up campus visits or showing up recruiters who ditched me. It's getting back to Sectional finals with Fuller. Taking back the title. And more.

That just leaves Stanford. It's not like we've always been tight, but he showed me what he was made of last night. Thing is, that's that with Stanford. He's a senior. Fuller and I can comfort ourselves with talk of next year, about how we'll do this and that and everything. Stanford can't.

“I'm sorry,” I say.

“For what?” he sneers. If he can't retreat into fantasies about future seasons, then Stanford's going to return to his tough-guy mode.

“For not telling you sooner that your thug face makes you look stupid,” I say. Anger flashes across his face, but he knows I'm just messing. “Naw, man,” I say. “I'm sorry for not being a better teammate when I had a chance. For real.”

“Funny,” Stanford says. There's a little mischief left in him, and it's his turn to mess with me. “I kind of figured you were going to apologize for almost setting off a shootout in my kitchen.”

“Shiiit,” I say. “I had that under control.”

We laugh at each other's nonsense. Then it's a quick fist bump, and we're out. I head for the locker room door, but Stanford's got one last message for me. “D,” he calls. I turn around. “Bring the truth on every damn body next year. No more messing around, you feel me?”

“I feel you,” I say, and then I push on the locker room door.

There, in the half-light of the emptying gym, are my people. They could have waited at home like most families, but it's how they are. They want to see me before I climb on that bus. Mom and Dad give me quick hugs and shower me with all the clichés that are supposed to make players feel better. Then Kid just gets in my ear about schools. “I've been thinking it's got to be Indiana,” he starts, and he just keeps right on rattling while we walk. All noise and rhythm, the old Kid again.

Then Jayson, who was hanging back a few feet, backhands me on the elbow. “'Bout time this season's over,” he says. “Now maybe I can get some attention in this family.”

I know he's joking, but I stiffen up on my crutches like I'm offended. “Listen, Jayson, because this is important,” I say. I lean down to look him in the eye. “I always got your back, little brother.”

He huffs and looks away. Then he speaks up to the darkened rafters, but still plain as day. “I know you do. I got yours, too.”

31.

April in the city. Mid 70s. The streets shining in the sun.

And here I am, chilling with the finest girl in Marion East. No crutches. No setbacks. Just me and Lia on a Saturday afternoon, sipping Cokes on a restaurant patio on North College. Yeah, we get buses rumbling by and cars backfiring and the low thump-thump of bass in passing stereos, but this is as close as it gets to paradise. Until I make it to the L, that is, and sign a rookie contract fat enough to buy my own island.

We're solid, Lia and me. Sure, it took some smoothing after that showdown with JaQuentin, but with basketball over—and with no major work to get in until my knee heals—I've had plenty of time to make it up to her. No more over-the-top stuff either. With Kid still pinching pennies, nobody's throwing Pacers tix in my lap. And I'm not trying to wow her at fancy places downtown. We just chill on our blocks, go to movies, sneak in whatever action we can when the parents are gone. Just how people do.

“You do your exercises today?” she asks.

“First thing every day,” I say.

“Good.” She smiles. “I'm not into wasting time on scrubs. You best own the court next year.”

“Oh, so you wouldn't hang with me if I weren't a baller?” I ask.

She smiles again. Drops her shades to conceal her eyes. “Well, maybe,” she teases. “I mean, I'm kind of getting used to you at this point.” She swirls her straw in her Coke, then sips from it.

“Good,” I say. “I won't be able to play AAU this summer. I'll need someone to keep me entertained.”

She laughs then, tells me I'm straight up crazy. Then, with her heel, she jabs my good knee under the table.

What's straight up crazy is being seventeen. Some moments, it feels like I could own this city. Got a girl. Got ball. Got a knee that's getting better and a whole future in front of me. And then I think about how flimsy it all is. One wrong step and that future comes crashing down. Or one wrong word at the wrong time and some guy like JaQuentin can blow out your match.

At home, things are holding together. But what happens the next time Dad's hours get cut? Or the next time Kid gets off the tracks? Or the next time Jayson decides he needs to act the fool? What separates us from the families that go under? I want to say it's because we're a little too tough, a little too smart. Maybe we are. Or maybe we're just stepping on the right spots of very thin ice.

I try not to think about it too much. Instead, I do those knee exercises like a religious ritual. Instead, I call Lia and feel good about life.

“Hey, Jasmine!” Lia squeals. “Where you been?”

I almost spill my drink turning to see. And there she is—Jasmine Winters. First time I've seen her in months. She looks good, as always.
But there's also something off—some anxious tension in her face, a nervous twitchiness in her stance. She and Lia start chatting straight away, but their words merge into the sound of passing traffic. While they talk, Jasmine keeps glancing nervously at me.

I stare. My heart races. I feel guilty, like I'm cheating on my girlfriend.

And then it hits me, a cold dagger that cuts through the warmth of the day. As long as Jasmine was just some name on my phone, chiming in with a text now and then, I could ignore her. Hell, sometimes I hit delete and just doubled down on time with Lia. But now that she's here, flesh and blood, it all comes rushing back. I can feel the realization stretch forward into the summer, casting a shadow over all that lies ahead. Maybe I'm in love with Lia, or still falling in love with her—but Jasmine still moves me like nobody else can.

Jasmine won't look at me. In a way, I'm glad. If we locked eyes, I'm sure Lia would be able to read my expression. But it tells me that maybe Jasmine is thinking the same thing. Like maybe she's not peeping at me because she's all on fire too.

Forget it
, I tell myself. Forget Jasmine. There's no going back in this life. You can't change the results of previous games, but you sure can derail the present by clinging to the past. I look at Lia, study her as she talks to Jasmine. She's the one who stuck with me through everything. And you know what? When I'm with her, things feel right. Like I'm not trying to be anyone special for her or play out some baller role. I can just be me. I never quite felt that way with Jasmine.

I scoot over closer to Lia, put my hand on her knee. Just that touch gives me the power to look up at Jasmine. “Long time,” I say.

“Hey, Derrick,” she says. “I know. Things have been crazy.”

“Tell me about it,” I say.

Then there's a long pause where nobody says anything. Finally, Jasmine sighs. “Well,” she says, “I better get going. I've got to crack the books again.”

We say our goodbyes, and everything's good. I just relax in the sun with Lia.

Only later do I see Jasmine's text on my phone, sent just a minute after she took off.
It has been a long time
, it says.
Too long. Let's hang sometime.

I move to delete it, but I can't quite pull the trigger.