“The time when there is no one there to feel sorry for you or to cheer for you is when a player is made.”
—Tim Duncan, a Virgin Islander American, four-time NBA Champion, and three-time NBA Finals MVP
7:43 P.M. [CT]
Lying on his back, Roko can see the crowd in the stands framing the faces of Crispin and Aaron, who are leaning in over him. All of the noise and voices sound muffled to him, like the Spartans had stuffed Roko’s ears with cotton before they rang his bell. Roko doesn’t remember the screen that knocked him flat. He just knows that his teammates have pulled him up to his feet, that there’s a time-out on the floor, and that he’s heading towards the sidelines.
Coach Kennedy is screaming at the ref over the hit that Roko took.
“That should be a flagrant foul! They tried to take his head off!” argues Kennedy.
Dazed, Roko looks up at the scoreboard.
He sees the Trojans trailing 78–73 with 3:18 left to play. And that hurts worse than any pounding in his head.
“Bull, are you all right?” asks Coach Kennedy, as Roko reaches the bench.
Roko tries to nod his head and the pounding intensifies.
So he holds his head and neck completely still, answering, “I’m good, Coach,” as his teammates clear a spot for him and he sits down. “I’ll shake it off.”
A Trojan athletic trainer moves a finger from side to side in front of Roko’s face, asking him to follow it with his eyes. And Roko does.
“Do you know what day it is?” the trainer asks him.
“Yeah, a day for comebacks,” says Roko. “Now it’s our turn.”
The trainer gives Coach Kennedy a thumbs-up on Roko, so Kennedy begins to give his instructions to the team.
Roko tries to listen closely, but he has a hard time concentrating.
It’s all a smattering of words: “… defensive stops . . . shots . . . keep moving the rock …” And over and over again he hears, “McBride . . . McBride . . . McBride.”
Suddenly, Roko is fighting off a strong urge to vomit.
He works hard to give the impression that nothing is wrong, sipping water from a cup. When the team is ready to go back onto the court, Roko gets up from his seat. But now the Superdome is spinning all around him. The wooden floor seems to shift beneath his sneakers, and he drops down to one knee.
“I need a trainer here, fast!” Roko hears Kennedy’s voice, before feeling the coach’s steadying hand upon his shoulder.
I could not sleep well. I woke up very early this morning, before there was sun. It did not matter that it was Saturday. It did not matter that I could stay in bed as long as I wanted. I could find no rest in my mind and heart. The night before, I had no date, and passed on an invitation to a party with my teammates and friends. It was the first Friday night I stayed at home in a long time. I just did not want to celebrate anything. I wanted to be close to my family here—my aunt, uncle, and younger cousins. Today is the anniversary of Uncle Dražen’s death.
It was one year ago that those monster mafia criminals in Croatia put a bomb into his car. They killed him for the dirty stolen money they wanted more of. The money and facts that Uncle Dražen’s newspaper articles talked about. The anger builds up in me that no one has yet paid for this crime. I wish the movie heroes like X-Men were real. Then I could have the Wolverine chase them down like dogs.
Sometimes I scream out curses into the air or smothered into my pillow. I still cannot watch TV shows about crime families. I want to spit on the TV screen when I see old reruns of Tony Soprano’s fat face.
I called my parents in Croatia. They were going to church to light candles for Uncle Dražen’s resting soul in heaven. Only in the last few months has my father put away his gun, thinking the threat on our family is no more. I wish I could go to Uncle Dražen’s newspaper office and sit in the chair he once did. But I can’t. So I went to the Web and visited the home page for his newspaper and read the front page story about his memory. Then I went to YouTube and watched highlights of old Michael Jordan dunks. I remember how they made Uncle Dražen and me smile. I held my basketball tight as I watched. The same ball we played with in Croatia. The same ball I took to the park to show Uncle Dražen that I could dunk. I wish he could be here to read my high school newspaper articles and to see me graduate next month. I wish he could see me play basketball at Troy next year. To see me become a proud Trojan warrior on the basketball court the way he was at being a newspaper reporter.
Early this morning I took that basketball and went to the park courts. It was too early for anyone else to be there on a Saturday. I practiced alone and went through all of the drills Uncle Dražen taught me. I could almost feel him there looking over my shoulder. I could almost hear him saying, “More defense, Roko. Work harder on defense. It is the most important thing.”
I was there alone for maybe a half hour when a boy nine or ten years old showed up with his mother and little sister. His mother took the sister over to the swings and the boy watched me playing from a bench near the court. Soon the boy came over and asked if he could shoot the basketball too. At first I said no. I told him that I needed to practice by myself. He kept watching me from the bench and every time I looked over at him he dropped his eyes down to his shoes. After a while, I felt like the Grinch who stole Christmas morning. So I told him to come over and play. I could see the joy in his eyes every time he let the ball fly at the rim. But his form was not good. Without even thinking about it I started to coach him. I changed the way he held the ball and the way it came off his fingers. Then I showed him how to dribble without looking down at the ball. He started to get better right away. Suddenly, I felt a spark in my heart. I felt like I was giving back a little bit of what Uncle Dražen shared with me.
Then the mother came over to ask if her son was bothering me. I shook my head and told her that we were just two players sharing the court. That made her son really smile wide. Maybe fifteen minutes later the mother called for the boy to go home. I made sure he sank the last shot he took for good luck. Then I gave him a high five before he left. Later on, I realized that I didn’t even know that boy’s name. But that is how friendship happens on a basketball court. Names are not important. Everyone is the same with a basketball in their hands. All you can do is give to the other players, on your team or the other team. All you can do is your best, and that is giving. Playing basketball with that boy this morning made me feel better for the rest of the day. God bless you, Uncle Dražen.