LITMIR.BIZ

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Gibson in his place. When I flare baseline for a look, I don’t even think about a jumper when the leather hits my hands. I rip it to the rim. Only I can’t get the whole way past Gibson. That missing burst again. I push on into the paint anyway. I’ve got the size to muscle one up on the glass. But as I go up, Gibson gets another cheap one on me—he pins my right arm to his chest, then flops. He pulls me down, but it looks like I’ve charged into him.

      Or at least it looks that way to Murphy. “That’s a charge, D,” he says. “Turnover. Let’s start it again—and this time try to stay within the offense.”

      This time, I can’t help it. It’s that last dig about staying in the offense that sets me over the top. Hell, no team puts up points if they can’t just break down the D once in a while. But that’s not what I respond to. “Charge?” I yell. “Gibson pulled me down. A blind man could see that.”

      Murphy rocks back on his heels. “Now, Derrick,” he says. “I didn’t see it that way. But even if you’re right, you’ve got to play through a bad call now and then.”

      A bad move by Murphy. To even acknowledge my complaint is a sign of weakness. Bolden—or any coach worth his whistle—would have had my ass running stairs before the last word was out of my mouth. I glance around. Xavier and Jones are having a private little laugh off toward the baseline. Reynolds has his shorts sagging so far he’s about to trip over them. Rider, relegated to third-string point, is just staring into the rafters like there’s some movie playing up there. And then there’s Gibson with his snarky little smirk. This is not a tightly focused team. And that’s on the man in charge.

      I scoop the ball up from the baseline and head back out top. I give a little sneer toward Murphy, testing him. No reaction. So I press the issue. I turn toward Kid. “You could see it, right?” I shout. I point at Gibson. “Foul’s on him, right?”

      Kid clears his throat. “I didn’t really have an angle,” he says.

      “Oh, come on, Kid!” I shout. “You were right on top of the play!”

      Kid’s face darkens. It’s the expression he gets when my mom hints a little too forcefully that he needs to move out of our house. “Let’s just play ball, Derrick,” he says.

      “Whatever,” I say.

      “That’s enough. Let’s play.” It’s Murphy now, but he’s got no real throat behind it. Instead, it sounds like a gentle suggestion.

      We go another twenty minutes without incident, then Murphy calls it for the day. All I want to do is get the hell out of here, maybe get some time with Lia. I’m thinking about the quickest shower in the history of basketball when I feel a presence beside me as I walk to the locker room—Kid. Scowl on his face.

      Used to be, I’d back right down from Kid. He was always the big man on the court when I was playing, the guy who was better, the guy who knew more. Not anymore. Not after seeing him fail in a million different ways. And besides, with my extra height he can’t even lord his size over me these days. “What?” I snap.

      “You want to apologize?” he asks.

      A few of the guys give us some looks as they file past. Truth is, as much as I want to open it up on Kid, I don’t want a scene. That’s not a good look for a senior leader. So I lower my voice. “Man, I don’t see where I’m the one who should apologize.”

      Kid rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he says. “Be a stubborn son of a bitch.” He points way down to the opposite baseline, where we were playing. “You don’t think I saw what Gibson did on that play? Hell, I been seeing guys pull out that garbage since before you were born.”

      “Well then, why didn’t you say so?” I say. That comes out a bit sharp, and guys stare again. But they keep moving toward the locker room. They’re probably thinking this is just a family thing. Which it kind of is.

      Kid sighs. He shakes his head at his shoes. “D, this is my shot. You see that, right? I could actually be a coach. Something more than a guy who sloshes beer in dirty mugs at a dive bar. But it ain’t gonna happen if everyone thinks I’m just doing this because you’re my nephew. So I can’t take it easy on you. I can’t just jump to your defense. Who’d respect me if I did that?”

      I want to shout right back at him that nobody respects a guy who rolls over for some scrub who just transferred here. So much for having a man in my corner. But he has a point. I relax my shoulders and nod. Give Kid a little backhand to his arm to let him know we’re cool. “Okay, man. It’s just…” But I don’t know how to finish that sentence. I don’t know what it just is.

      “Can I say something, D?” Kid asks.

      “Sure.”

      He takes a deep breath. Then he launches in. “That play down there”—he points to the baseline again—“it shouldn’t matter what Gibson does. A year ago you’d have been swinging from the rim while he was still trying to catch up to you. It’s the knee.”

      My back stiffens. My mouth goes dry. I do not want to hear him start saying my knee’s not good. Hell, that may be the truth, but I don’t want to hear it.

      Kid holds his hands up in defense. “There’s nothing wrong with it,” he says. “The only thing wrong is you don’t trust it.” Now he leans in toward me like we’re in on some shady secret. I can smell a day’s worth of coffee on his breath. “It’s there. The burst. You can’t see it, but I do. When you’re just in the flow, not thinking about it, you snap off a cut like nobody’s business. Or you top out going for a board. It’s only when you want to rise up for a dunk that you hold back. I can see it on your face. You just don’t trust it yet. But it’ll come.”

      Maybe. That’s what I think. Maybe it’ll come. I know more than ever there are no guarantees. “Thanks, Kid,” I say.

      Then we head to the locker room. Static squashed. Except I’m in for one more surprise. “You gonna miss that cash from tending bar on weekend nights?” I ask. “’Cause I know Marion East isn’t laying heavy green on an assistant coach.”

      “Man, some things are more important than money,” Kid says.

      “How’s Wes working out down there anyway?” I ask, checking on my old friend.

      That stops Kid in his tracks. “Wes? That boy hasn’t shown up to work in almost a month.”

      Wes being a fool again. That one hurts. Talk about not being able to trust something.

       9.

      Here’s the thing you learn about hoops—you have to keep plugging. As a freshman and sophomore, you think the whole season hinges on every game, on every play at every practice. Now I know there’s always another game coming. Always one more play to make. The next shot’s always the most important one.

      So we scrape along. Gibson eats some of my minutes. Murphy tries playing us together at times, which just means Gibson freezes me out and Reynolds sulks at losing his spot. Xavier alternates between being a young beast and looking like he’s never played organized ball before. But we win. We knock off White Station by getting some late stops. We come home for a win over a tough Cathedral squad. Then we follow it up with a smooth win over a struggling Michigan City team.

      At 5-0, we should be feeling good. And some guys are. Xavier struts around the halls at school like he’s the second coming of DeMarcus Cousins. And Gibson acts like he’s the sole reason we’re undefeated. But when we were in Memphis, I saw what true excellence looks like—Evansville Harrison. Man, those guys had it humming. They won by sixteen over the best team in Tennessee. Cruised to it. They’re sitting at 7-0, and nobody’s come within single digits. And their point, Dexter Kernantz, has taken it to another level. If Gibson thinks he’s got quicks, he should take a look at Kernantz. The kid is dropping nine dimes a game. And he’s become a true stopper on the defensive end.

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