Coach’s whistle screams like Mom’s old teapot. Both mean hot water.
“Elijah, you need to move the ball quicker,” Coach says. “And, Lucas, you need to fight harder to get free.” I want to say “That’s what I’ve been doing all my life,” but I say nothing.
The thing about Coach Unser is that he teaches us plays, but in games, he doesn’t get mad if we freelance. As long as we knock down two or three, he’s fine. It’s an easy system.
Mark played college ball in Tennessee. That is a basketball state, unlike Alabama. People here think basketball is something tall people do to fill time between football and baseball. Mark complained about his coach’s system limiting his freedom to play his game. Mark even blamed his coach for the broken ankle that finished his college career. The ankle never healed right, but I wonder if that’s all that stops Mark from still getting a game. He doesn’t want to remember or talk about it.
“Luke, wake up!” Elijah throws the ball at me. I catch it, take a step. Head fake even though nobody’s in front of me. I do it like I learned it. Not from Coach, but from Mark. Ball goes in. Three.
Coach tells us to start practice. I square off against Nate. He plays hard and smart and strong. Trouble is that I’m harder, smarter, and stronger than him. I grew up and got buff. He didn’t.
I don’t just shut Nate down—I give him a spanking worse than his mom ever did. If there were a score sheet for scrimmage, he’d be nothing but negatives: turnovers, fouls, and missed shots. The one time he almost beat me, I hustled back and rejected his shot with harsh intent.
After wind sprints to end practice, Nate comes over to me. He breathes heavy. “Man, Luke, how come you had to grow four inches and put on twenty pounds of muscle over one summer? These were supposed to be my minutes. My tournament. My scholarship opportunity.”
He wants an apology he won’t get. “I guess wrong place, wrong time for me,” Nate says.
In front of me is Nate, but in my ear, I hear Josh saying those same words over and over.