“I’ll be late to History,” I say.
“I told Mrs. Henderson already,” he says. “She won’t mind.”
I nod to Wes and he gives me this wide-eyed look like I might be in real trouble.
I walk a few paces behind Coach Bolden, trying not to look too much like I care, but inside I’m hoping like hell that nobody sees me, especially not Starks.
We exit the main building and walk across the grounds toward the gym. When we get to Bolden’s office, he just points to a chair across from his desk. His office is pretty bare—a desk with a single lamp and a blank notepad on it, his cushioned chair behind it, and my uncomfortable folding chair on the other side. Behind him there’s a huge equipment locker that seems to hold every sporting good known to man: racks of basketballs, boxes of knee pads, deflated volleyballs, baseball helmets, rackets of varying sizes.
“Look at me, Derrick,” Bolden says. The man is all business. There’s part of me that wants to resist him, to rebel against his strictness. But Wes had a point. I don’t want to be the guy who sulks his way out of a starting spot.
Bolden starts right in: “You’ve got a chance to be the best player I’ve ever had here. The best. Do you know that?” I start to say something, but it’s not a question he wants answered. “I’ve had a dozen players that have gone Division I, but none of them have had the promise you do. I saw some of your games last year. I see how far you are beyond other players your age. I might be a mean old pain in the ass, but I know basketball.” He smiles then, just briefly. “But there are things you can work on. You need to be better at the stripe.” This one stings, as I know I should be better than a coin toss at the free throw line. “And you need to clean up your jumper. Your motion takes too long. It’ll cause you problems down the road. And you need to see the whole floor better, especially as the game gets faster. And it gets a lot faster, believe me. First when we start playing against schools like Lawrence North, then at college, and so on.”
He gives a little pause now, but I know I’m still not supposed to speak. He just wants that so on to linger because it can only mean one thing: the NBA. He knows that’s a real possibility in my life, and he wants me to know he knows. “So here’s the thing, Derrick. You can work on those things and become a really special player. Or you can just keep doing what you do well. You can explode to the hole and dunk on somebody every chance you get. Just like you did yesterday. And that would be nice. We’d win a bunch of games and you’d score a bunch of points and every girl in school will be all over you. Everyone will know D-Bow.
“But we’ll never go to State. And you’ll never become as good as you can be. And you’ll get a scholarship somewhere but never really do all that much. Because Derrick—I hope you can believe me here, because it’s the most important thing I can tell you right now—you can do what you did yesterday against a lot of people, but soon you’re going to step on a court and the opposing team will have a big man who will knock that junk into the fifth row. I swear it. Yesterday that was Tyler Stanford, who can barely crack our starting five. Dunking on him means nothing. So you’ve got to make a decision right now. Do you want to just be D-Bow? Or do you want to be Derrick Bowen, the player nobody can stop?”
He finishes his lecture. Normally, you’d hear noises coming from the gym, which is right down the hall. You’d hear people shouting and shoes on the hardwood and the thump of dribbles. But right now the only noise is the whoosh of heat coming out of the dirty vent in the ceiling. Just me sitting there across from Coach Bolden, who’s staring at me so intently you’d think I just stole something from his house.
“Now,” he says. “Get your ass back to History class before Mrs. Henderson fails you on principle.”
5.
I still bring it when I get the chance. Still get a rip on the perimeter and hammer one down on a breakaway. One-hand throwdowns. Tomahawks. Once, when Bolden had to go into the locker room to get his clipboard, I popped it off the backboard to myself before throwing it down. My teammates hollered loud enough to wake the dead over in Crown Hill Cemetery. All but Starks, who just took a long sip off his water bottle and then spit into a garbage can.
I know why Starks acts that way. It’s because, between dunks, I’m making the plays that Bolden wants. Our offense isn’t that complex, and it never takes me long to get impatient. I’ll see that baseline open up and it kills me to not just attack the rim, but instead I reverse it back up top and let the offense clip along. All that matters is earning Coach’s trust so when the games get here in a few more days, I’ll have plenty of chances to punish people who want to try and check me. I’m also finding a rhythm with Moose, who’s a legit beast on the blocks. I get him the ball where he wants it and there’s nothing the guy guarding him can do. If little guards bite down on him they bounce off like pinballs. No doubt, Moose has enjoyed my arrival.
Royce and Devin aren’t so quick to warm to my presence. I know it’s not because they worry I’ll take their minutes, but because they’re tight with Starks. They’ve been balling together since they were in middle school, and those bonds don’t break, I guess. Even when I drop a dime to one of those two for a wide-open shot I get nothing, but if Starks hits them for a shot they act like he’s the second coming of Chris Paul: Great look, Nick, they’ll say, Beautiful pass, man.
Now we’re running fives, prepping for the first game against Arlington tomorrow night. I’m splitting time with Starks with the 1s. Right now I’ve got the O’s engine humming. First time down Moose seals his man. I hit him with a perfectly timed lob for a deuce. Then Royce deflects a pass on the defensive end and I push it ahead for an easy two-on-one break, Devin finishing at the end. Next time I rip the board and can’t help myself—I just motor past everyone and finish strong in the lane, getting the hoop and harm. One more time down and the 2s finally get a bucket—Devin falling asleep on a backdoor, and getting an earful from Coach Bolden—so they’re set again when we come down. I drive right, then kick to Royce in the corner. I cut on through to clear the lane for Moose, but when nobody can get him the ball down low, it gets reversed to me on the left side. Shot fake. Drive to the elbow. Shot fake again. And before the defense knows what hit him, I’ve slipped a little left-handed pass into Moose’s mitts. Bucket again.
After that, Coach subs me back out for Starks and I get a round of fives from my teammates, even Devin and Royce. I catch my breath while Starks runs the point for a few possessions. I stifle a grin when he bounces a pass at Moose’s ankles. Don’t get me wrong—I don’t want the team to fail. But if I raise the bar and Starks can’t jump over it, fine by me.
They go up and down a few times, with nothing special happening except Tyler Stanford getting flipped from first to second team at the four spot for Chris Jones. They’re both sophomores, and neither one does much more than take up space at that power forward position. There are times you can almost see Bolden’s patience stretching thin with them. Some days he’ll alternate them back and forth possession after possession, the vein in his neck bulging. Finally, Coach Murphy walks over and whispers something to Bolden. I know what’s coming.
“Bowen, in with the twos,” Bolden says. I flip my practice jersey inside-out, going from red to green, and jump back on the hardwood. Every day, they do this at least once—match me up against Starks. I always have to run with the 2s, but I don’t mind. It just makes it that much more impressive when I turn him inside out as quick as I do my jersey. Any day now, it’ll be Starks with the 2s. I can feel it.
I take a look at my squad—bump fists with a few of them. “Let’s run these guys off,” I say. The rest of the back-ups love it when I’m in their five, because all of a sudden things even up and they’ve got a fighting chance.
“Quit yappin’.” This is Starks, who’s waiting between mid-court and the top of the key, basketball nestled in the crook of his elbow. He won’t even make eye contact with me, but says, “Less talk, more play, Bowen. This ain’t middle school.”
That draws a little laugh from Devin, but when