LITMIR.BIZ

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seeing his first action. And there’s a horrible part of me that flares up—I wouldn’t mind seeing him fail. I swallow that bitterness down and make myself stand and yell to him. “You got this, Gibson. You good.” But even as the words leave my mouth I can tell how unconvincing they are.

      None of this bothers Gibson a bit. He even smiles a little as he crosses the mid-court stripe. Then he loops to the right wing to run an exchange with Fuller. Only Gibson doesn’t give up the orange. Instead, he ducks his shoulder. He knifes into the lane. Then comes a step-back—just a filthy move—and he sinks a fifteen-footer.

      The Warren Central crowd simmers down. Gibson trots back on D, clapping his hands in delight. He loves being on the road, feeling the heat of the other crowd. I have to respect that, at least.

      Then he takes it next level. Just before Cox hits mid-court, holding up his index finger to say they want one shot, Gibson jumps him. At first, Cox tries to shrug it off. But when he crosses to his left, Gibson just rides him all the way to the sideline. Cox realizes they’re losing valuable clock, so he tries going between his legs to shake Gibson. No luck. Gibson times it and pokes the rock away quick as a cat. Before Cox can even react, Gibson scoops the ball up and then it’s flat-out quicks—there might as well be a cartoon puff of smoke where he leaves Cox. He’s to the rim for a lay-in with jaw-dropping speed. He gives us the lead, then just puffs his chest out at the crowd while the clock runs out on the quarter.

      Our crowd’s so stunned they’re slow to react, but when they do it’s this high-pitched song of surprise and delight. The boys on the bench are just plain amped. As one, they leap up and start shouting at Gibson: You the boss and That’s what I’m talking ‘bout and D-Train rollin’! Gibson just bobs his head back at them, feeling pretty damn good about himself.

      I stand and clap too. But there’s something about his head bob that makes it seem aimed at me as much as anyone else. I recognize it because it’s the same kind of look I used to give to Nick Starks when I was a freshman.

      At least I get the bulk of the minutes. Problem is, when Gibson’s running point, our lead balloons to four, six, even eight in the middle of the third. But when I’m in, Warren Central tracks us down like prey. So here we are with a couple minutes to go, nursing a three-point lead. I haven’t fared any better keeping Cox in front of me, so Warren Central tries to solo us up. They just flatten out and let him go to work out top.

      I concede a little space, dropping my heels down near the foul line. If he wants to rise up, I let him. I can still challenge from here. But it’s not enough cushion. He blows by left. I can’t do a thing to stop it.

      There’s still time to meet him at the rim, but Jones gets there first. Clean up top, but he bangs him pretty good with the body, drawing a whistle. Cox manages to spin in the bucket too. A chance to tie at the line. The gym roars to a fever pitch, their crowd sensing blood.

      Jones nods, not complaining about the call. It’s his fourth. We all look to the bench to see what Murphy’s going to do. With two and change left, it seems like a no-brainer to stick with Jones, but it’s his first crunch-time decision as a coach.

      Then we get a surprise. The ref holds up his hand, signaling that it’s the fifth on Jones. Murphy, who was talking to Gibson on the bench, wheels around in disbelief. “It’s just four,” he says. He’s not angry. It’s like he’s trying to direct a lost person how to get back to the highway. “That’s only four.”

      Jones turns to appeal to another ref. He starts rattling off his previous fouls on his fingers, but then I see him stop. It dawns on him. He got a cheap whistle early in the quarter we all forgot about. The first ref is breaking it down to Murphy too. By this time the Warren Central crowd is clued in on our mistake, and they’re heckling Jones pretty good with a Sit down! Sit down! Sit down! chant.

      That’s a killer. Senior big man gone in crunch time. And totally avoidable. If Jones had known he had four, no way would he have challenged so hard. That’s on Murphy—it’s a coach’s job to remind his players in foul trouble. Jones doesn’t say anything, but on his way back to the bench he gives Murphy a stare that speaks volumes—just in case anyone in the gym was doubting who should be held responsible.

      Murphy does what he can. Instead of subbing in with Tony Harrison, he sends in Gibson, opting for small ball. Gibson saunters onto the deck and tells everyone to slide up a spot in size—me at the two, Reynolds at the three, Fuller at the four, Xavier at center.

      I’m still shaking my head in disbelief—first we lose our big, then Coach slides me to off-guard—as Cox coolly drains his freebie.

      Our ball. Tied. Instinctively, I clap for the in-bounds, but Gibson’s right there. “Uh uh, Bowen,” he seethes. “You running the two.”

      He walks it up, a little swagger to his stride. We run offense for a little while, nothing much happening. Everyone’s a little too tight to pull the trigger, especially playing out of position. I figure it’s time for me to ice it. So I break off a cut and flare out top, calling for the ball. Winning time.

      That’s when Gibson does the thing that makes me want to strangle him right there between the circles. The kid waves me down. “Flatten out,” he says. “Stay wide.” Thing is, I can’t fight it. What am I gonna do, try to rip the rock from my teammate? So I set up behind the stripe on the right baseline, ready for the rock if I get a chance.

      Gibson sizes Cox up, then darts left. It’s all set-up. As soon as Cox moves his feet, Gibson spins on him, ducks his shoulder past, and scoops into the lane for a sweet deuce. Cox just shakes his head. In the front row, a few old-timers whistle like it’s the baddest thing they’ve seen in years.

      Gibson bobs his head like he owns the place. “Gotta get a stop,” I shout. But he’s all about that too. He may look like he’s not paying attention, but when the in-bounds pass floats a little, he jumps it. Taps it away from Cox. Chases it down by the baseline. Then puts a no-look laser on me that almost catches me by surprise. I take a power dribble to the rim and gather. But when I rise I don’t have that same old burst. Instead of an emphatic throwdown I have to try curling one in around the D. It rolls harmlessly off, but I get the whistle.

      “Gotta bring the hammer on that,” Gibson tells me.

      I don’t even respond. No way I’m giving him the satisfaction. Instead, I stroll out to the mid-court stripe and pull myself together. It’s game one back from my injury and instead of feeling the flow, my head’s full of noise. There’s so much up in the air: late night texts from Jasmine, the schools relentlessly recruiting me, Mom about to burst with a baby. And now my back-up point guard showing out on me.

      Fuller comes out to me, puts a hand on my shoulder. “You got this, D. Bury these and let’s walk out of here with a win.”

      I turn to look at him. All last year, I tried getting him to loosen up, but now he’s the one talking me down. I give him the best cocky smile I can muster, then head to the stripe. Once I get there, I remember the one good thing about a knee injury—lots of time to work on the form. That leather hits my hand and I feel it all come back—it’s just basketball, the thing I do best in this world. I take my dribbles. Exhale. Bury the first.

      The next one’s easy. Straight bottom. And through it all—the mix-up by Murphy, my trouble corralling Cox, Gibson giving me static—we’re gonna start the season 1-0.

      I can live with that.

       7.

      D-train. That’s the word everywhere. Hell, even Coach Murphy dropped that on the bus ride home. “No way I should have let Jones foul out, boys,” he said. “I’ll have to get an assistant to keep track of those things. But thanks, D-train, for bailing my ass out.”

      It seems to echo in my head even as I try to chill with my girl.

      “You can’t let that get to you,” Lia says.

      “You don’t understand.” She always

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