LITMIR.BIZ

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He pounds his fist on the heavy door—thump thump thump—and smiles at us. “What the hell you boys waiting for?” he shouts. “Season starts now!”

      No joke. Time to hit the hardwood.

      Early on, Murphy sticks to Bolden’s old practice script. Namely, he runs us till our lungs burn and our legs go wobbly. I don’t care. It feels good. The thunder of kicks on the hardwood and a real sweat soaking through my shirt. I didn’t know how much a person could come to miss wind sprints.

      I don’t ease up, either. Not now. And when I get a glimpse of Jones slowing down at the end of one, I don’t let it slide. “Come on, big man,” I say. It’s cool and off to the side. No need to call him out for the freshmen to hear. Still, he squinches up his face like he doesn’t want to hear it. “Naw, let’s do it, Jones,” I say. “Senior year. Make it count.” That at least coaxes a fist bump from him before Murphy lines us up and blows his whistle. Off again.

      The only thing gnawing at me is Gibson. We finish neck and neck pretty much every time, but I have to make up ground in the second half of the sprint. It’s like he’s to the free throw line before Murphy’s finished blowing his whistle. Just zip. Gone. That burst I’ve heard about is real. And he knows it. There’s no talk between us, but every once in a while I’ll see him glance over at the end to see if he’s outpaced me.

      Finally, it happens. The annual ritual. A freshman bows out. This time it’s another big—Xavier Green—who can’t hack it. He stumbles on one sprint, then on the next he doesn’t go. Just stands there on the baseline sucking wind while the rest of us rattle it off. I don’t really know Xavier, but his big brother Moose was our beast in the post for my first two years. I was hoping maybe Xavier would bring that same kind of heat to the floor. But one look at him, doubled over gasping, and the only thing I can tell is that he hasn’t arrived at the first practice in playing shape any more than Moose used to.

      Murphy, hands on his hips, walks over to Xavier. This is it, I think. This is where Murphy lays down the law. Under Coach Bolden, it was a rite of passage—first one to cave on the sprints got chewed out mercilessly.

      Off to the side, I hear Reynolds laugh a little. Two years ago, he was the one who got the earful from Coach so I’m sure he loves watching it happen to some other poor freshman.

      Murphy puts his hand on Xavier’s back. “You okay there, X-Man?” he asks.

      Xavier, still unable to stand up straight, just nods a few times. But then he holds up a hand to say he needs a second.

      Murphy nods, understanding. He turns to the rest of us and says we did a good job. “Now let’s start drills. Bigs down here with X-Man. Perimeter players on the other end.”

      We stand there for a second, dazed. “For real?” Reynolds whispers. I know where he’s coming from. It’s like Murphy just walked on Coach Bolden’s grave. I don’t care who Xavier’s older brother was, kid dies on a sprint he’s supposed to get jumped. And this X-Man business? Excuse me if I pass on the nicknames for someone who hasn’t scored a single high school bucket yet.

      “Come on, let’s go!” Murphy shouts. But even then there’s no anger. He sounds like the same old Assistant Murphy, encouraging and cajoling. Not like a head coach at all.

      Then, there’s drills. Two ends of the floor. One coach. I know this one’s not Murphy’s fault—he probably hasn’t had time to scrounge up an assistant yet—but it makes him look unprepared. The guy knows hoops, but if knowing hoops was all it took, then my Uncle Kid would be the next Coach K.

      Sure enough, when Murphy strolls down to us and turns his back on the bigs, it’s a mess. He starts us in a weave drill, but behind him the big guys are just gaming the system. First it’s Xavier acting the fool, chucking up twenty-footers instead of working his post moves. And, after a minute, they’re all into it, even Jones who should know better.

      Murphy must see me looking past him, because he stops our drill and wheels around. Just as he turns, Xavier is launching a hook shot from the hash mark.

      “Hey, come on,” Murphy yells. “Let’s be grown-ups, aight? Work the way I showed you.” But there’s no heat, no old-fashioned Bolden bite. So they nod at Murphy and act all sorry, but in another minute it’s back to the same-old.

      I try to focus on our drills, but when I hear laughing from the other end, that tears it. I stop mid-weave. I let a pass from Reynolds just sail toward the sideline. I take three big steps to mid-court. “Hey, Xavier,” I yell. He turns, a big goofy grin on his face. I used to like that grin on his older brother, but at least I knew he would bust ass when the time came. “This is a practice for men who want to play basketball. Not kindergarten. You might think you can come here and just fuck around all day, but don’t expect to be getting minutes when the season rolls around.”

      “Okay,” he says. He rolls his eyes a little bit and gives a whatever shrug.

      “Hey!” I yell and start marching toward him.

      That’s when Murphy cuts me off. He grabs me by the elbow and gets in my ear. “Easy,” he says. “You don’t have to be the coach, too. Let me handle this.”

      I stare at him for a second, but he doesn’t blink. He still doesn’t seem angry, and that lack of anger infuriates me. Hell, I don’t know what practice is without somebody screaming. “Fine,” I say, and I turn back to our end of the court.

      Murphy starts us in another drill—one-on-one at the top of the key, offensive player only gets three dribbles—and then heads back to the bigs. As he goes, he calls to Green—“Hey, now, X-Man, let’s get with it”—like they’re long lost pals.

      A bad start.

      And it gets worse. I’m up first against Rider, my back-up from last year. Easy pickings. I give him a shot fake, lean right, and then just duck past him left. I don’t even have to explode too hard, just get my shoulders past and scoop to the rim. Then I turn to see who’s on deck for me. It’s Gibson, straight out of the gate. He’s got a little sneer when I bounce him the rock.

      He waits for me to come out to check him. Then he tucks the ball into a triple-threat position and I lower into my crouch. He takes a lazy dribble to his left—death in this drill, where you can’t waste any motion. I hop to cut him off.

      Then boom. He’s vapor. Hits me with a simple cross-over, but it’s so quick—violent, really—that I don’t have time to recover before he’s to the rim. He can’t dunk it. Just a lay-in. But his point’s made. A few of my teammates murmur and whistle.

      As I walk past him to the end of the line, Gibson gives me a parting shot. “D-Train’s comin’ down the tracks, old man. Best step out the way.”

       4.

      We’re hanging at Lia’s place. Her dad’s gone. That ought to mean taking things back to her bedroom. But it’s been ten full minutes since either of us said a word. I made some snarky little comment about Gibson, Lia told me to let it go, I told her I wasn’t just gonna “let go” of my senior season. And that puts us here. Watching a movie on her couch—but both of us kind of eyeing the other, waiting for an apology that isn’t coming.

      Then, at a commercial, Lia stretches her leg over and jabs my calf with her toe. I don’t react, so she does it again. “Come on, Derrick,” she says. “We don’t have to give each other the silent treatment just because the night got off to a bad start.”

      That’s all it takes for me to thaw. For whatever reason it’s like I want us to be mad at each other sometimes. But as soon as she gives an inch I cave. “Awww, I’m just being a pain in the ass,” I say.

      “No,” she says, “I know how much ball means to you.” She’s letting me off the hook easy, I know. But right now I’ll take it. “But, D, this kid Gibson can’t be all that, right?”

      I

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