Balance. As a player, you need it. Come up for a shot off-balance and you’re doomed. Float an off-balance pass and it’s an easy pick and push for the other team.
But you need balance as a team too. You can’t just feast on outside shots, even if they’re open looks. Just like you can’t just rely on one scorer to take over possession after possession, no matter how good he is. That’s the way it is with any good team—yeah, they might have their man come crunch time, but over the course of a game you need all kinds of options to keep the opponent jumping. I mean, the Thunder don’t just iso Kevin Durant every time.
We’re not the Thunder. Not a soul in the world would make that mistake. But up at Warren Central—a team that’s ranked in the top 15—we start to figure some things out, even with Devin still sidelined. One trip down we work forever to get Moose a look in the lane. Next time, I drive and kick to Fuller on the shallow wing for a deuce off the glass. Later, I get my own, muscling one in over a couple guys. Then it’s Moose again, free when his man helps on Fuller’s cut. And when they finally pack it way in, sick of me slicing and Moose posting, I drop a bomb on them from three.
For all that, it’s not like we’re breezing. We still hit those dry spells. And a six-possession drought in the third quarter opens the door for Warren Central to come roaring back. They do. They got a shooter named Rory Upchurch and the kid can flat fill it. No hops to speak of, but he gets it cranked up just as we go cold. A contested three from the corner. Then a free look at the top of the key when Reynolds gets lost. Then he comes flying off a ball-screen and buries a seventeen-footer. Zip, zip, zip, and we go from a 32-26 lead to a 34-32 deficit.
Their crowd is up and loud. There’s a reason it’s so tough to win on the road at any level—you can just see the Warren Central players breathe in that energy from their people, who get a new jolt after seeing Upchurch get loose. Fuller inbounds to me and I come flying into the frontcourt, but Bolden wants a timeout. There’s only 30 ticks left in the quarter, so their fans take that as a sign we’re rattled, with a coach who can’t even wait half a minute to settle us. I almost laugh. These people don’t know. I mean, Warren Central might go on and whip our asses, but not because we’re shook. After all the stuff we’ve been through, a little noise isn’t going to bother us.
“We okay out there?” Coach asks.
“We good,” Moose shouts. “Just gotta get that bitch Upchurch bottled up again.” Bolden raises his eyebrows and gives a long look at Moose. As the season’s gone on, Bolden’s rules about language have become more and more like suggestions, but you never know when the old man is gonna crack back down. “Sorry, Coach,” Moose tacks on, just to be safe.
Coach plunges into tactics as a way of dismissing that brief showdown with Moose. We’re just down a deuce, he reminds us, and we’re not going to give them a chance to add to that lead before the fourth. We’ll burn clock and then flatten out for me to go to work. We break, but Coach gives me a quick look to stay behind. “If Reynolds has some space, put it on him,” he says. “He misses, we’re just down two. But if he can get one to drop, it’ll open things up for us.”
It seems reasonable enough, so I do as I’m told. I dribble down the clock, shaking my man each time he comes out to challenge—just quick moves to back him off and re-set the five count.
Finally, with about five seconds to go, I bust past him for real. The whole defense jumps, and I’ve got my choice—a forced runner in traffic or kicks to the corners. Fuller’s the easier pass, but Reynolds is wide open on the far side if I can get it to him, so I rifle one cross-court to give the kid a chance. He catches with two ticks left and hurries it. The shot comes off flat and hard, like he’s trying to rifle in a pool shot. I can see Reynolds grimace as soon as it leaves his hands.
And then the ball finds the bucket. I mean, it defies the laws of physics, because I swear that thing never gets above ten feet. But the thing thumps home, giving us a one-point lead. Reynolds actually pops his head back in surprise, but then starts nodding his head on the way to the huddle, getting more exaggerated all the time. “They can’t check me,” he says when he gets to our sideline.
I’m about to tell him to shut his mouth, but Bolden beats me to it. He gets about an inch from Reynolds. “How about you quit clowning and figure out how to stick Upchurch!” Then, to nobody in particular, he grumbles, “God, this team will be the death of me.”
Fuller, who always looks like he’s about to have a breakdown when people start sniping at each other, claps his hands in the huddle. “Come on, guys! Let’s stick with it now.” Stanford rolls his eyes at Fuller’s rah-rah act, but nobody says anything about it.
“Who’s ball first?” Bolden asks to Murphy. Murphy looks down at his notepad but doesn’t answer right away. He starts to say something but then stops and looks at his notepad again. “Jesus, man!” Bolden pops. “I’m not asking you for a scouting report on the Bulls. I just want to know who gets the ball first.”
“We do, Coach,” Murphy offers meekly.
“Are you sure?”
Finally Murphy straightens up. “Yes, Coach. I’m sure.”
Bolden claps his hands. “Then let’s just run the same damn thing at ‘em. Derrick, burn a little time to make them jumpy and then see if we can find Reynolds in the corner again.” He turns to our freshman. “You want to puff your chest out like a big man? Then see if you got the stones to make another.”
Reynolds shrugs his shoulders like, why not? And the rest of us just laugh. Sure. Why not?
We check it in and the edge is taken off of Warren Central’s crowd. They’re still stomping and clapping, but there’s a world of difference between a two-point lead and a one-point deficit. I idle out top for a while like Coach said, just taking my time. I make eye contact with all my guys, one by one, make sure they’re ready. Then I take a deep breath and attack. My man’s sitting on my right, so I spin back left to the elbow. They all jump again, and there’s Reynolds, hands out. I put it right on the money and he steps into it, full of confidence—and sails the thing a good solid two feet over the rim. Lucky for us, Stanford’s quickest to react. He gathers in the air ball and scoops it up for a deuce. Three-point lead just like that.
Their crowd sits, and I see Upchurch shaking his head. Breaks like that can fill a team with doubt. As we hustle back on D, I arc out toward Reynolds. “Atta boy,” I shout. “Perfect pass to Stanford.” He shakes his head at me, then smiles, my little crack letting him off the hook. But then I remember my conversation that night with Dad, about how maybe I haven’t been helping people as much as I could be. “Just sit on Upchurch’s shooting hand,” I shout. “He gets past you, that’s on the rest of us to cut off his drive. Just no easy Js. Got it?” Reynolds nods and then hurries to hunt down Upchurch.
That balance we had early comes undone. Reynolds does his best on Upchurch, but he’s got the yips on the other end now. Fuller gets a head of steam to the rim only to get called for a charge. Stanford misses a J from the short corner. And Moose is bottled up and getting frustrated. I drive a couple times and draw fouls, my four three throws like a life preserver for us.
Still, we grind like hell on the defensive end. Upchurch gets free for a couple buckets, but aside from that we just give up two free throws to their forward. So we milk a one-point lead into the final minute. Our ball, after a Warren Central turnover.
“Good shot here,” Bolden shouts. “Just get a good one.”
Or none at all, I think. A couple weeks ago, I’d have all but spit on a win where we only score one field goal in the fourth, but those were different times. Now, when I circle out top to get it from Fuller, I don’t care if we never put it up again. Just get out of this gym with a W.
My man comes out to challenge and I blow past him, but I’m in no hurry. Sure, the D jumps again, and there’s Reynolds in the corner with his hands out like he’s got a wild notion, but I just back it out. No way I’m getting in a rush and no way I’m giving it up to Reynolds at this point. Only way this thing’s going up is if I get a run at the rim or if I find Moose with position down low.
The more I kill the clock, the more the Warren Central crowd starts to jeer, all indignant like we’re breaking the rules or something. Let ‘em. I dribble out top again, and check Coach—he circles his index finger in a motion to keep running clock. Soon, those boos from the crowd start to change in pitch. When the clock hits 30 seconds, they get nervous. Foul, they start shouting. Foul him! But good luck catching me. I break down my man and get past him to the lane, then back it out to the wing when help comes, then turn my man around again when he races over. Twenty-five left. The crowd gets on their feet, anxious that they’re actually going to see a kid dribble out a full two minutes on them. My man finally gets the picture though. He stays low, but motions for the guy guarding Reynolds to double with him. Then they come at me for the trap. Their problem is, I’ve got all the space in the world—a hard dribble right and then a cross-over and I split the double. I push it into the lane, playing keepaway. Two more rush at me. This time there’s no choice but to give it up—right to Fuller who’s cutting free to the rim. He catches it in stride and plants his feet, only to get hammered by the one defender left.
I look up, see there are ten seconds left. We’re up one. Fuller at the line for two. Looking damn good.
Then I hear Bolden and Murphy go ballistic: “What!?” they shout. Bolden almost races onto the floor, but Murphy catches him. “He was shooting!” Bolden shouts at the ref. “My God! How is that not in the act of shooting?”
But the ref just shakes his head at Coach, then raises his palm up to tell him to cool it. “He never got off the floor, Coach,” he says. Then he raises both index fingers, making the signal again—one-and-one.
It’s a garbage call. The only reason Fuller didn’t get the thing up to the rim was because he got tackled, but anyone with a brain knew he was going up with that thing. Now their crowd feels it, feeding off of Coach’s frustration. We all go over to Fuller and encourage him, tell him to just bury these anyway, but when he gets the ball from the official, he takes a deep, nervous breath. I might have thought there was no rattling us, but a clutch free throw with the crowd hollering and jumping up and down behind the basket is a different beast.
“Shut ‘em up!” I shout at Fuller, but I don’t know if he can hear me above the noise.
He takes his time, going through his routine. He slaps the ball with his right hand, then pounds it on the hardwood three times, so hard it’s like he’s trying to dent the floor. But when he lets go, all that confidence is gone, and it pops off the front rim.
Warren Central rips it and runs. They outlet to Upchurch, who hustles into the frontcourt. Reynolds is into him pretty good, so Upchurch glances over at the bench, like he’s wondering what to do. Call time? Push on? It’s just a veteran baiting a freshman. Reynolds relaxes for just a second, and Upchurch whips past him. Even before he sets his feet, you can hear the crowd buzzing. And they come to their feet as he rises. Then, when he drops a fifteen-footer on us, the place just explodes.
Reynolds looks so distraught, I think he’s going to just lay down on the court and bawl. There’s no time for consolation. We got four ticks. An eternity. Fuller hesitates on the inbounds, looking toward our bench and then toward the ref like he should call timeout, but I know better.
“Ball!” I shout, so loud the people in the last row can here. Fuller finally snaps out of his daze and gets it to me. And from here, I fall back on the advice I got from Uncle Kid the first time he took me to the playground for a pick-up game: When in doubt, go to the hole.
I get the leather in my hands and just go. I’m past my man in a flash, past Upchurch trying to pick me up, into the lane among their bigs. I get smacked once across the forehead, but I know I’m not getting a whistle at this point so I push on through. Up to the rim. Their center’s there, challenging, so I have to arch back to create some space. I float one high off the glass and hear the buzzer sound just after it leaves my hand.
It kisses. Then drops through.
Moose is the first one on top of me, all but burying me on the baseline. “Yeah, boy!” he screams in my ear. He grabs my head with both hands and shakes it. I’m as helpless as a child beneath him, but I don’t care. “That’s what I’m talking about, D!” Pinned underneath him, I just see kicks from my teammates—jumping, sprinting back and forth in celebration—and then the casual shoes of the Warren Central fans as they shuffle for the exits. Moose finally lets me up. By that time, Bolden and Murphy are busy trying to calm us down to some kind of dignified state, ushering us back to the locker room.
That doesn’t stop the party. In fact, we hit that locker room and we really make some noise. Reynolds jumps around like he’s just won the lottery. Stanford goes from teammate to teammate for chest bumps. He’s got that baby face bobbing up and down in rhythm. But he’s worked himself up pretty good, so those chest bumps knock a few people back a few steps. I know they can hear us down the hall in Warren Central’s locker room, but that’s not our problem. Only Fuller seems a little subdued, and Coach Murphy catches it. “Hey, Fuller,” he says, “don’t sweat missing that freebie. You know why guys miss shots like that? Just because they want to win so bad. If it didn’t matter to you, you wouldn’t get nervous.”
Moose doesn’t miss a beat. “What, Coach? You saying that guys like me who hit shots don’t care?”
Murphy starts to defend himself, but then he sees Moose cracking up. It’s all good. Even Stanford gets his digs in, shouting at everyone that he made half our fourth quarter field goals. Granted, that just means one out of two—his put-back on our first possession, and my game-winner on our last. Not long ago, a quarter like that would have had me losing sleep. Now, I figure, let Warren Central stay up all night wondering how they lost to a team that only scored two buckets in the fourth.
We’re not about to let that mo swing back. Fresh off our Warren Central win we go up to Bishop Chatard and knock them off. They’re just .500. It’s another grinder—39-33—and it’s hard to feel like we’re getting on the kind of roll we were on last year. I mean, our margin for error is razor thin. Still, back-to-back road wins in February? I’ll take that in a heartbeat.
It’s a short bus ride back to Marion East, but everyone’s living it up. Bolden’s in such a good mood even he starts jumping in the conversation. When Moose and Murphy start debating the best-ever—like always, an argument between LeBron and Jordan—Bolden stirs them both up. “Forget those two,” he growls. “Winning is what matters. And the guy with the most championships is still Bill Russell.”
That draws a chorus of shouts from the whole bus, everyone protesting Coach’s claim. “Oh, please, Coach,” Moose begs. “They still shooting underhanded back when he played?”
“You go ahead and laugh,” Bolden snaps back. “He won eleven in thirteen years. And if little LeBrat would’ve played back then, he’d have never gotten to the rim against Russell.”
“Oh, come on!” Moose shouts. It’s all in fun, but the big man’s getting worked up. “You just talking crazy now. James is 6'8"! With hops!”
Bolden gives an exaggerated frown and shakes his head back and forth. “If he’s so good, then how come he had to team up with all those All-Stars down in Miami to get a ring?”
Again the bus erupts in protest. When Murphy and Moose were arguing Jordan-LeBron, it was pretty much split down the middle, but now everyone’s united against Coach. I keep quiet, just enjoying the noise—good noise, the kind teams are supposed to make, rather than static and sniping or a brooding silence. Stanford pats Moose on the shoulder from the seat behind him. “He’s just messing with you, Moose,” he says. “He’s just doing his Coach thing.”
“Coach thing my eye!” Bolden says. “Answer the question. Anyone.” He challenges the whole bus, and I even see the driver checking us in his rear view, smiling at Bolden getting us all worked up. “Why couldn’t LeBrat win in Cleveland? The great ones don’t run off to get help. Jordan didn’t do it. Magic didn’t do it. Bird didn’t do it.”
That tears it. Now even Murphy—who’d been arguing against LeBron earlier—practically leaps out of his seat. “Larry Bird?” he screams. “Larry Bird? I swear I want to move out of this state so I don’t have to hear about Larry Bird anymore. And you acting like LeBron copped out when he went to Miami. I mean poor Larry Bird having that terrible burden of teaming up with Robert Parrish and Kevin freaking McHale.”
Even Bolden can’t keep a straight face anymore. He holds his hands up in a defensive pose and laughs. “Easy there, Murph. Didn’t mean to strike a nerve. You just better not go saying that kind of stuff if we ever go play one of those Terre Haute schools. People there hear that, they’d just about shoot you dead.”
“Well, it’s the truth!” Murphy shouts, still a little worked up. Then he mutters to himself more about Larry freaking Legend.
Bolden stares at him for a few seconds. I watch a wry little smile crease his face. We’re almost back to Marion East, the driver slowing for the turn in. Guys begin gathering up their stuff to unload, and Bolden waits until we come to a stop to stand up. “Good one tonight, boys,” he says. “Let’s keep it rolling. One more thing though.” He turns to Murphy, stares at him with that crazy smile again. “If anything, Larry Bird is underrated.”
He turns and exits before Murphy can say anything back, but I can see Coach’s back rising and falling with a little laughter. The man just loves to stay after people. Murphy flops back in his seat, like he’s been staggered by a shot, then howls, “I work for a crazy man! I work for an absolute crazy man!”
That sends all into the night laughing, feeling pretty damn full of ourselves.