LITMIR.BIZ

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me—so I slip past him, then drop a dime to Moose for an easy deuce. On top of that, Danks takes a cheap swat at him and gets a late whistle.

      Bowman’s coach has seen enough and calls time. Not even two minutes in, and we’ve got a six-point lead with a chance to make it seven. Our crowd gets up, half cheering us and half jeering Bowman, reveling in exactly what they came here to see—total domination. I scan for my family again and see that they’re just now squeezing into some seats in the next-to-last row behind our bench. There’s Mom, Jay and Uncle Kid, all with their coats still on. Dad’s nowhere though.

      It doesn’t last. Moose knocks in his freebie, and it feels like everything’s going to be easy street. We even get a stop next time down. But with a chance to really stretch out a lead early, the offense grinds to a halt. Bowman just packs it in. I swear, every player has one heel in the paint. No room to drive, no chance to feed Moose on the blocks. Fuller and Jones have looks, but they hesitate and by then their man recovers. I figure it’s on me again, so first chance I get I flare out to the right wing, my favorite spot to shoot from. I get a clean bounce from Fuller and rip it to the lane for a nice, clean pull-up.

      Front rim and off. Felt good too. I shake it off and hustle back on D, tell myself the next one will fall.

      But it doesn’t. The next one is right on line, but just a hair long.

      Fuller and Jones both give it a go, but they fare no better, rattling out open looks.

      Meanwhile, Bowman starts to chip away. A free throw here. A put-back there. By the end of the first quarter, that seven-point lead is down to three.

      It’s not like we go scoreless. If we turn them over, they don’t have a prayer of stopping our break. And Moose keeps fighting on the blocks, getting looks when he can. But the whole flow of the game has stopped. It’s like we went from the pace of the Indy 500 to a slow, slumping limp.

      By halftime it’s tied, and you can feel the anxiety in our crowd. There’s this unsettled murmur, like they’re at some concert and are getting impatient for the act to finally take the stage.

      Front rim and off. Front rim, back rim, out. Back rim and off.

      Three different times in the third quarter I get a wide open look and miss. Each one could have stretched out our slim lead too, given us some breathing room against these guys. And with each one I could feel the crowd hold its breath, ready to explode, only to simmer back down when it rattles off.

      At the break before the fourth, Coach Bolden tells us all to calm down. “We’ve got a three-point lead on these guys,” he shouts. “No need to get frustrated and force things. Just defend, then stay patient on our end.”

      We break. As we take the floor Murphy hollers after us, “Let’s go now! Let’s bury these guys.”

      Bolden looks at him like Murphy just spat on his mama’s grave. “What did I just say?” he yells. “Don’t go getting them all stirred up.” Then he shouts to us again. “Patient! Be patient.”

      He’s right, I guess, but it’s easier said than done. We come out and Bowman Academy sinks back on defense again. Every touch on the perimeter gives someone a decent look—but we pass them up, both because of Bolden’s instructions and because nobody’s been able to buy a jumper all night. Every time the ball gets reversed my way and I pass up a shot—even open threes, looks I’ve worked on forever—I hear our crowd get a little more restless. Finally, Fuller makes a nifty little pass inside to Stanford, but the whole defense collapses so there’s nowhere to go with the ball. I flash to the top of the key to bail out Stanford. When the leather hits my hands I look up to find I’m all alone. My feet are just an inch past the arc, and I start into my motion. Then I think better of it and reverse the ball to Jones on the opposite wing.

      This brings out the frustration from the fans. Through the collective groan, I hear clear shouts of Shoot the damn ball! and That’s all you, Bowen, come on! My cheeks grow hot and a bitter taste settles onto my tongue—getting heckled in our own gym! It’s about more than I can take.

      Obviously, it is more than Fuller can handle because he forces—drives baseline into traffic and floats up a weak runner. Danks corrals it for Bowman and they rip it back at us.

      They’re in no hurry on their end either, working and working until they get Danks on a flash in the lane. He misses, but Stanford gets a cheap whistle and sends him to the stripe for two.

      I walk to the other end of the floor, head down, just trying to gather my thoughts. The crowd keeps murmuring, not just frustrated now but actually worried that we might lose this game. That’s just noise, I tell myself. Just static. Play it one possession at a time and everything will be fine. The Bowman crowd cheers, and I know Danks made the first. That murmur in our crowd gets more anxious. When I glimpse at the bench I see Murphy gnawing on his fingernails. Tight all around. Then Danks knocks down the second. One point game.

      We come down and face that same sagging defense. We reverse and reverse and reverse the ball to the same old results. Nothing. When Jones catches outside, they don’t even bother giving false pressure. It seems to go on forever, and I feel like the only way we’ll loosen up this defense is if Devin hops out here, air cast and all. Finally, Moose takes control. He spins on Danks and seals him right at the rim. It’s a full-grown-man move. Before he can even holler Ball, I put the orange in his mitts.

      Bucket. At last. Our crowd leaps up, voicing their pent up shouts. Our bench is up too, pumping their fists and urging us on. It’s like just seeing the ball go through the hoop flared up a fire in us.

      The Bowman guards try to look chill about it, like We got this, but when they finally hit the offensive end they act a little confused. They hesitate, ball fake, start to cut and then back out to the perimeter again. After about thirty seconds they get antsy and force one into Danks. It squirts away from him and Stanford grabs it. He outlets to me and I push it up the floor. Their guards race back, and I pull up on the wing. I fake once to a cutting Fuller, but that’s just to give myself some rhythm for a wide open three.

      When it leaves my hand, I know it’s true. Backpedal with my right arm still raised. Only to see it spin out after being halfway in the hole.

      Bowman Academy clears and then their coach calls time when they hit the frontcourt.

      Bolden just stands over me in our huddle. “What the hell, Bowen?” he shouts. “What are you trying to do with that shot?”

      Before my better instincts can stop me, I blurt an answer. “I was trying to end it!”

      Bolden’s eyes bulge, but he doesn’t jump me. He just shakes his head and turns to Murphy. “I swear sometimes I like dealing with freshmen better than sophomores. At least freshmen don’t act like they know better than me!”

      After that he just stresses the same things again. Defend, rebound, work the offense. And I don’t dare object to anything. It all makes for a tense final quarter, but we wear them down. Moose gets free for a lay-in, then uproots Danks for a put-back, and we string together a few stops until Bowman has no choice but to foul. We knock in a few and that’s that. But as we shake hands with the Bowman players and the crowd files out, there’s a bittersweet feeling to it. Anyone will tell you that a win is a win, but this one doesn’t quite feel the same. An ugly 40-35 opener is not what anyone had in mind.

      When I exit the locker room, Uncle Kid’s waiting for me. There are mostly just other players and their families lingering now, and the big lights over the court are killed so everything is dim. It makes it look like a party where the host is trying to get people to leave, but nobody’s taking the hint.

      The other players and their folks don’t seem too upset by the game. Moose and his people are laughing it up. Reynolds gets a big bear hug from his dad, congratulating him on his first varsity game, even if he didn’t get but a minute or two of action.

      Kid knows better, so he just gives me a firm handshake and says, “Better than a loss.”

      “Barely,” I say.

      He slings his arm around

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