16

“Mercedes, what is your problem?” Coach said, drawing stares from the rest of Mercedes’s teammates. Coach never called out a player during halftime. But North was eight points behind a smaller, less skilled Carver High team at the half. It was just one game, but in a single-elimination tourney, one loss was all it took to go home. A place Mercedes didn’t want to be. Part of her wanted to be on the court, but Coach had Mercedes parked on the bench.

“I didn’t tell you to sit down,” Coach said. Mercedes stood like a cadet at basic training waiting to be screamed at, humiliated. All deserved.

“You want to play in the second half?” Coach asked in a challenging but not angry tone.

“I don’t know.” Mercedes had never answered anything but “yes” to that question.

“Kat, give me the ball bag!” Coach shouted. Kat tossed the white mesh bag at Coach.

Coach tossed the ball bag toward Mercedes, who let it fall at her feet. “Pick it up!”

Mercedes complied as Coach grasped her end of the bag. “You want to play?” Coach pulled her end of the bag hard. The tough fibers dug into Mercedes’s hands but she hung on. “So your sister got shot. So you don’t think you can play. So everything is a struggle!” The louder Coach yelled, the harder she pulled. The harder she pulled, Mercedes yanked back even harder. The friction of the bag against her skin caused a burning sensation. Her hand was on fire, yet she would not, could not, let go.

“Maybe you’re a loser like your sister! Maybe you belong on that corner!” Coach yelled.

Mercedes gritted her teeth; she felt her muscles tighten like steel cable as she pulled. “You can’t play because you’re struggling. The struggle weighs you down. Let it be, Mercedes.”

Coach tugged hard on the bag; Mercedes yanked back harder. “Let it be, Mercedes!”

Mercedes yelped, released the bag, and crumpled to her knees.

“What do you want, Mercedes?”

“Coach.” Mercedes rose from her knees and stood tall, her torn-up palms open for all to see. “I want the ball.”