“I have a first and a last name. I’m not just some passerby. I know that some people don’t like this, but they have to understand, no matter how miserable it makes them. There’s room for Europeans (in U.S. basketball).”
—Dražen Petrovic, one of the first European players
to succeed in the NBA, elected to the Hall of Fame
posthumously after his death in a 1993 car accident
7:20 P.M. [CT]
“One, two, three—teamwork!” echoes inside the circle of Trojans as coach Alvin Kennedy, a tall slender black man in his late thirties, breaks the huddle at their bench.
Then, junior Roko Bacic feels a hand on his shoulder.
Kennedy pulls him aside, looks him square in the eye, and says, “This is your time. We thrive on your energy. An extra five minutes is nothing for you. Be that Red Bull.”
“If I’d stopped McBride on that shot, we’d be celebrating right now, cutting down the nets,” says Roko, shaking his head in disgust. “That’s on me.”
“You couldn’t have played any better defense. Just let it go,” says Kennedy, gently shoving Roko onto the court. “You’re the only one that’s got an answer for Malcolm McBride so far. Don’t let him think he’s got something over you. And don’t you believe it, either.”
Walking onto the court with Roko is senior center Crispin Rice and senior forward Aaron Boyce.
“I forget under all this pressure—isn’t basketball supposed to be fun?” Crispin asks in a serious tone, glimpsing his fiancée, Hope Daniels, in the middle of a dance routine. She’s a Troy cheerleader, a stunning blonde with jade eyes and a sleek athletic body.
Before Roko can respond, Aaron, a native of New Orleans, who has more than thirty relatives and friends attending the game, points into the stands and says, “Nah, it’s their job to have all the fun. We get to sweat it out under the microscope.”
“I’m with Aaron. His family practically owns this Superdome tonight,” Roko tells Crispin. “Just play loose. Your stroke will come back, C-Rice.”
Then Roko swallows hard, before letting go of a long belchhhh.
The night before, Aaron’s mother had the entire Troy team and coaching staff—nearly twenty people—over to her house for dinner. She served crawfish, gumbo, and red beans and rice. For some of the players, including Roko, it was their first taste of Cajun cooking.
“Son, what’s your teammate writing down in that little notebook of his, my dinner menu?” Roko had heard Aaron’s mother asking about him.
“He’s a journalism major, Ma,” answered Aaron, sitting a few seats away from Roko at the kitchen table. “The Red Bull’s always writing something in that book. He’s practicing to be a reporter one day.”
“So Mr. Red Bull Reporter, let me ask you a question,” said Aaron’s mother, setting down another platter of crawfish. “I know you’re from Europe. How do you like that southern-style food they serve in Troy, Alabama?”
“I won’t lie. It took my stomach some getting used to. But I’ve got a taste for grits now,” answered Roko. “And I like the way they deep-fry everything, even the Snickers bars.”
“Deep-fried candy? Well, N’awlins cooking is a different animal,” she said. “It’ll get your motor running hot for sure, so be careful. It’s spicy enough to have you sweating before the big game.”
“I’m feeling the heat already,” said Roko, using a hand to fan his open mouth. “I didn’t know there was hot pepper baked inside the biscuits, not until I ate three.”
“That’s jalapeño bread. We’re full of warm little surprises down here,” she said. “See, we don’t have guests to our homes, just extended family. So if there’s anything you need, you come straight to me—your brother’s mother. You hear?”
Roko nodded his head, copying down a few of her words before he shut his notebook.
There wasn’t enough space or chairs in the kitchen for everyone. So people were eating in almost every room of the small house and out on the front porch, too. But when Coach Kennedy made a speech in the living room, everyone did their best to cram inside or into the doorways at either end.
“When I banned cell phones and iPods from our trip to the Final Four, the idea was that it would bring us closer together. That we’d be talking and listening to each other a lot more, like a family,” said Kennedy. “Mrs. Boyce’s hospitality tonight has really reinforced that. Now we have a home and not just a hotel. I think she deserves a round of applause.”
Near the end of the clapping and cheers, Aaron announced, “There’s one more family thing. It was Ma’s idea. Since Roko’s parents couldn’t make it from Croatia, my aunt and uncle agreed to take their place. Come on in!”
The pair made their way into the living room wearing curly red wigs.
“They’ll be the only black people at the game with bright red hair!” Aaron told Roko, over a wave of laughter. “They’re your new peeps!”
“It’s like looking into a mirror,” Roko said with a huge smile across his face, before he hugged them both.
And right now, as Roko gets into position on the court beside Malcolm McBride, he finds his surrogate family in the stands behind the Troy bench and gives them a big thumbs-up. But somehow, instead of making Roko feel better, it only makes him miss his real family even more.
April 18 (Grade 9)
Important note–this is a journal not a diary. A diary is for girls and their heartaches of love. I have no heart troubles yet because I do not have a girlfriend that is steady. This is my first time writing in a journal. I am starting in high school first year. My uncle Dražen said I have opinions worth something now. But not cash money. This journal is his idea.
He is a writer for his job. He is a journalist at a newspaper here in Zagreb–capital city of Croatia. Uncle Dražen said I should write in English. For many more people can understand my words on future dates. I study English since grade 4. The vocabulary of mine is getting stronger and better every day. I see US movies like The Departed, Friday Night Lights, Kill Bill. I hear US music also. Songs by Slim Shady and Snoop Dogg. So I know how the English language sounds for real–street real. Not like the fake Harry Potter from the English of England. I call wizard Harry Potter fake because no magic words can change things. That is the lesson you learn in Croatia past schooltime–wishes and words mean nothing.
How to start in my journal? Uncle Dražen said from the beginning of my memory to now. Okay. First thing I know from when I am very young is war. In some days before grade one I am playing alone outside my house. From nowhere there is siren and whistling sounds through the clouds and air to my ears. One shell explodes on a street close by. After that I am upside down flying, very scared, crying for my mother. But it is my mother that grabbed me. She is carrying me to the basement of my neighbor for safe shelter from shells. I sleep that night on the floor in basement with no bathroom.
Now here is my good opinion worth something–yesterday, today, tomorrow is the same. It is like a quiet war. End of Croatia Independence War in 1995, my schoolbook states as fact. Big lie. Only true parts: No more warning sirens. No more shells. No more hiding in shelters in basements with neighbors. But war is still here in Croatia. Every day to night. War is left over. How? Much less tourists travel to here for vacation time to spend money. Few good jobs. Much drinking and drugs. War is poor people fighting for $$$. The factory job for my father? Open! Closed! Open! Closed! That is today.
But there is good things in my life too. Uncle Dražen lives in our house now with me, my mother, my father. My uncle has no spouse or child yet so I am like his son. He teaches me to play basketball–shoot, dribble, pass, defense. Always more defense. Uncle Dražen beat me last time we play 15 to 12. Future I want to play for my high school team. I practice very much with my friends after school, homework, house chores. I am almost 6 feet in height. But more inches are needed. Uncle Dražen said size of the heart is more important than inches for basketball. Each Saturday we get up at 4 o’clock in morning to watch Kobe, LeBron, D-Wade play in NBA on satellite TV. But the very best is past Michael Jordan highlight dunks on YouTube. He is king of mad hops. I bow down to him. Even if he is retired and old. For now I can only touch the official 10 foot rim. My father said basketball is for child not man. He said enjoy while I still can, and he laugh at Uncle Dražen for spending so much time on sport. One day I will dunk. When I possess more inches and more heart. I will do this before I am a grown man with family to worry for.
September 14 (Grade 10)
My lifelong dream has become true. I made my high school basketball team. Two days past I went to the first tryout in our gymnasium. I was sweating an ocean of saltwater even before the tryout begins. There were 37 hopeful players to fill up just 13 spots for the roster. But 10 of those spots were taken up automatic by returning players from last year. That meant my chances were very poor. I missed the only two shots I took. Clank! Clank! All nerves and no shooting touch. But on defense I played against the senior all-star guard with more inches and muscles than me. I was not embarrassed by him and was able to keep him always within my arms reach.
I did not sleep a wink later that night. Like I only knew an alphabet without the ZZZZZs. I made no journal entry so I would not have to read it forever if I got cut. Uncle Dražen could see I was uptight and did not push me for details. The next day at school I am on the list of players making the first cut–from 37 down to 20. At the second tryout my defense is even better. I also made three of three shots and know that God heard my praying and guided the most difficult one into the basket. Again I had little sleep. Only this time for excitement because I know I played well. Uncle Dražen could see it in my eyes. He patted me on the back and said, “It is beautiful to feel so alive for something.”
This morning I walked up to the list with my eyes closed. Then I opened them with two sets of fingers crossed. Hooray! Props to me! My name is printed number 12 of 13 in the coach’s own writing. All day long school is a joy. Nothing can bring me down. At home my father shakes my hand warning that studying and chores must always come first. Uncle Dražen kisses my cheek saying he will sweep the yard every day in my place in exchange for tickets to my first professional game. When my uniform comes I will sleep in it. I will wear it under my street clothes. I have already told my mother that I will wash it myself by hand–never to let it out of my sight.
November 15 (Grade 10)
Today I made my first dunk on the official height rim during basketball practice at school. It was 10 feet of rim vs. 6 foot 2 inches of me. No problem! The sound of the basket shaking was like beautiful music to my ears. It pumped me up more than any Jay-Z beat. And I smiled after dunking for a long time without stopping until my cheeks felt sore.
When I returned home my father shook my hand and told me now I can concentrate on real life. So I waited for Uncle Dražen to arrive from his job. I dragged him to the hoops at the public park in the cold to show off. He took a picture of my new dunk skills on his cell phone and saved it to his wallpaper. We celebrated with high fives and caramel custard. He has not won against me in games of one-on-one for a while now. But I do not rub it into his face.
December 1 (Grade 10)
Yes!!! Now I will have money for dates. Uncle Dražen fixed me for Saturday work at his newspaper. My job is to load the big bundles of papers into the trucks for delivering. He said to me, “It is a job that a teenage boy can handle because your mind can be on 20 different things at one time and still do it right.”
I need the money because girls such as Rosa, Teresa, and even hot-legs Valeria look at me now–and not just like a skinny scarecrow. They see me wear my team jacket and sweat suit everywhere. Those clothes are babe magnets to the highest degree, even more important than a car.
January 13 (Grade 10)
There was another gang attack in my school today. It happened in a classroom with the teacher present. I was not there. But others said four thugs from our own school ran into the room and beat Baldo M. until his head began to bleed. All because he bought a long knife from one of them and didn’t pay on time. Funnysad–it is more dangerous to have a weapon than not. That is why I do not carry one.
The gangs leave me alone because I wear the same team jacket as others. Having teammates is protection. Even my father agrees this is a worthy point of playing basketball.
Today we lost the high school championship game of Zagreb by many points. Too many points for me to write down forever in ink. It was the big smackdown and blowout. We were punked to the max! There is sadness, sorrow, and shameful heads hanging down with all of my teammates and me. I wear #23 for Michael Jordan. But my talent is not up to his number. My heart is not strong enough to be a champion yet.
All basketball season my playing time grew to more and more minutes, being on the court and off the bench. So I am at least happy for that. Uncle Dražen came to clap for me, and give advice like a second coach. He is also a second father in my life which means much more. He said there would be a story about the game in his newspaper. My first time in a newspaper and I will not want to read it because we lost by so much. Tough shits on me!!!
February 16 (Grade 10)
Uncle Dražen has two victories to celebrate today. One of his stories about criminal organizations in Croatia is on the front page again. He has the heart to tell the truth and point finger to Fat Tony Soprano mobsters and crime family of Zagreb. They rip off hardworking people, little by little to add up their loot. The headlines on front pages have my uncle’s name. I see it thousands of times on Saturdays before the papers leave by trucks.
Uncle Dražen’s new job of editor is also an official victory now. It comes with a money raise but also another price tag. Letters and phone calls come to his office with violent threats for the truth he writes about. He told me basketball and writing is not for scared little mice. That when you lose the courage to say what you are thinking you will have nothing left. Uncle Dražen has the heart I want to grow inside of me. It is the champion’s heart. He is the Michael Jordan of newspaper writing.