When Trent, neatly dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, entered the locker room before the Eastlake game on Saturday, I was the only one who wasn't stunned. Even O'Leary looked as if he'd seen a ghost, though he recovered fast. He went over to Trent and shook his hand. "Good to have you back, Son."
After that, the normal locker-room noise slowly returned. Or almost returned. Guys would talk about the game coming up, but out of the corners of their eyes they'd glance at Trent, wondering if he'd really killed those birds, and what it was like to spend time in jail.
Then there was no time to worry about Trent. O'Leary called us together for the final chalk talk. He repeated everything he'd said at practice. We were going to the set offense. No fast breaks unless we had clear numbers. A game plan perfect for Fabroa.
As we went through the warm-up drills, I looked up into the stands. I spotted my father right away. When our eyes met, he made a fist to encourage me. My stomach turned over. What was I going to say to him if I ended up riding the bench for the whole game?
I moved to the front of the lay-up line. The ball came to me, and I took a couple of hard dribbles, rose, banked in a lay-in, then jogged to the end of the line. That's when I saw the band.
Scott was in the center; Katya right next to him. My mother was sitting a few rows above them, swaying back and forth, clapping her hands, totally caught up in the music as Scott pointed his trumpet right, left, up, down, playing "YMCA" better than I've ever heard it played, making the whole gym rock. The horn sounded. Game time.
In the opener I'd had Luke next to me, but now I was alone. While I sat on the bench, he was out on the court, running the lanes and hitting the pull-up jump shots. After a hoop he'd smile at Fabroa, and Fabroa would give him a little nod, and it was as if I didn't exist. Carver was hitting his shots, too; in fact the whole team was clicking. We jumped off to a 6–0 lead, then 12–5. We were up 16–11 with a minute left in the quarter before Fabroa finally came out and I stepped onto the court.
"Be patient," I whispered to myself as I took the court, and I was. We had two possessions in that minute. On one we scored, on the other McShane turned the ball over. I was back on the bench when the second quarter started, not a drop of sweat on me. Killing time, not making mistakes, filling in so Fabroa could rest—was that going to be my season?
Eastlake pulled even as Fabroa struggled through the second quarter. He threw the ball away twice and missed all three shots he took. I could do better. I knew it, and I wanted to show it. Still I heard O'Leary's voice. Don't force things. Let the game come to you.
Right before halftime I got the call again. And again I played it safe. I passed up a jumper on the fast break only to see Markey miss a sweeping hook in the key. I had a chance for a steal, but held back, and Eastlake eventually scored on a drive to the hoop by their shooting guard. When the horn sounded I had no turnovers, no assists, and no points.
When the third quarter started, I was riding the pines again. The lead seesawed back and forth. Time after time I saw fast break opportunities, opportunities that Fabroa passed up. I wanted to burst. If I'd been on the court playing my game, we'd have pulled away from them.
I got my minute at the end of the quarter. One lousy, useless minute. Eastlake had the ball when I came on, and they held it for about thirty seconds before they scored on a bank shot by their center. I brought the ball down, passed to Markey, who backed the ball in before missing a turnaround jumper. The Wolves came back, ran more clock, and scored with three seconds left. As the horn sounded ending the quarter, I was throwing up a wild air ball from half court. It was my first shot of the game.
For a while I didn't think I would play again. Luke caught fire and drained back-to-back three-pointers, giving us a four-point lead. But with about four minutes left, Fabroa stopped looking for Luke or McShane, and instead dumped the ball into Carver time and again. Eastlake's defense double-teamed, then covered his passing lanes, shutting us down completely. Just like that, the Wolves went on an 8–0 run to take back the lead.
O'Leary called time out. His eyes were like lasers. "Don't force it!" he shouted at Fabroa. "If Darren is covered swing it to somebody else." But the next time down Fabroa tried to dump it into Carver again. Eastlake tipped the ball free, and they were off to the races for another easy bucket. Worse, Fabroa fouled after the shot.
O'Leary grabbed the top of his head with both hands. I thought he was going to pull out the little hair he had left. "Abbott! Get in there!"
As I stepped onto the court, my heart was pumping blood by the gallon. It was the home opener, the league opener. The gym was rocking. My mom, dad, and brother were watching.
The Eastlake player swished the free throw. I took the inbound pass and raced the ball up the court. The guy guarding me backed off, looking to clog the passing lanes. I rose for the three-pointer. It felt good when I released it, but I must have been too pumped, because it clanged long. That's all right, I thought to myself as I back-pedaled. You'll make the next one.
But that miss took away my confidence. My man gave a simple head fake. I bit, and he blew by me for a lay-in. As I brought the ball upcourt, I saw O'Leary pacing in front of the bench, his hands behind his neck, dark half-moons of sweat showing on his light blue shirt. He had the same look on his face that he'd had just before he yanked Fabroa.
I picked up my dribble at the top of the key. I faked a pass to Carver; Luke flashed into the key. I fed him a lob pass that he took at the free-throw line. My guy dropped into a double-team, so Luke whipped the ball right back. I was open for the three-pointer, but my hands were so sweaty the ball slipped, and my shot was ugly—a low-liner that sailed under the backboard and out of bounds.
"Air ball! Air ball! Air ball!" The mocking chant rose from the Eastlake fans. I felt my face go red as Eastlake quickly in-bounded the ball. As my man raced up the right side of the court, I reached in, tipping the ball free. I barely nicked his arm, but the whistle blew and the ref's finger was pointing at me. A second later the horn sounded. Fabroa raced onto the court, and he was pointing at me, too.
O'Leary didn't even look at me as I came off the court. I grabbed a towel and, totally dejected, walked all the way down to the end of the bench. I dropped my head and covered it with a towel. That's when I felt the pat on the back, and the low, whispered words: "You'll get 'em next time."
We lost by ten. After the game my father took me home. I didn't want to eat anything, but he insisted we stop for pizza. While we sat waiting for our food, he let me have it, telling me everything I already knew: that I'd played like an idiot, that I was too tentative in the first half and too wild in the fourth quarter. "You've got to think when you're out there. You understand? You've got to think."
He reached over and rubbed the top of my head. He did that all the time when I was little, and I'd always liked it. But now he rubbed too hard, so that it hurt. Besides, I wasn't little anymore. I pulled away.
My mother had waited up. "You did your best, Nick. That's all you can do. No one can be great every time, not even Michael Jordan." Scott had the sense not to say anything.
Upstairs, staring at the ceiling, I kept seeing my mistakes. It was as if I were locked in a movie theater and were being forced to watch a gruesome clip from a horror film over and over. Then, just before I fell asleep, I let the film run a few seconds longer in my mind. I saw myself after I'd been taken out of the game. I was at the end of the bench, a towel over my head. Then I felt the pat on the back, and the words of comfort. You'll get 'em next time.
Could that have been Trent?