LITMIR.BIZ

      Wes was the one who got home detention, but it feels like I got it too. No wheels, no Wes, no Jasmine—it’s meant I’m pretty much just hoofing it to school and back, and only getting a sweat up when the weather’s been nice enough to hit the Fall Creek court. Well, no Jasmine isn’t quite right. I still see her. We even fooled around some last weekend when her parents were out. But it’s not like it was a year ago. In the middle of a conversation, her attention will wander. It’s like sitting with someone who’s got a plane to catch—they’re right next to you, but part of them is already leaving you behind.

      But right now that doesn’t matter. Let every coach in the country call. Let Jasmine move halfway across the world. Let Wes waste all his time with losers like JaQuentin. I’ve got something else at last—finally, ball.

      Already Coach Bolden’s put us through our sprints. And already a few freshmen have damn near bowed out. And already Coach Bolden’s gotten so mad at our lack of hustle that he’s kicked a ball into the third row, sending his assistant Coach Murphy sprinting after it. But that’s all show to get the new guys up to speed. Now the real practice starts—we’re going through offensive sets with the first team.

      I’ve got a good lather worked up. I’d love to just run five-on-five. Let it rip up and down the floor. Instead, I obediently listen to Coach. “The whole focus changes this year,” he says. “We don’t have Moose around, so we can’t just work through him in the post. We want to spread teams out and look to drive.”

      That’s my game right there—go to the hole. The next thing he says I don’t like so much.

      “Usually, we’ll have Derrick at point, but he’ll be sitting the first game. If you don’t walk the line off the court, you don’t play for Marion East,” he barks. Coach Murphy nods up and down in agreement, both of them making a point for the younger players. Then Coach Bolden points at me. “Flip that jersey, Bowen,” he says. “Run with the twos until you earn that starting spot back.”

      That hurts. Everyone in the gym—hell, everyone in the state—knows I’m the engine for this team. Bolden’s doing me dirty on the first practice. But what can I do? He’s in charge, so I peel off my jersey, and flip it from red to green—the color of back-ups.

      That means I get to watch while the coaches work through the sets. They’re sizing up our horses for the season, and so am I.

      At the bigs we’ve got Tyler Stanford and Chris Jones. Neither one’s a true center, but they’ve got some bulk. Stanford in particular. He must have spent all summer in the weight room, because he’s cut up pretty good. He’s a senior now, and he finally looks it—his face has lost that boyish innocence. Now if he sneers when he’s grabbing a board, people know they best step back. He’s honed his shot some too. I hit him when he’s facing from fifteen and in, he’ll knock it down. Jones, I don’t know about. He’s there by default after paying his dues for a couple years on the bench. He’s got size, but that’s about it. Only way he’s getting buckets are point blank—then again, Murphy and Bolden can work wonders, so maybe Jones will develop.

      J. J. Fuller’s at the three. He’s been through the grind with me last year. I can’t say we’re tight, but I trust him on the floor. He’s shaved off his old flat top, which made him look like he was straight out of the 80s, down to a close buzz. But he still looks rigid. His face always has a serious expression, like he’s trying to figure out a calculus problem. His moves on the court are the same way—forceful but methodical, always in straight lines with no flow. Even his shot is a line drive, but it finds bottom if he’s within sixteen or seventeen feet. And the kid hustles. Even as Coach has them walking through the set, Fuller carries out his fakes like it’s game-time.

      Then there’s Josh Reynolds at the two. A sophomore. Last year, he was a mess. If he can get some confidence though, the skills are there. He’s grown a little in the off-season, up to my height—6′3″. And that shot is smooth enough. His challenge will be on the defensive end, where older players will try to overpower him.

      With me at the point, it’s enough. We’ve got some weaknesses, but you can say that about any team. The problem is, with me sitting on the sidelines, the point’s being run by Malcolm Rider, a scared-witless freshman. Even walking through the sets, he looks confused. Fuller rubs off a baseline screen, and Rider is still looking to the opposite wing.

      “No, no,” Bolden says. He’s taking it easy on the kid, not raising his voice. Coach puts a hand on his shoulder and gently pivots him the other way. “Once the play to the wing is done, you’re looking for that baseline cut.”

      They run through the offense a few more times, and then it’s live action. I take the floor with the second team. If the ones think I’m going to take it easy just because they’re my boys, I’ve got a wake-up call in store for them.

      First thing I do is dig into Rider. He tries driving right, and I cut him off. He looks to make an entry to Jones, and I deflect it out of bounds. Next time I keep my hands active, scaring off any passes except a bail-out to the wing. Once Rider gives it up, it’s pretty obvious he doesn’t want the rock back. Scared. Since he’s no threat, I sag off him. And since I know where the offense wants to go, I give them fits. Reynolds passes to Fuller on the wing. I peel off Rider and jump the pass. I

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