“I’m not stupid, you know,” I tell my uncle. “I hear what Mom and Dad say. I know what you’re getting at.”
“Well?” he says.
“Well, if you want to tell me something, tell it.” I look out the window now at Hamilton Academy. Ten years ago, that school was a little 2A hole-in-the-wall, but every year the people pour North. And they bring their cash. Now that place is a cathedral—brand new facilities and trees lining the drive—compared to the old decaying brick of Marion East.
Uncle Kid just laughs, that kind of aggravating sound people make when they think they know better than you. He wheels into Hamilton Academy and then hangs a U-turn, starting our journey back home. “All I’m saying is you have options I never had. Think about it.”
We don’t say a word to each other for a while then, and soon enough he’s got us back out to Binford, puttering south into a cold drizzle.
“Can we get a move on?” I say. “I got to get my head ready for Arlington tonight.”
Uncle Kid pauses and shakes his head, but then he hits the accelerator. The Nova jumps forward, the whole car rattling with the effort.
5 – GREEN
4 – STANFORD
3 – BEDFORD
2 – VARNEY
1 – STARKS
That’s what’s written on the chalkboard in big white caps when I come through the locker room door. I’m one of the last ones there, thanks to Uncle Kid burning up my time, and nobody even looks up at me. Everyone’s getting taped up or already pulling on their gear. Coach Murphy, standing at the front of the locker room, is the only one who nods at me when I come in, but then he tilts his head in the direction of my locker as if to say, Hurry up and get ready before Coach comes in.
I get dressed quickly. It’s for the best that I have to hurry. That way I don’t have time to burn on Bolden’s starting five. Moose at center, and Devin and Royce at guard and small-forward? That makes sense. But everyone who’s been at our practices knows I’ve outplayed Starks. I guess Bolden is too stubborn to budge this early in the season. But by the time I’ve got on my #25—Derrick Rose’s high school number—it doesn’t matter. Not really. What matters is that, starter or not, this is my Marion East debut, rocking the white with the red and green trim, and I plan to make it memorable.
Soon enough I’ve got my AdiZeros laced tight, and we’re sprinting out onto the floor for warm-ups. The gym’s hot as a sauna, and I can smell popcorn and polished hardwood. We hit that floor and the band starts up, the crowd rises, the opposing team stares us down, and my adrenaline jumps through the roof. Warm-ups, Coach’s pre-game talk, the huddle before we break—all of it’s a blur, until we break huddle and, for the first time I can ever remember, instead of readying for the tip, I slump back to my spot on the bench. I stand and clap with my teammates, but soon my eyes wander. I see my parents and Jayson, with Uncle Kid sitting beside them. Kid’s got his arms crossed, angry, and Jayson seems to be asking my mom something—probably about why I’m not in the game, because Mom answers quickly and then squints at the court. She’s got that same look she gives you if she thinks you’re lying about something. I’m suddenly afraid she’s about to storm down out of those stands and jump Coach Bolden. Only my dad seems content to watch the game.
On the wall above the South basket, the jerseys of former standouts hang. There’s my uncle’s #31 among the others, but none of the numbers up there represent guys who made it to the league. Even the best—a guy who was a surefire All-American in college—got in a car wreck after his sophomore year and was never the same afterward. Sometimes it does feel like all the best things that come up here are doomed.
I look over toward our basket where the band’s stationed and make eye contact with Wes, who gives me the thumbs-up from behind his saxophone. Then he offers a little fist-pump of encouragement. I figure at least he’s got the right attitude. I try to re-focus, remember that all I can control is how well I play once I get my shot, but then there’s a roar from the crowd and I look back to the court, where Starks has just blistered his man with a cross-over and a jumper that finds bottom. I figure somewhere Jasmine is standing and cheering for him, looking good as she does it.
The first few minutes of the game are uneventful. We trade a few buckets with Arlington, but then Stanford makes a stupid reach on a driver, sending him to the line for a three-point play. That sends Coach Bolden into a fit. You never want to be on the receiving end of his anger, but when he goes ballistic you can’t help but enjoy the scene. It’s as if seeing bad basketball causes him physical pain. When Stanford reaches on that kid, Bolden rocks back in his chair and then grabs his head, pressing his fingers into his temples. It knocks his collar up on one side, but he doesn’t even seem to notice. He’s too busy cursing under his breath and calling for Chris Jones to get in there for Stanford, and when Stanford trots off the floor—he looks surprised when Jones calls his name, like he expects Bolden to be subbing for somebody else—Coach meets him two strides onto the court, already lecturing him about “playing D with your head, not your damn hands.”
The end result, though, is that we fall behind Arlington, one of the few teams in our Sectional we usually beat. Then our offense goes cold. They sag way back in on Moose and cut off Nick’s driving lanes, so all that’s left is Devin and Royce chucking up threes. They’re usually solid, so maybe it’s first-game jitters, but they offer miss after miss—first getting bad rolls and then throwing up uglier shots each time. Soon enough, there are only a few minutes left in the first quarter, and we’re down 15-8 to Arlington—a team that has only one senior getting DI offers, just places like Eastern Illinois and Ball State.
Coach finally turns my way. “Bowen for Starks,” he says. As soon as I rise, I hear it—those murmurs rippling through the crowd. Those who know hoops have heard of me, and there’s a little buzz in the gym now. I also hear my family cheering, and I think I can hear Uncle Kid heckling Bolden for waiting so long.
A few more subs come in with me, so the only starter on the floor is Devin. Doesn’t matter. I walk to him, look him in the eye. “Let’s take hold of this game,” I say.
“I can’t get anything to drop,” he says.
“It’ll drop,” I say. “Keep firing.”
Then the ball’s in and we’re on D. The kid I’m checking is pretty good, the junior who’s getting that DI interest, and I know they want to run through him. So as soon as he gives it up, I’m chest-to-chest, killing his chances of getting the rock back, and Arlington isn’t exactly patient in working it to him—they squeeze off a bad shot after about ten seconds and I get the outlet. And you know I know what to do with it: Push.
I get on top of Arlington’s guards right away. As quick as Nick is, his size didn’t bother them. Mine does. At the elbow, I give a little hesitation, then power into the lane and rise for a 10-footer. Their off-guard swipes at my elbow with no call, but it doesn’t matter. I bury it. Just like that the crowd’s back into it, and I can feel the energy on the court turn. Everyone in the gym knows Arlington’s got no answer if we just attack.
As I backpedal I can hear my teammates calling out to me— “Shot, D-Bow. Good shot.”
The run we put on Arlington is quick and merciless. Devin for three from the corner. Stanford, who looked lost as a lamb his first go-round, banks one home from the shallow wing. I overpower their guard and hit a fifteen-foot turnaround, prompting Arlington’s first time-out. Moose, back in after his breather, scores a garbage bucket on an offensive board. I drive and dish to Devin for three again. And then, when I feel like I control the whole rhythm of the game, I bait them. I sit back in the lane and wait for them to reverse the ball to my man—then I’m in that passing lane like a fired bullet. I pop it loose and track it down, push on down into