I go through it. JaQuentin Peggs. His friend. The noise they got up to. All of it.
“Derrick,” my dad says at the end, “what on earth are you thinking?”
“Look. I got out of it as best I could. I didn’t go the party with them. I just got home.”
“I understand that.” He sighs. “But, Derrick, you’re not some prep school kid who keeps getting chances. People will give you a little rope because you can play, but not as much as you think. You screw up too many more times and everyone will think you’re just another thug.” His gaze hardens as he stares past me, thinking about me but something else at the same time. “And you’ll be shocked at how cold the world gets when they decide that about you.”
I accept the mini-lecture and then take a step toward my room. Mom’s not having it. “Where you think you’re going?” she asks. “Wait here.”
She storms out of the living room, her feet pounding the floor so hard I’m sure that Jayson’s wide awake now and listening in. She comes storming back down the hall with a city map in her hands, unfolding it angrily as she walks. Ripping right past without even looking at me, she heads to the kitchen. She spreads the map on the table, then turns around to me and Dad. “Come here,” she commands.
As we walk over, she yanks a kitchen drawer open and unsnaps a red Sharpie. A quick wave of her hand indicates that we best sit, and we obey. In red so thick you’d think it would bleed through onto the table, she marks a big red loop on 465, circling the city. Then she scrawls a 144 inside of it. “You know what that means?” she asks me.
I just shake my head.
“That’s how many people got killed here last year,” she says. She’s not shouting now. Instead, her voice has settled into an urgent whisper. “Yeah, when the news covers it, they make it sound like it’s the whole area’s problem, but”—she takes that Sharpie and presses a big red dot up in Carmel—“they’re not talking about people up here. No. It’s us. These streets.” She motions toward the walls, lingering just an extra millisecond when she’s gesturing up the street toward Wes’ direction.
She sits now, like she’s exhausted from the effort. She buries her head in her hands. Then she looks up again. “You want more? Sixteen white people got killed. Twenty women. I’m not saying they don’t count, Derrick. I’m saying that most of the people who got killed”—she jabs her index finger at my chest, emphasizing every word—“look just like you. And it’s not just from people in gangs. You don’t think a policeman can lose his mind here just like they do in other cities? Think again. All it takes is for you to be with Wes when he runs into a cop on a power trip.”
“How do you know all those numbers anyway?” I ask her, trying to hide my skepticism. I mean, I know how things break in the city, but it seems like my mom’s putting it on a little heavy.
Dad’s the one that answers. “We’re parents of a black teenager,” he says. “It’s our job to pay attention even if nobody else does.”
Stanford controls to Fuller. He kicks it to me. First touch all year, and I know what to do with it—rip it right to the rack. I duck under a challenging big for a reverse off the glass. Quick as that, we’re up 2-0 on Warren Central.
That’s all it takes for the blood to get flowing again. The crowd’s jumping too. The season’s on.
One thing’s for sure—Warren Central isn’t going to sit back and let me soak in the moment. They rip it back at us. Right off the bat, coach has me on Rory Upchurch. He’s their senior scorer, the guy who lit up everybody last year. A two-guard, he’s not my natural match-up. And it means I’ve got to locate him every time down, since he’s guarding Reynolds on our end. Right away, I see the problem—since I drove to the hole, he’s got about a twenty-foot headstart on me. They kick it ahead before I can catch up. Reynolds races over to help, but Upchurch shakes him fast. Next up, Fuller flies at him. It slows Upchurch down just a tick, enough for me to close some ground. He gets past Fuller to the baseline side, opening up a clean look from fifteen. He lets it fly.
And—whap!—I arrive just in time to put that thing in the fifth row.
Upchurch is a legit Mr. Basketball candidate, and he just got punked. Our crowd lets him have it, hooting and jeering and rising to their feet. Upchurch is too good to sweat it, but I check some of his younger teammates. Their eyes go wide. For a couple of them, this is their first road start and they’re realizing that we don’t set out the welcome mat at Marion East.
Their coach barks the in-bounds play to them. All I know is that I need to stay glued to Upchurch. Everything they run involves him. I fight over a screen and stay on his hip. Then I hear Jones warning me about a back-screen. I turn to locate, keeping watch on Upchurch at the same time. Jones gives me room to make it through, and I’ve got Upchurch locked down again. That leaves Jones’ man with a pop-out to fifteen. He catches the in-bounds, shot-fakes, then fires—way out of rhythm and way off line.
I can’t get a clean rip, but I tap it to Stanford. He grips it, then pivots and outlets to Reynolds. That’s when I see my opening. Warren Central has to switch just like we do. Upchurch is supposed to check Reynolds, but now he’s trailing. While he sprints to catch up, my man tries to slow down Reynolds—and I’m off. Reynolds crosses mid-court and fans out to the right wing. That gives Upchurch time to catch up, but when my man tries to recover it’s too late. Reynolds sees me and lobs one to the rim. With a free run, I sprint, gather, and rise. I catch that thing a good foot above the rack and muscle it home.
I’ve been there before. So instead of getting all swole about it, I just give a single fist pump and race back on D. But, baby, inside my chest the fireworks are going off. The crowd on its feet, the rim rocking, the opponents shell-shocked—this is it. This is what I live for.
After the grind of last year, I’m locked in with Fuller, Stanford and Reynolds. Jones is the only one who didn’t get meaningful minutes last year, so we have to coax him along a little—remind him where to go on some offensive sets, encourage him when he gets beat on the boards a few times.
That togetherness is the difference. Upchurch is a load, but Warren Central doesn’t have any backup for him. And the only time he really gets loose is when Bolden gives me a breather for Rider. Man, I hit the bench, and you can see Upchurch’s eyes light up. First time he gets a touch, he attacks—shot fake to get Rider off his feet, then a dribble to his favorite pull-up spot. Deuce. Next time he loses Rider on a screen and launches a trey. The kid’s shot is butter when he gets a look like that.
Bolden tells Reynolds to switch onto Upchurch, but that’s only a little bit better. Reynolds had a brief go at Upchurch last year, so he knows what he’s in for—but that doesn’t mean he can stop it. Upchurch has to work harder. He rubs off screen after screen, then has to shake Reynolds with a nasty crossover—but in the end, Reynolds is still beat. Upchurch buries another trey. The lead we’ve spent all game building is suddenly down to three.
“Don’t get too comfortable there,” Bolden growls at me. “Next dead ball you’re back in.”
That’s what I want to hear. I know he’s just trying to keep my legs fresh, but truth is I want to go all 32 minutes every time out. The only time I want to rest is when we’ve got the game iced.
On our end, Fuller goes flying baseline and gets bailed out with a reach. The whistle’s my cue. As soon as I stand, there’s a ripple of applause in our crowd. People know what’s up. When I jog onto the court, I point at Rider and he hangs his head in dejection. And Upchurch just smiles and claps. I know what he’s thinking—he’s loose now. He feels like he can keep it rolling, even against me.
Before the game, I eyed all the scouts checking us. Purdue, Michigan State, Louisville, Cincinnati. I know what they’re thinking too—showdown in