“At least on the basketball court [growing up] I could find a community of sorts, with an inner life all its own.”
—Barack Obama, the forty-fourth president of the United States
7:48 P.M. [CT]
MJ is shadowing his man on defense. Out of the corner of his eye, he checks the game clock. There’s just 2:43 to go, with Michigan State still in front by five points. MJ is used to watching the final minutes of a big game from the Spartans’ bench. He’s used to seeing the backside of Coach Barker stalk the sidelines, not the front of him. And whenever his team had the lead, MJ would wish for the seconds to tick off faster. But now that MJ is on the court and contributing, he’s in no hurry to push time ahead.
The Trojans are running a set play, and there is heavy traffic at the top of the key.
As a trio of Trojans crisscross, trying to lose their defenders behind multiple screens, MJ hears Malcolm holler, “Switch with me! Switch off!”
So instead of chasing his man through the stream of bodies, MJ stays put.
He picks up Malcolm’s man moving towards him.
Then Malcolm switches onto MJ’s man, running in his direction.
The defensive changes happen quick and seamlessly.
“Stay there for now!” Malcolm shouts.
“Got it!” counters MJ.
And suddenly, a part of MJ feels like he’s been playing side by side with Malcolm all of his life.
The Spartans continue to blanket the Trojans, who can’t find an open shot.
With the thirty-five-second shot clock winding down on them, the Trojans try to force the action. But the Spartans strip the ball away.
It’s rolling loose.
MJ sees it heading out of bounds off of Baby Bear. He sprints after the rock, diving through the air for it as he reaches the sideline.
He tries to save the ball, but can’t.
MJ goes flying into the opposing bench, with the Trojans’ reserves, including a recuperating Red Bull, forced to scatter. He finds himself draped over one of their chairs, off balance, and almost sitting down in it. Then he grasps a teammate’s hand, pulls himself up, and gets back onto the court as fast as he can.
NOVEMBER, FOUR MONTHS AGO
After MJ and Malcolm had run ninety-seven sets of steps side by side, Coach Barker gave them a little wave and a grin as he headed for the gym door.
“How many left?” Barker called to them over his shoulder.
“Thirteen,” answered MJ between short panting breaths.
“Well, you boys keep on climbing. I’ll see you both at practice tomorrow,” said Barker. “And no more fighting. Like I tell you before every game we play, be the agitator, not the retaliator. There are always penalties for retaliation.”
Less than a minute after Barker left, Malcolm told MJ, “I’d quit early, right here. But I know you’re going to finish every last one. And I’m not about to let you say that you beat me at anything.”
“How am I going to beat you?” asked MJ. “We’re supposed to be running these steps together.”
“Not anymore,” said Malcolm, sprinting away and leaving MJ to finish the punishment on his own. “See ya! Wouldn’t wanna be ya!”
MJ wouldn’t chase after him, and just kept his own steady pace. Besides, Malcolm was wearing sweatpants, while MJ had on jeans that were getting heavy with sweat and chafing at both of his knees.
By the time MJ finished and got back to their dorm room, Malcolm was already stretched out on his bed watching the Cartoon Network, with an ice pack on his lower lip.
“I guess you got the workout you wanted tonight,” said MJ, heading straight for his laptop and the pile of books on his desk without even changing his wet clothes. “I’ve still got exams to study for and a reaction paper to plan out.”
“You know, I’ve heard that exercise opens up the studying part of your brain,” said Malcolm, with any bad blood seemingly behind him. “Too bad you’re busy with all of that. It would have been a good time for you to tutor me in black history.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’d want to do right now—tutor you,” said MJ.
“What the hell is a reaction paper anyway?” asked Malcolm, hitting the mute button on the remote.
“Like that’s really important to you,” said MJ, flipping open the laptop and pressing the power button. “But if you have to know, it’s a short paper, just a page or two. It’s exactly what it sounds like: your reaction to something. I’m doing one on basketball for my sociology class.”
“So what are you complaining about? That’s no work,” said Malcolm. “You write down how to dribble and shoot. Not that you’d really know how, especially foul shots. If you did, we wouldn’t have had to run so many of those damn stairs. But you could ask me about it, and I’d tutor you.”
“It’s not about any of that,” said MJ, still standing beside his desk. “I’m going to write how street ball is all social.”
“Street ball is social?” mocked Malcolm. “Maybe in that pansy-ass Dearborn where you’re from, where it’s soft. Because with that thought in your head, I know you never played on the streets of Detroit.”
“First of all, I didn’t have it soft. I didn’t even have a blood-father around to steer me straight on man-stuff, just a stepdad who was too busy with his own kids. And street ball’s street ball no matter where you play. It’s all about society. The players on the court practically create one of their own without a ref there. They make the rules, negotiate calls, choose sides. You should know that,” said MJ. “President Obama grew up playing street ball. And he says flat out that it helped him to develop all kinds of social skills that he uses today.”
“Yeah, where’d he grow up playing?” asked Malcolm, getting up to pull a tray of ice from the freezer in the mini-fridge.
“Hawaii.”
“Are you serious? What was going to happen to him on the streets there? Was some tourist in a flowered shirt going to slap his ass with a pineapple? I should have known this was about you and Obama,” said Malcolm. “I think you’re in love with that brother, like you got some kind of man crush on him.”
“What, I shouldn’t look up to a black man who became president?” snapped MJ. “Who the hell should be my hero then? You?”
“How about the dude you’re named after?” Malcolm shot back. “He’s the greatest baller of all time. He’s got mega-bucks, and his own sneaker brand.”
“That kind of fame’s not everything.”
“Obama’s not even the greatest president ever. His face isn’t carved out in stone on that mountain, and his picture’s not on any money,” said Malcolm, flexing the ice tray until a row of cubes popped free.
“I hear enough about Jordan every day with this name. I don’t need to think about him any more than that.”
“I just think you’re jealous because you can’t live up to his skills,” said Malcolm. “I think you should legally change your name to Barack Obama.”
“And that would be easier for me?”
“Hey, I’ve seen enough of your game to know you’ve got a better chance of becoming president than the greatest basketball player that ever lived,” answered Malcolm, putting more ice cubes into the pack.
“I’ll just keep this name. I’m used to it now.”
“If Michael Jordan was my name, I wouldn’t complain about it.”
“You wouldn’t?”
“No, it would put everybody’s eyes on me, and make me practice even harder.”
“Not me,” said MJ, finally sitting down at his desk and pulling a book from the middle of the pile.
“When I was fifteen, the cops nailed me for drinking beer on a street corner. I didn’t have any ID. So when they asked my name, I tried to scramble for a fake one fast. I think Michael Jordan must have been on my brain, because I said something like Michael Jenkins or Michael Johnson,” said Malcolm.
“Did you get away with it?” asked MJ, his eyes glued to the computer screen in front of him.
“Nah, they knew straight off. They made me write it down, along with my phone number and address, and I spelled ‘Michael’ wrong. I put the e before the a.”
“That’s brutal. No wonder you need a tutor.”
“My pops was pissed when the cops told him I tried to use a fake name.”
“Why?”
“He told me, ‘Son, the only thing I have for sure to give you in this life is your name. I went and named you Malcolm for a reason, after Malcolm X. So don’t throw it away, and don’t disgrace it.’”
“I didn’t know you were named after X,” said MJ, turning to look at Malcolm.
“Well, I am,” said Malcolm. “You know what you need, if you can’t handle all of that Jordan jazz?”
“What’s that?”
“A middle name to break it up,” said Malcolm, surfing channels with the sound still off.
“I’ve already got one. It’s Jeffrey.”
“Then that’s what you should call yourself—Michael Jeffrey Jordan,” said Malcolm, before stretching himself out on his bed again, and pressing the ice bag back to his lower lip.
“There’s only one problem,” said MJ, behind a half-smile. “That’s Michael Jordan’s middle name, too. Like I told you, my father was his biggest fan.”
LIVE RADIO BROADCAST OF THE GAME
7:49 P.M. [CT]
There are three broadcasters: a play-by-play man, a color commentator, and sideline reporter Rachel Adams.
Play-by-Play Man: A terrific attempt by Michigan State’s Michael Jordan at trying to save that loose ball, diving into the Troy bench.
Color Commentator: It was just too far out of reach. But this young buck embodies the word hustle.
Play-by-Play Man: As Jordan’s teammates help him back onto the court, let’s quickly reset the particulars here in double overtime. The Spartans hold a five-point advantage, with two-eighteen remaining on the game clock. Trojans’ possession. Just seven seconds left on the shot clock. At stake, a trip to the National Championship Game against either Duke or North Carolina on this floor two nights from now.
Color Commentator: And now at the mouth of the tunnel leading back to the locker rooms, you can see two different shades of blue as the players from both Duke and Carolina gather in separate corners, waiting for this contest to end. Their game should have started nearly twenty minutes ago, but it’s been pushed back by the two overtimes. Yes, they want to witness who wins this Trojan War. But I can guarantee you, they’ve been pacing their locker rooms like caged lions waiting to get out here. I know. As a player, I’ve been in that situation before.
Play-by-Play Man: The Trojans inbound the ball. Remember, they are without their floor general, Roko Bacic, who went to the bench after a devastating screen set by Baby Bear Wilkins. The shot clock now a nemesis for Troy. It’s down to four seconds. A Trojan shot from the corner. It’s off the mark. Michigan State has the ball and a chance to really stretch their lead.
Color Commentator: Troy isn’t the same team on offense or defense without the Red Bull. If the Spartans score here, a seven- or eight-point deficit might be too much for the shorthanded Trojans to overcome.
Play-by-Play Man: The Michigan State fans are on their feet here in the Superdome. They’re really bringing the noise. McBride on the dribble. He slips past his man. A fourteen-footer from the left side. It’s off the rim, no good. Crispin Rice rebounds for the Trojans. That quiets the fans in green. We’re down to a minute thirty-seven on the clock.
Color Commentator: Big-time players are supposed to make that kind of open shot, especially under these circumstances, to put a game like this out of reach. I’ve got plenty of respect for the political statement Malcolm McBride made yesterday. But I wonder if the weight of his words, along with all of that hype we heard from him about blowing Troy out of the building, has him thinking too much out there.
Play-by-Play Man: So you agree with some of his economic comments about the state of college basketball?
Color Commentator: I do. (Clearing his throat with a small cough) I just didn’t think it was the proper forum to make them, taking the focus away from some of the players around him who worked their butts off to get here. But once it’s out, you can’t put the toothpaste back into the tube.
Play-by-Play Man: Troy advancing the basketball. They run the high pick-and-roll screen with Rice. He shoots. The ball rattles around the rim and falls home. The Trojans have cut the lead to three points, seventy-eight to seventy-five, with a minute and twelve to go! Let’s get a quick update from our Rachel Adams, stationed courtside.
Rachel Adams: (Speaking hurriedly) Roko Bacic has been literally tugging at the coat sleeve of Alvin Kennedy on the Trojan bench, attempting to get himself back into the game. And he’s been talking to his coach nonstop as Kennedy walks the sidelines. But the Troy coach has yet to budge, probably over concerns that Bacic could have a slight concussion.
Play-by-Play Man: Michigan State running some time off the clock. The ball moves from Cousins inside to Jordan outside, now Jordan to McBride. Malcolm McBride takes his defender off the dribble. A running floater in the lane. Boyce a hand in McBride’s face. McBride nailed it! He nailed it with Boyce hanging all over him! It’s back to a five-point spread, eighty to seventy-five, Spartans on top!
Color Commentator: Clutch shot by McBride. Sometimes it’s easy to forget he’s just a year removed from high school, still waiting to turn nineteen. Of course, we wouldn’t be in these overtimes if he didn’t send us here with that incredible shot at the end of regulation. But that seems like ancient history now.
Play-by-Play Man: Ancient history, yes. That was nearly ten minutes of game clock ago. So much has happened since. Right now fifty-three seconds remain in double overtime. The Trojan faithful in red are imploring their team to score. Coach Kennedy is spinning his hand in a circle on the sideline, asking his team to play faster. The Red Bull is on his feet, too, behind Kennedy, cheering his teammates on.
Color Commentator: It’s just superior defense by the Spartans without the threat of the Bull to break them down.
Play-by-Play Man: It’s stifling the Trojan offense. Rice has to force up a shot. It’s no good. Offensive rebound, Boyce. He puts it up and scores! The Trojans won’t go away. They’re within three points again at eighty to seventy-seven!
Color Commentator: Aaron Boyce has already defeated Hurricane Katrina here. So he should have no fear of the mighty Spartans.
Play-by-Play Man: Just thirty-eight seconds to play. The Spartans can run the thirty-five-second shot clock completely down, leaving Troy only three seconds to spare. Troy can’t stop the clock.
Color Commentator: That’s right. The Trojans used their time-out when the Bull got shaken up, trying to keep him on the court. But if the Spartans score, it could be over.
Play-by-Play Man: Coach Eddie Barker, who must have nearly no voice left at all, is pushing both palms down, telling his team to take it slow.
Color Commentator: The Spartans hold all of the cards at this point. They just need to execute.
Play-by-Play Man: McBride in a holding pattern with his dribble. The shot clock down to twelve seconds.
Color Commentator: Sometimes it’s too stagnant with the ball just in the hands of McBride.
Play-by-Play Man: Seven seconds to shoot. Ten on the game clock. Now McBride makes his move. Several Trojans converge on him. McBride finally forced to kick the ball to a wide-open Wilkins from the elbow of the foul line. It doesn’t go! Boyce rebounds for the Trojans. He dribbles out of the pack. Three seconds. Two seconds. Boyce lets it fly from just past half-court! Oh! It’s good! It’s good! Can you believe that? Aaron Boyce has just tied this game for Troy and sent us into a third overtime! Unbelievable! A portion of this Superdome is wild with exuberance! Another portion of it completely stunned!
Color Commentator: No matter what transpires in the remainder of this game, I think it’s time for someone to say, “Instant classic!”