Longshot (14 page)

7:25 a.m.

After a haunting night filled with fear, insomnia, and cold-sweat dreams (I think I changed about six shirts over the course of the night), I'm awakened by a squealing high-pitched radio alarm and wonder where in the name of all that's holy that awful sound is coming from. Then after a second of reflection I realize someone left the radio tuned to 104.3 country. I condemn my alarm to the bloody bowels of hell and slap it off my dresser. I slump out of bed and try to stand, but a blanket is caught between my legs and takes one of my legs out from under me. I fall face flat on the floor. I then very gentlemanly lift myself up and proceed to curse my blankets to hell as well.

8:00 a.m.

I arrive at the Huntsman Center [the university's sports arena] and am the second player in the locker room. I find my own personalized jersey in my own locker and have to sit down and let it soak in. I stare at my jersey and hold it and then realize it has all been worth it.

9:00 a.m.

All the players are out on the court warming up and getting loose for practice. An eerie darkness settles in, and the Empire theme from Star Wars begins to play as Majerus enters the arena, wearing his black shirt with a white EA Sports logo, which reminds me of an eight ball. Before he is even halfway down the steps, he is barking orders, and by the time he steps on the court, several drills
are going on at once. There is one drill station that isn't up and running. Coach sends that assistant coach on sprints (poor Jason Shelton).

9:15 a.m.

I realize that, no, it has not all been worthwhile. I realize this while my team and I are in the fifteenth sprint (down to the far baseline and back) because one of the junior college transfers decided to wear his earring this morning when he arrived at the Huntsman. All told, I think we hit twenty-two sprints.

9:45 a.m.

Coach Majerus talks to us for twenty minutes in the middle of practice and somehow times it perfectly for our legs to stiffen up; then in no time at all he has us running five more sprints. I'm panicking that my kneecap will randomly fall off due to stiffness.

10:05 a.m.

In a conversion defense drill, I fail to pick up the opposing point guard driving into the lane in good time, and Coach stops practice and begins to insult my character and then proceeds to insult my family name, and if that wasn't enough, he further insults my mother and her dignity.

10:07 a.m.

After being totally inconsolable for about two minutes, I realize
Hey, it could be worse, I could be a lanky deaf kid struggling to get by, oh wait…
I then am substituted back into the drill, and this time I succeed in accomplishing the previous wishes of Coach. But then he once again stops practice and begins to yell rather insulting one-liners in my general direction. Then I realize it's me he is talking to, and I have a puzzled look on my face. “Oh, don't throw that bail-out excuse that you can't hear me, Allred!” he yells. More difficult for me than being insulted is trying not to crack a smile in front of Coach. Luckily I succeed, but I now have tooth prints on my tongue.

10:35 a.m.

As I'm currently struggling to hold off Big Nate, our senior six-foot-eleven 270-pounder, I wonder in my mind what Mom will have cooked for me when I get home for lunch.

10:36 a.m.

I manage to hold off Nate. I get the rebound, sprint the fast break, and follow the shot with an offensive rebound put-back. Coach stops practice and begins to praise my “balls of steel.”

10:47 a.m.

My “balls of steel” are violated as they're crushed by my teammate's knee on a rebounding collision.

11:00 a.m.

The women's team comes onto the floor, as they have been granted that time slot. Assuming practice is over, I begin to cry, “Hosanna!” Coach says, “All right, everybody up to the auxiliary gym.” I then cry, “Dammit!”

11:02 a.m.

After sprinting up the tunnel to the gym, we're rather fatigued. We stretch a little. Coach comes barging in with a bagel in his mouth and cream cheese smeared over his cheek, and then decides to give us more sprints. I suddenly come to the realization that I have seen the face of Lucifer himself.

8:30 a.m.

I'm awakened by my biological clock as I have been the previous two mornings, probably because my senses are engulfed in fear and my body is counting the number of hours until practice begins today. Although I'm awake, I am somehow victim to a slight case of amnesia, for I can't remember who I am or where I am for at least twenty seconds. I start to panic, but then my memory comes back. I slowly begin to remember
I'm Lance Allred and I'm a Ute.
I'm calm.
Thank heavens!
I then remember that I'm still in the first week of Majerus preseason. I begin to panic again.
I'm Lance Allred and I'm a Ute.
Four hours to practice.

10:51 a.m.

I try, but I am weak and muster only a feeble attempt to stay awake and alert during my Intro to Psychology class.

Psychology, what a bunch of bullshit.
*

Briefly I'm awakened and notice this hot chick across the aisle. She probably wants me. After dozing off again for about ten minutes I'm zapped awake by the professor when, during his boring
Ferris Bueller
–style lecture, he says the magic word
sex.

To my dismay I realize he is only generalizing male and female. I slouch back down into my seat and doze off into never-never land, my only place of comfort, knowing that practice begins in only an hour and forty minutes.

12:15 p.m.

I'm tying on my basketball shoes when I have a powerful flashback, way back—oh, say, fifteen minutes ago:
I should've asked the girl for her number.

12:16 p.m.

Why am I so lonely?

12:17 p.m.

As I walk onto the floor of the Huntsman, I stand on the out-of-bounds line. Then, before crossing that fine distinct line, I take a deep breath. I exhale. I then recite Psalms 23:4: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me.” I'm comforted.

12:31 p.m.

Coach walks onto the court and says, “Run ten sprints to get loose.” Brilliant.

12:55 p.m.

During a drill of defensive conversion, I set a pick for my point guard and pop out to the three-point line for spacing. My man follows me up there to the three and ignores his duty of help-side defense. Coach stops practice and yells, “Phil! Why the hell would you hug Allred on the three? Is he going to shoot a three-point? Is he a threat?”

“If left open, yes, Coach.”

“Bullshit! Allred, come shoot five threes.”

I'm stunned and shocked. I step up to the line and make two out of five. (The other three—I kid you not—were in and out.)

“See, two out of five left open, that's horrible. Sure, he made two, but did you like those ones he made? I sure didn't.”

I wonder what that was supposed to mean.

2:18 p.m.

During another session of conversion defense, I rebound a defensive board. Then my team breaks it up the court for offense, and my wing gets spaced for an open three and shoots it. It's missed, but alas, I'm there for the rebound. I rip the board down but am off balance and can't find an outlet bail-out pass. So I foolishly jump again and throw a prayer skip pass across the court to my guard, who in the first place should've come to me beforehand and helped me rather than just stand there. I knew as well as everyone else that it was a turnover as soon as I threw it. Immediately as it left my hands I saw the play I had predicted in my mind begin to form into reality. Rather than watching the rest of my apocalypse, I ran toward the baseline ready for the sprints that Coach was going to reward me with, for I knew well that I had performed one of the dumbest actions of my basketball tenure so far. But rather than just giving me the sprints, Coach had everyone come huddle around him.

“Sit down,” Coach says to everyone. “Lance, that was just moronic; no, idiotic; no, I can't even begin to explain. I could've sworn you were a smart kid when I was recruiting you out of East, but maybe East has lower standards than everyone else. That was just ludicrous, idiotic. Mr. Idiot Man is the only thing I can call you to even grasp a glimpse of how stupid that was. Mr. Idiot Man is the only thing appropriate for this action. What a sad, sad thing: Mr. Idiot Man. Mr. Idiot Man.” All the while Coach is talking to me, he has his right middle finger pointing at me in repetitious thrusts, just the way Dad changes the stations on his car radio with his middle finger. Thank you, Coach, I say to myself. Sprints would've sufficed, but this was just as satisfying.

2:31 p.m.

I fumble an outlet pass from my guard as I'm ahead of everyone else on a fast-break conversion drill, and the ball slips from my hands
and out-of-bounds. “Well done, Mr. Idiot Man!” Coach hollers from across the floor. As I looked at him for that brief moment to listen to him from across the floor, I realize I have learned how to hate.

2:47 p.m.

Sweat gets into my ear canal, creating pressure between my eardrums and hearing aids, and I feel the incredible urge, nay need, to yawn. I do my best to refrain, but cannot. I yawn, and Coach sees me, drawing his undivided attention: “Am I boring you, Lance? Is this boring? I'm sorry. Let's make it more interesting. Five sprints. Go!”

What am I supposed to say? Coach, I have a funky inner-ear condition that's caused by the combination of my hearing aids and sweat. I have a yawning problem, people; however it isn't due to lack of oxygen, attention deficit, or lack of sleep.

As I run my sprints, Coach hollers at me from his seat behind one of the sideline hoops, “Up till late partying last night?”

Me? Party? Adding to the fact that my hearing impairment makes me pretty much a vegetable in large gatherings—as I cannot decipher what someone is saying to me if there's too much background noise or more than one person talking, because the tone shifts get tangled up and I lose the rhythm of how the person is speaking—is the fact that I'm also freakishly tall. Can you imagine what it's like to be six-eleven, go to a party or a club, and have people just stare at you and gawk or wait for you to do some circus trick? Yeah, it's no fun. No, Coach, I was at home reading a book last night. I remain silent.

3:07 p.m.

Twenty-three minutes till practice ends. I set a pick for my point guard and roll toward the lane. I receive a pass from him and am able to finish strongly with a dunk. “Hell of a play, Mr. Idiot Man!” comes Coach's voice. Don't know how to interpret, but don't care.

3:24 p.m.

Coach stops practice, has us all huddle around him, and gives us his thought of the day: “Allred, I hope this is your only day that you have to carry the title of Mr. Idiot Man. Hopefully, you never have that embarrassing title again. That would be tragic, Mr. Idiot Man.” He shakes his head at me.

3:30 p.m.

Coach has a creed he lives by: The film never lies.

Coach and I are in his office. He is berating me for a missed block-out, one that I couldn't get to because of a defensive responsibility while covering for my teammate. He sees in my eyes that I want to attest my innocence. “Oh really?” he asks. “Should I have Eric come down and take you into the film room and show you? The film never lies. Are you sure? If I'm right, then you'll have double sprints.”

Seeing that there is so much more to lose than to gain and that it isn't worth it, I decide to just accept my sprints, bitterly reflecting upon the injustice of it all but knowing that, inevitably, life in general isn't fair.

Coach sees that I'm still not happy and calls out, “Eric, bring down that last clip and show Lance what he did wrong and what I want from him next time. And when you two are done, Lance can run his ten sprints.”

Coach Eric Jackson, affectionately referred to as Coach E or simply Eric, quickly obeys, takes the tape from one of two cameras that are always recording, and sprints down the steps. Why two camcorders? For this distinct purpose: while Eric and I are in the film room, another camcorder will be running unattended, and film from both camcorders will be edited, after practice, by Eric, who will then deliver the final copy to Coach at his hotel room, where Coach will watch practice from that day and pick up on any subtle things that he missed or overlooked, and then drill us about them the next day, usually before practice begins.

Coach E shows me the film, and I was right, but it's a lost cause. We walk back out to the court just in time to hear Coach holler, “In the film room.” We filter in and take our seats, Coach in his padded reclining chair in the middle of the room, the rest of us seated on cold metal. Coach has milk and cookies awaiting us. This is his way of showing affection. He truly does love us.

I make the mistake of dipping an Oreo in my milk just as Coach singles me out in the film and asks, “What play is this, Lance?” And I have no idea, because my attention is singled in on the Oreo. It's a deadly game of indulgence versus discipline in the film room.

But the war of indulgences is never as hostile as the one between Coach and his laser lights. Today is no exception as Coach repeats the same routine he always does. “Where is the red thingy—you
know, the pointer?” Coach calls out. He has never learned to call it a laser light.

Coach Strohm hands him the light over his shoulder. Coach fumbles with the light, and then gets irritated and hisses, “This doesn't work.” That's because he is pointing it in the wrong direction, but no one dares say anything. He extends his arm toward the projector screen as though this will somehow help, but all he really needs to do is turn the light around.

Before he notices that the laser is pointing on his shirt, he impatiently tosses the device over his shoulder without looking: “Get me a new one.” This time when Coach Strohm hands him the light he is holding it before Coach in a demonstration of how to properly handle it. It's all too reminiscent of a parent teaching a child how to hold a fork for the first time.

To make things even more painful, Coach Majerus is also narcoleptic. Since he stays up so late watching film, he loses out on much-needed sleep. As I look over from time to time in the dark film room, I can see his eyes rolling up in the back of his head, which is tilting back, slowly, slowly. It hits that point where it lobs, jerking Coach awake. He sits up stern and rigid, at immediate attention. “Who is this!” he calls out, shining the laser light onto the projector.

“That's me, Coach. Lance,” I admit, always saying my name in the dark so he isn't confused.

“You see your stance here, Lance? You like it? Hmm? I don't. Do you?”

“No, Coach.”

“That's why I can't play you.”

Well, Coach, I think to myself, maybe if you hadn't been sleeping the last two minutes of film, you would've seen the great defensive play I made the sequence before.