LITMIR.BIZ

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sure the parents around here would like a few more Sectional banners, but it’s just as important to them that Bolden’s players stay out of trouble, which isn’t easy at Marion East. And if anyone does step out, Bolden makes sure their next step is to the curb. The man doesn’t tolerate foolishness. Just ask Uncle Kid.

      I pull my new kicks from their box. I rocked Kobes, then LeBrons in middle school, but this time I’ve gone with the new Rose AdiZeros, black with the red trim to match the trim on our unis. It’s a tough move breaking from Nikes, but I figure new school, new season, new brand. I pull them out and smell that new leather. There’s something perfect about new kicks, like you can do anything in them, like every shot’s going to find bottom and you’re going to win every game.

      Over in the corner, I see Starks getting ready. He’s got his ankles taped, his shooting elbow in a sleeve, his right knee covered by a black Ace bandage. But it’s all show. He’s never had an injury as far as I know of but wants to look like some soldier readying for combat. His tats creep out from under all that gear, dark against his light-brown skin. It wasn’t but a few years ago that Bolden would have made a player cover all those. Seems like only since Nick came along did Bolden come to grips with the fact that young guys want to get inked up.

      “Time!” Coach Bolden yells, and like that everyone is out the door. I trail out, and I see every last player lined up on the baseline. For the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel nervous. Don’t get me wrong, I know I belong here. I know that even if I’m just a freshman all I need is a chance to unleash my skills. But there’s something about everyone lined up, the coaches staring at us with their arms crossed, everyone looking grim under the gymnasium lights. I try to squeeze in next to Moose, but even he shakes me off. “Freshmen on the end, D,” he says. “Don’t be playin’ now.”

      I have to take my place all the way down at the corner of the floor. When I lean forward to take a look down the row, every other player is staring straight ahead, just waiting on Coach Bolden to make his way to center court and bark orders, like we’re in the damn military.

      When he finally gets there and blows that whistle, I realize military isn’t much of a stretch.

      Forget about drills—he runs us. I mean kills us. Down-and-backs, suicides, defensive slides, and more suicides. Nobody but Coach Bolden says a word, not even Moose, who’s doing all he can to hide how much of a struggle this is for him. After a while, Bolden’s assistant, Lou Murphy, walks over and grabs Moose by the elbow. They walk to one of the side baskets and Murphy acts as if he’s instructing Moose on post moves, but it’s really just a chance for Moose to catch his breath without drawing Coach Bolden’s wrath. Smart move. If Moose can’t finish the runs, then Bolden would have to come down on him, but everyone in the gym knows Moose is a threat for a double-double each night out, whether or not he can finish another down-and-back.

      The rest of us are still waiting for Coach Bolden’s next whistle. This is nothing new. It seems like every self-respecting high school coach in Indiana has a reputation for being a hard-ass. Some places, it’s all show—the coaches put on a tough face but they know their best bet to move up the ranks is to keep their players happy and position them for the scouts. But I can see early on that Coach Bolden takes a special pleasure in this. When, finally, one of my fellow freshman falls out of a sprint and bends over on the sideline like he’s about to pass out, Bolden walks over. “You gonna quit?” he asks. The rest of us have finished the sprint and are gathered again on the baseline. I look over and can see Starks smiling, making some quiet crack to Bedford. It’s like the seniors have come to expect this moment.

      The kid just shakes his head, but doesn’t look up at Bolden.

      Coach shouts now: “I asked you a question! Are you going to quit?”

      “No, Coach,” the kid manages.

      “Then get back on the baseline,” Coach says.

      Two more suicides and we’re done.

      “Free throws,” Coach yells.

      While we’re shooting, he rides us. He points out that only the seniors had taken time to stretch before hitting the floor, that it’s not up to the coaches to baby us and get us ready. He reminds us that if we can’t get ourselves ready to practice, then he can’t trust us to get ready for a game. He tells us that play time is over, that it’s November and Arlington is ready to come at us in two weeks. And then, for the freshmen, he says that he can see fear in our eyes, but if we want to suit up for Marion East then we better grow up and get over “that coddling middle school bullshit.”

      Finally, the prelude is done and we jump into some drills. Bolden and Murphy spend their time on the end of the floor with the upperclassmen, but they keep sneaking peeks my way, checking to see how my jumper’s developing. The J from range is the one part of my game that needs work. It’s not a weakness, exactly, but if I could make myself a real threat from three, nobody could check me. While Coach Murphy is watching me, I drop in two straight from behind the arc. Just smooth as butter. I sneak a look back at Murphy, see his eyebrows rise. Then, when it’s time to D up one of my fellow freshmen, I don’t let any class allegiance get in my way—I pick him clean or, if he gets room for a shot, erase it fast. When the box-out drill comes around, I grab every rebound like it’s the final possession of a game, and at last I see that Murphy’s edged all the way down to our end of the floor. “Not bad, Bowen,” he mutters after a while.

      But those are just drills. I need live action to really show out, and it doesn’t take much longer for me to get my chance. Coach Bolden calls the freshmen down to the other half of the floor and walks us through our basic offensive set. It’s not full court, but at least we’ll get to go five-on-five for a little bit. The only problem is, after he walks us through, he puts the first string in against the second—with the freshmen off to the side just watching. So I have to play spectator while Starks runs the offense.

      I have to give Starks credit. He can make that offense hum. He’s fast and crafty and whenever anyone gives him a sliver of daylight he darts into the lane. The difference between us, though, is that even if he’s lighting quick, he’s got no explosion off the floor, so when he hits the paint he either floats up a little runner or has to kick it back out to Bedford or Varney on the perimeter. Sure, those two like the open looks, but I can get the rock to the rim.

      Coach Bolden’s praise for Starks never stops, though. “Good look in,” he’ll say, or “Nice decision.” Then he’ll turn to the other players and explain why Starks made the right play. Meanwhile, I’m getting that itch again, like I did at the park while Brownlee was giving me shit, like if I don’t get on that floor soon I’ll bust.

      As if he could read my thoughts, Coach says, “Bowen for Starks.”

      I pop up and practically bounce onto the floor. Starks, on his way off, drops the ball at my feet, refusing to even look at me. Part of me wants to tell him he better get used to watching me, but I bite my tongue. I’ll let my play speak for itself.

      When I get out there, though, it feels like my own teammates are conspiring against me. Devin cuts back-door when I think he’s going to pop out, and when I drive and draw the defense I thread a beautiful pass to Royce only to have him mishandle it—then shake his head at me and say it was low. Put it right in your hands, I want to say, but again I stay quiet.

      “Right play, bad pass,” Coach Bolden says, and those words feel like hot little needles in my back. It’s killing me. I know this is my first time on the floor with these guys and I want to put my mark on the gym immediately. I feel shackled by this offense, though. It’s built for another player—Starks—and it’s all back-cuts and cross-screens, when it’d be a hell of a lot easier to have the other guys spread out and just let me work. Worse yet, everyone else’s timing is already built to Starks, and I can’t tell if I’m going too fast for them or too slow. It’s like the time Uncle Kid let me drive his car and he kept telling me to hit the gas every time I slowed down, but then yelled to mash the brakes every time I sped up.

      I can feel the coaches watching me again, but now instead of their eyebrows raised with pleasant surprise, I can sense their

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