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THE EAGLES

If you are fully present in every moment, time will be your ally.

 WIZENARD PROVERB 

THE EGLINTON EAGLES stalked into Fairwood Community Center like grim sentinels. They wore matching blue-and-white tracksuits, matching chalk-white shoes, and even matching closely cropped haircuts. They were notorious dunkers and highfliers like their namesake, but they were also quiet and cool and obviously arrogant. They looked at the gym and the spectators and the Badgers most of all with barely concealed distaste. Reggie watched them, his skin prickling.

It was always like this with outside teams . . . like the Badgers were beneath them.

A few of his teammates made remarks or called out challenges. Reggie stayed quiet. He figured it didn’t make much sense to talk until they’d proved something—and considering they had lost eight games in a row dating back to last season, they had a lot to prove. Rain must have felt the same way, because he was still shooting elbow jumpers, completely oblivious to the Eagles. The others noticed and slowly rejoined the warm-up.

Reggie certainly wasn’t proving anything. Grana was taunting him even on game day, and he could still only see the hoop from the dreaded corner three or its evil sidekick, the mid-range two from the wings. And as before, it disappeared only for him, and no one else commented on it. As a result, Reggie had spent most of his warm-up chasing rebounds. He plodded back to the corner now and put up another three—and hit the side of the backboard. His cheeks burned. The gym was filling with spectators, not to mention the visiting team, and he hoped desperately that no one had noticed that horrendous attempt. He could imagine their laughter.

“Please don’t do this to me during the game,” Reggie said. “Please. Please.”

“You talking to yourself again?” Twig asked, jogging by him.

“I don’t even know anymore,” Reggie muttered.

“Locker room,” Rolabi called, already ducking through the door.

It was a normal-size door. He just wasn’t a normal-size man.

Reggie followed the others inside, giving the gym a last, whispered Please. They filed into the locker room and perched on the benches ringing the walls, staring up at the professor.

“You are afraid,” Rolabi said matter-of-factly.

Reggie saw a few players exchange quick looks. He could feel the tension too. Everywhere, legs were bouncing, eyes were wide, hands fidgeting. It was a dangerous place to be a fingernail. He was afraid. Reggie had always “disappeared” on game days, and now the hoop had too. He was wondering if he should feign illness or something. What if he couldn’t see the rim on a wide-open layup and he airballed it?

But that too felt outlandish. He had to play ball. This was game day.

“Fear is your opponent today, and every day,” Rolabi said. “Fear empowers us, but only when we meet it. Today you fear your own assumptions. You assume the arrogant are superior.”

“They’re really good—” Lab said.

“They are. And if you fear them before we start, then there is no need to play.”

Rolabi let the silence hang over the room.

“The fear of others is only a reflection of our own self-doubt,” Rolabi continued. “That is a journey you know well. If you bring your weaknesses out there, then you arm your opponent.” He started for the door. “Today you face fear. Defeat it, and the score will reflect your victory.”

“We can do this,” Peño said, jumping to his feet. “Let’s shake up the league.”

Big John stood up and slapped his chest. “We own this house.”

Reggie jumped up too. Adrenaline coursed through him.

“Badgers on three!” Peño said. “One . . . two . . . three . . .”

“Badgers!” Reggie shouted with the rest, throwing his arm up.

He ran out with the team, grinning.

This could be it, he thought, caught up in the excitement. This could be my day.

---

Midway through the third quarter, Reggie hadn’t stepped on the court once. In fairness, he could see why. It was a close game, and Rolabi had trimmed the bench accordingly. Only Big John and Jerome were getting any real minutes from the bench. Vin had played a few possessions, but he had turned over the ball twice to the hard-pressing Eagles, and Peño had gone right back out again, exhausted as he was.

The Eagles were highly favored, which was usual for teams outside the Bottom. They had been wearing their insufferable smirks right until tip-off. But they weren’t smiling now. The Badgers were up by two, and the Eagles were struggling against their well-organized defense—a rapidly shifting zone, which was stifling their high-flying wing players. There were no lobs today. No dunks. There was not much space to work with at all, in fact, and Reggie could see the Eagles players getting frustrated.

He was itching to play, but he knew it wasn’t likely. He watched as Rain made another layup on a backdoor cut. As usual, Rain was playing brilliantly. The game seemed to warp and flow around him like ocean currents swirling around a rock. It was still early, but it already felt like the assumed victory was slipping away from the Eagles. Agitated, they attacked again, swinging the ball along the perimeter. But Rain was ready. He had four steals already, and he pounced for a fifth. Or . . . he tried. His opponent charged into him, colliding shoulder to shoulder, and the ref blew his whistle.

“Foul on number seven, West Bottom Badgers.”

“What?” Rain shouted.

“Bull—” Peño started.

Rolabi turned to him, and Peño instantly fell silent.

Reggie shook his head. That was Rain’s fourth foul, and at least the third questionable call he’d taken—these refs were from another town outside of the Bottom as well, and there seemed to be a very clear bias against the Badgers, and Rain in particular. The bench grumbled.

Barely a minute later, Rain drove into the lane, was hit by another defender, and was called for a charge. The spectators erupted with boos. The Badgers shouted. But Rain was out.

As he stormed over to the bench, still talking to the official, Rolabi called a time-out and gathered the team. Despite their agitation, everyone fell silent as he loomed over them.

“We face many difficult obstacles on the road,” Rolabi said quietly. “At times, all we can control is our own reaction. Fortunately, that is the most important detail of all. And each challenge is a chance to build fortitude. We will need it.” He turned back to the court. “Rain played well. But if our team has but one wheel, we can only drive in circles. Reggie, you’re up.”

Reggie swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Yes, sir.”

“You got this,” Rain said. “Take it home.”

“Right,” Reggie said weakly. “Thanks.”

The team headed back onto the floor, and Reggie fell in behind them. His hands clasped and unclasped at his sides. He tried to breathe. The team needed him. This was his chance to contribute something. He needed to perform. He needed to.

You are so going to blow this, he thought glumly.

Twig patted his shoulder. “Go get it, bro.”

The Badgers fell back into a 3-2 zone as the Eagles inbounded the ball and charged up the court.

The opposing shooting guard was a wiry, agile player named Raj, and Reggie knew right away that he was in trouble. Reggie tried to keep a low, open stance, but Raj was lightning quick, and Reggie struggled to stay with him. After firing off a pass, Raj faked left, and Reggie overstepped to block him. Realizing his error, Reggie tried to recover and go right, but his upper body was still swaying left. Raj got the ball again on the cut, dribbled into the paint, and popped the jumper.

Reggie grimaced and ran up the court. His first play, and he’d blown his coverage.

“Three!” Peño called as he dribbled over half-court.

“No Rain, no chance,” Raj said. “You about to get smoked, boy.”

Reggie flushed. “No we’re not.”

Nice smack talk, Reggie thought. You’re as quick with that as you are on your feet. Ugh. Focus!

The third variation was simple: the shooting guard cut to the basket, using a screen from Twig to get open. But while everyone was watching Rain—Reggie, in this case—Lab crossed along the baseline and hopefully got open for the corner three. It was usually an effective play.

Reggie took off into the paint as planned, using the screen. Raj was right on his shoulder as planned . . . but Reggie was not Rain. The rest of the Eagles paid him no mind whatsoever, and Lab was guarded tight all the way across. So, Peño threw a bounce pass down to Reggie instead.

“Get a bucket!” Peño shouted.

Reggie turned, trying to take the ball to the hoop and hoping desperately that it would be there. It was—but it was the size of Gran’s old wedding band, barely big enough to fit a marble.

“No,” Reggie murmured, feeling his heart sink. “Not now.”

He realized much too late that he wasn’t protecting the ball. Raj stripped it and drove up the court again, and he vaguely heard Lab shouting, “What are you waiting for, Reggie?” Reggie sprinted back, his cheeks blazing, while Raj played a give-and-go and easily laid it in for the tie.

“Take the shot, Reggie!” Peño said.

Reggie felt like he was breathing through cotton. He sprinted up the court again, sparing a quick look at Rolabi—hoping he, at least, might know what grana was doing to Reggie. But the professor just stared back at him, expressionless as always.

Rain was waving him on from the bench. “You got this, Reggie!”

He’s right, Reggie thought. Just relax.

Reggie tried to calm down. But his lungs didn’t listen. They filled and squeezed on their own. His limbs tingled as his blood abandoned them for the bass drum in his chest. Even his eyes seemed to cloud. Everything was moving so fast. The noise was deafening. Shouts and squeaking shoes and calls from his own teammates. He had been in this moment a thousand times in his head. He was here when he was daydreaming at school. He was here when he was shooting rolled-up socks into his trash can. But whenever he got here in a real game, the moment grew beyond him. He was crushed by the weight of it.

He was sure he imagined it, but for a moment, he thought the floor began to tilt inward like a cone, and his shoes seemed to slip along the hardwood. The long fall was waiting for him.

No, he thought firmly. I can do it. I can do it.

Even to him, it sounded more like a plea.

Peño went left this time, getting the ball to Lab on the wing. But it really didn’t matter where the ball started—the Spotlight Offense meant that everyone had to move. Cash stepped out from the block, and Reggie used him as a screen, cutting toward the open free-throw line. Lab saw him and passed the ball. Reggie caught it, then stopped sharply, letting Raj sprint past.

Reggie now had the ball, and space, and a decision. Should he get the ball to Twig, who was still posting up down low? Take the jump shot? Or drive right to the rim for a strong layup?

Reggie couldn’t decide, so he did a bit of each.

He dribbled in a few feet, stopped for a jump shot, and then saw a hand rising up to block him. Stymied, he tried to dump the ball to Twig on the low post. But it was too late. The pass was deflected, stolen, and on its way back up the court before he even had a chance to react. Naturally, Raj got the lead pass and laid it in, giving the Eagles the two-point lead. Reggie felt his guts roiling. He was throwing the game away. He could almost hear his teammates’ thoughts:

Typical bench player.

Give the ball up, stupid!

We need Rain!

And another voice, his voice, said: They’re right. Get back to the bench.

Reggie sprinted up the court, deciding that he would stick to the outside this time and avoid the ball if at all possible. Just a filler. But as Reggie crossed center court, his eyes widened.

“No,” he whispered. “Not now.”

A slow-creeping fog was leaking out from under the packed bleachers, right beneath the feet of the oblivious fans. Tendrils snaked their way across the hardwood like grasping fingers, and the fog began to rise up past his knees. He looked to Twig, almost in desperation, but his closest friend was focused on the game. The fog had come for Reggie alone, and the cool dampness settled on his skin, sending goose bumps and tingles racing up the small of his back.

Please not now, he thought desperately.

More and more fog poured in. Soon, white-gray plumes stretched toward the ceiling, obscuring the entire court, and it became hard to distinguish shapes or colors. Reggie squinted, trying to make out Peño. The sound of a ball dribbling seemed to come from all directions, muted and distant. Reggie wanted to scream in frustration.

“Four!” he heard Peño shout through the gloom.

Four, Reggie thought. Get to the point!

He was supposed to use a screen from Peño, but Reggie missed him in the fog. He stumbled blindly to the top of the circle, searching for Lab, or Twig, or anything. Condensation beaded along Reggie’s arms, joined by salty, nervous sweat. He looked around wildly.

“Hello?” he said.

“Get to the far wing!” someone called.

Reggie spun around, squinting. Did Twig say that? Or Peño?

“Someone support him!”

An Eagles player came cutting out of the mist with the ball and dribbled past Reggie. Instinctively, Reggie chased him, always a step behind, until the player laid it in. The Eagles were now up by six. The mist grew even thicker, like a fading dream. Or a nightmare.

Reggie tried to play through it, but after a few minutes, he decided to avoid the action at all costs. That was easy enough on offense, but less so on D. On that end, his searching hands found only mist, and Raj was past him, laying it up again and again. Numbly, he heard his teammates giving up.

When the final buzzer went off, seemingly hours later, the fog vanished instantly. Reggie doubled over, his hands on his knees, bile rising in his throat. He gagged, trying not to vomit.

“Why is this happening to me?” he whispered.

The Eagles were celebrating nearby: they had won by a comfortable twelve points. His teammates headed for the locker room, scowling, angry, defeated. He almost wished the fog would return to obscure their faces. Rolabi looked at Reggie, who turned away. He’d been unplayable. A complete disaster.

And that, he supposed, was to be expected. But it didn’t lessen his humiliation.

When Reggie joined the team in the locker room, he sat alone, ignoring both the annoyed looks from some players and the half-hearted encouragements from Twig. The lights seemed to dim like windswept candles. The drop ceiling sagged on its aluminum crossbeams. Reggie wondered if grana could be broken. Distorted. If it could, he should have known he would be the one to do it.

Clearly, it couldn’t be controlled. Clearly, Reggie didn’t belong on that court.

Rolabi ducked into the locker room, shut the door behind him, and stood silently in the middle of the room. His presence sent a hush over the team. Then he turned directly to Reggie.

“We are only as strong as our weakest link,” he said. “That is the lesson today.”

This time, Reggie held his gaze. It hurt, but right now, Reggie didn’t want any false sympathy. He didn’t want a pat on the back. He wanted to feel the sting of the truth.

And Rolabi wasn’t done.

“Some people let fear of failure guide them. And in doing so, they fail everyone.”

“I don’t understand,” Peño said.

“The ones who must understand do,” Rolabi replied.

With that, he turned and stormed out of the locker room, letting the door slam behind him. Nobody spoke. Nobody looked at Reggie. Rolabi was right: Reggie understood perfectly.

He’d gotten his chance, and he’d blown it.

He doubted he would ever get another one.