The next morning, there is a final practice before camp breaks. We spend most of the time scrimmaging and our motion offense looks good. The only time the offense grinds to a halt is when I catch the ball outside the block and the defense gets time to sag away to let me take a jumper. Rashid just smiles and nods, because he knows I hate jumpers. I dribble and look. Dribble and look. Someone must get open.
“Pull the dang trigger, Adam!” Coach Cliff shouts.
Then I do, with great hesitance, and the rock is more like a brick crashing against the rim and bouncing away.
It is rare, though, that I hang on to the ball, that I don’t find a good passing lane or drive to the basket very fast.
During the final five minutes, all the Fury teams from all the ages, from girls’ side and dudes’ side, all come to watch us. The presence of this audience makes us all play harder, and I am sad to say that Rashid scores two buckets against me.
He has long arms, and although I jump higher, it seems he is able to jump sometimes twice when I only jump once, so he is good at tipping the ball out from me on rebounds and then scoring the ball before I can do my second jump to block him. He is so good.
But I score, too. On the final play, with only a few seconds left on the clock, Khalil drives, then finds Devin swinging to the three-point line on the far left. Rashid hedges and jumps out to defend, and I think Devin will shoot, so I dive behind Rashid to collect the rebound if necessary. Instead of shooting, Devin sees I am wide open and he lofts the ball sweetly into the air. I leap, catch the ball, and slam it home. Rashid, who cannot stop me after overplaying on defense, screams, “Noooo, Farmer! No way! How do you get so many lobs, dude?”
I shrug. I smile. We high-five.
Mr. Doig uses the air horn to show our game is over, and then Khalil and Rashid come in and hug me tight like I am their long-lost brother. Devin hangs back but fist-bumps me.
“Warm-up games two and three weeks out, boys. Just a month until the Hampton, Virginia Nike Elite Tournament. And you know what?”
“What?” everybody shouts.
“I’m feeling good!” Coach Cliff says. “Real good! We got ourselves more than a showcase for talent. We got ourselves a team. I bet we hand those Owens boys their butts, isn’t that right, Farmer?”
Yes. We are a team.
Carli Anderson is watching. I think she has tears in her eyes. Maybe the beauty of my basketball game has made her cry? Maybe she likes the girls she hangs with here better than the pouty-face girls at home. Those girls seem boring and mean, so I understand. Carli spends a long time hugging these girls here.
Then it is me who wants to cry. The Minneapolis Academy camp was the best. Not just for basketball. Am I Polish? I have been sociable. I have spoken like a Polish guy speaks. I am being me.