The next day, after Mom and Dad had gone to work and Scott had finished practicing his trumpet, I challenged him to go one-on-one. He shook his head. "Carver's coming by."
"It'll be a good warm-up."
He considered for a while. "Okay."
Once we were on the court, I pushed harder. "Let's really play. Winners outs, game to eleven, score by ones. No goofing around."
He looked at me, a quizzical look on his face. "You sound like Dad."
"Come on," I said.
"I'll whip you."
And he did. He took me 11–3 and 11–4, outrebounding me and muscling up short jumpers and lay-ins. I'd have played a third game, but Carver and the other guys showed up, and Scott shooed me away.
I challenged him again the next day, and every day. Our games didn't change much. I wasn't big enough to mix it up with him inside, and I couldn't knock down enough outside shots to put a scare into him. The best I could do was 11–7, and I came that close only a couple of times.
When I was alone, I worked on my outside shot, figuring that to beat him I had to hit everything. But the next day Scott would crush me again, and I'd be back to square one.
Then came another afternoon when I was chased upstairs so Scott could play with Carver and his buddies. As I stood at my window watching their game, the reason I was losing to Scott suddenly hit me. Carver was a couple of inches shorter than Scott, but he still took the ball inside, using his quickness and his moves to score, making Scott defend the whole court.
That's not how I'd been playing. I'd given up the inside game, figuring I had no chance. Since I wasn't pushing the ball inside, Scott was all over me outside, hurrying my shots and forcing me farther and farther out.
The next morning I challenged Scott again. It was just another game to him, at least in the beginning. But early on he found out that I was done heaving up twenty-footers. I moved my game inside. I took a few elbows, and I cut my knees up when he knocked me to the cement. But the games were tighter, 11–8 and 11–9. And I dished out a little punishment, too.
"Let's play one more," I said after I'd lost the second game.
Scott shook his head.
"Why not? Afraid you're going to lose?"
"Don't be stupid. You can't beat me."
"You're scared to play because you know I will."
I was trash-talking him, though I didn't plan it. And it worked. "All right, Nick. You want a lesson; you'll get a lesson."
He came out on fire, nailing his first three jumpers. "I thought you were going to eat me up," he jeered after his third shot went down.
"I am," I shot back. "You'll see." He laughed, then took one dribble, raised, and drained another jumper to go up 4–0.
I was down 6–0 before Scott missed and I touched the ball for the first time. I took it to the corner, and he was slow getting out to cover me. Instead of going up for the jumper, I drove to the hoop and kissed the lay-in off the backboard. 6–1.
He didn't guard me tight on my next bucket either, a little eight-footer I swished after he went for a head fake. On my next possession I got off another good shot, an uncontested pull-up fifteen-footer that missed off the back rim. Scott rebounded, took the ball back, and nailed a long set shot, pushing the score to 7–2.
Five buckets is a big lead, but every one of his scores had come from outside. Lazy man hoops. He thought he could win easily; I knew I'd have to work.
I stuck a hand right up in his face on his next shot, another long-range bomb that fell short. I was on the rebound like a hawk. I took the ball back, then worked my dribble in close, finally blowing by him with a crossover dribble for a lay-in.
That's how the rest of the game went—Scott casting off long jumpers while I scored my points in the key. I closed to 8–5, then 9–8. He missed a twelve-footer, I shagged the rebound, raced to the corner and—for the first time—let an outside shot go. Nothing but net! We were tied.
He grabbed the ball as it went through the net and bounced it to me. I faked another long jumper. He lunged out to try to block it, and I drove past him for my tenth hoop.
Scott carried the ball out and shoved it into my gut, trying to intimidate me. But I wasn't backing down.
He crouched low. I swung the ball in front of him, tempting him. Finally he swiped at it, but his hands were too slow. As his body moved forward, I took two hard dribbles to the left. He was a half-step behind me, and when I pulled up for the jumper, he stumbled a little. I had a good look at the hoop, and knocked down a twelve-footer for the victory. "Yes!" I shouted, making a fist and pumping it. "Yes! Yes! Yes!"
I'm not going to say I won every game after that. But I won more than my share. Sometimes down at Golden Gardens, you can actually see the tide come in, see each wave claiming more and more of the beach. I was like those waves. Every day I felt my game growing stronger. Scott could push me aside when his buddies arrived, but when tryouts came, there'd be no sending me to my room.