Pull (7 page)

The Ballard coaches lose it. Their senior center called for a charge late? For his fifth? Their head coach storms almost out to mid-court, eyes bulging in rage. I can't hear over the boos of the crowd, but I'm pretty sure I lip-read a couple f-bombs. The ref spins toward him, ready to jack the coach up with a T, but his assistants drag him back to the bench before things get worse.

While Ballard regroups and finds a sub for Lacy, Coach Bolden huddles us on the sideline. “Listen up!” he shouts. “That play means nothing if we don't keep pushing. We're still down three. Let's get a good look here. And when they get the ball back, we're doubling May everywhere. I don't care if he catches it 40 feet out. Double.” Then he snaps his fingers angrily at Coach Murphy, who fetches the whiteboard.
I peek at Stanford, who smiles. He's been around long enough to know that when Bolden starts ordering Murphy around like that, the old man's feeling salty. Bolden thinks we've got 'em. He quickly draws up a set. It's a cross-screen to free Stanford, since Lacy's sub will be checking him. “Don't force it,” he snaps. “If it's not there, iso Derrick on the wing and then space around him.” Then he looks at me. “Don't you force it either. If the defense jumps at you, find a shooter.”

One of the refs intrudes on our huddle, tells us we have to move. Ballard's sub checks in, and it's back on. We run Coach's set. Fuller looks to Stanford low. He gets it to him, but Stanford mishandles the pass and has to leave the block to reel it in. He's fifteen feet out now, back to the basket. It's not there. He squints in concentration and starts to back his man down. Forcing it. I race to the wing and call for the rock. Stanford takes one more dribble, but then relents. He kicks to me and I back it out. I eye the scoreboard—two and change left—but as I do, my man motions toward May for a switch. So now I've got a freshman on me—only it's the best freshman in the land, and at 6′5″ one I can't just shake and shoot over.
Fine.
Bring him. Best on best.

I size May up. A couple jabs left. A quick cross to my right. He barely moves. His range means he can challenge my pull-up or try to flick the ball away on a drive, without reacting to every little fake. So I just
go
. I shudder to my left, then rip right—leaving May guarding air and wondering why he never saw moves like that in middle school. I jump-stop in the paint. Draw the D. Rise. But at the last instant, I do the right thing. Reynolds is all alone in the corner. I put it on the money to him, and he's got a sweet look at a three.

Money
. Ballard's crowd sits. Their players hang their heads. The
only noise in the gym is the ruckus of our small crowd and Bolden stomping his feet and screaming: “Back! Get back on D!”

We do, but I've got one more surprise left for Ballard's point. As soon as he nears mid-court, I sprint at him. He picks it up, wanting no piece of my pressure. And as soon as he does, I jump back into the passing lane. He's stranded. The ten-count keeps ticking, and now Reynolds and Fuller dig into their men. I can read the thought process on that point's face. He stares at May, thinking his best out is to lob it to him. I bail hard toward May. I arrive with the pass. Since I've got some momentum and May is standing still, I outleap him for it.

Fuller and Reynolds fill the wings. I push the other way. This time though, I'm not giving it up. I race it right up on that point. He just raises his hands, hoping for a cheap charge. I'm around him easily. This time I add a little sugar—cocking that rock behind my ear before throwing it down.

Another Ballard timeout, but everyone knows they're dead. When they break, they try to work through May, but we follow Coach's plan—double, double, double. They miss a trey. May forces and misses. Then forces again. And we ice it at the stripe.

That's a serious win. A comeback on the road against some big-time talent. And, yeah, I made some plays when we needed it, but Reynolds and Jones stepped up too. Those were the question marks coming in—could Reynolds step up? Could Jones replace Moose's bulk in the post? Things are coming together.

I speed through my shower, pack my gear and hit the bus. When I climb those steps, Coach Bolden is waiting on me. He's always there,
win or lose, to throw a few words at each player, even if it's just a quick
Good game
. But when he sees me, he points at the seat behind him. Always obedient, I slide in and wait for Coach as he says his few words to all the other guys filing on. But the whole time I'm anxious. Can he really be mad at me now? It's like no matter how hard I try, the guy just demands more.

Finally the whole team's on. Coach signals the driver. The engine roars to life and we start the drive to the hotel. Coach doesn't waste any time. He digs the stat sheet out of his pocket and hands it back to me. He points to my line. “Tell me what you think,” he says.

What I think is that it's pretty impressive—3 steals, 8 rips, 9 assists, and 27 points on only 14 shots. That's a killer line, really. But I know Coach. He wants me to dig out the negative, even now. “Too many turnovers,” I say. It's only four, which isn't a nightmare, but I have to give him something.

To my amazement, Coach shrugs. “Well, you can always cut down on turnovers. But I'd have to be one mean S.O.B. to gripe after that.”

Bolden takes the stats back from me. As the lights from the Ballard gymnasium fade behind us, Coach wads up the stat sheet. He flicks it in the air. I follow its arc to see it just miss Murphy in the seat across from him. Behind us, the whole team's in celebration mode. Stanford, I can tell, is in the middle of an exaggerated boast, Reynolds and Fuller are cracking up beside him. Jones keeps trying to shout Stanford down. The younger guys are soaking it all in, basking in the afterglow of a big win. Bolden leans over to me. “I've never been much of a numbers guy,” he says. “But when I see that”—he points to the players, everyone living it up—“I know my point guard's done his job.”

9.

Mid-December and things are cranking. After beating Ballard, we just went ahead and won the championship of that tourney, then ripped into Cathedral last night. So just as the temps are dipping lower and lower, the boys at Marion East are heating up. Later tonight we've got St. Joseph all the way down from South Bend in our gym. I can feel it. We're gonna wreck them.

Right now, it's like old times at my house. Jayson's got the afternoon game on, a Big Ten-ACC showdown between Minnesota and Clemson. Used to be I'd just settle in and check it for the sake of the game. Now I picture the mailers from both squads, think about the texts I've got from the coaches on those benches. Minnesota I don't feel, even though they're a Big Ten squad. I mean, I walk out my front door and it's cold enough. I don't need it any colder. Clemson? I never thought much about them until I started getting contacted, but they're intriguing. It's a long way from home. They're not exactly the big boys of the ACC. But then that's part of the appeal. Start fresh, go someplace where I could knock off Carolina and Duke. Because if you go to those
places or to someplace like Syracuse, there's nothing special in winning the ACC. It's been done. But, man, suit up for Clemson and lead them to glory? They'd probably name the arena after you. Anyway, it's not like I'm making up my mind any time soon. Just thinking.

But there's not much space for thinking in this house. Jayson's got the set blasting, but the real noise is coming from Uncle Kid. And it's not because he's up to no good. Nope. Like always, he's over on a Saturday before a game, but this time he brought company. In the past, that's meant shady friends who set my dad on edge, but this time Kid's got himself a woman. Not just any woman. She sits, legs crossed, at our kitchen table, one heel dangling off her foot just an inch. Her pants are tight but not too much—just enough to turn heads without seeming sleazy—and she's got a bright red sweater hugging her curves. When she smiles—which she does all the time—her eyes light up and her face turns girlish. She's got to be a good ten years younger than Kid. Her name's April, and it fits. She's pouring pure sunshine into our house on a bitter day.

At the table, my parents pepper April with questions. “So what do you do?” Mom asks.

April smiles again. More sunshine. Even my mom, always skeptical, is taken in by her. “I'm a nurse at Methodist. In oncology.” She sees my mom's face tighten at that last word, but she just smiles again. “It's no picnic some days. We see people that are really hurting. And some who aren't going to make it. But that's why I figure it's so important to show up every day in good spirits. I feel like I have to be in a good mood for them. And then sometimes we see people on the days when the doctor has good news for them. That makes it all worth it.”

Impressed, Mom leans back. Then she glances at Kid and folds
her arms. I can see her wheels spinning. She's not sure what, but she's pretty sure Kid's been selling April some lies.

“How did you two meet?” Dad asks. There's a catch in his throat as he says it, an uncomfortable sound. Anyone could tell what he's really wanting to know is not how they
met
but how two people like them could get
together
.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, big brother,” Kid says. Then he laughs, easy with the whole thing. April reaches over and puts her hand on Kid's knee. It's a little gesture. Not like some big passionate embrace. But it's one of those things people do when they're comfortable with each other. And that's the thing—this is the first we've met April, but already she and Kid seem like they're a couple through and through. I mean, as far as I knew, Kid was just still scouting for easies on the weekends. “Back when you”—he points to Dad—“were in the hospital, we kept bumping into each other in the cafeteria. Then we met a month ago at St. Elmo's. We were both there with some friends and were getting a drink afterwards.”

Now we're all skeptical. St. Elmo's? That place takes coin. Uncle Kid is making decent money bartending, but no way is he affording that place. Then there's his new ride. All the new threads he's been sporting. I see my dad give a half-smile that fades into a look of concern.
Same old Kid
, he seems to be thinking.

Kid must sense it, because he pops up from the table. “Anyway, that was the beginning.” He winks at April. “All good since then.”

April smiles back, but then looks away real quick like she's slightly embarrassed. That move—the smile then lookaway—reminds me for a flash of Lia Stone. The thought of her sets my pulse racing
the way Jasmine used to. “Babe,” April coos, “would you mind getting me a glass of something cold to drink? I feel a little hot with this third degree.” She says it like syrup though. That, way more than Kid bouncing nervously from the table, defuses everything. My parents lean back and laugh. They apologize for grilling April. She just smiles like it's not a thing at all.

And Kid, happy to be off the hook, cracks the fridge like he owns it. “We've got Coke and orange juice and”—he rifles around for a second—“some lemonade it looks like.”

April's eyes brighten. “Lemonade, babe.”

“You got it, girl.” Kid pours her a tall glass with ice. He does it with a little flourish, raising the pitcher high over the glass so the lemonade cascades down. Then he serves it to her, along with a little brush of his hand along her shoulders. We all just watch. They're on their own planet right now, like this has been their kitchen and their house all along, while we're just guests intruding on their leisurely lovers' Saturday.

I'm watching all this from the couch, my attention cycling between that and the game. Jayson's pulling for Minnesota, but as I watch Clemson I'm intrigued. They don't get out and go as much as I'd like, but they play their offense way up high. Lots of room for their perimeter guys to slash. They don't have the horses right now, but a few times in a row Minnesota gets lost and Clemson just carves them up.
I could turn some ankles in that offense,
I think.

As I'm imagining that, something else intrudes on my concentration. It's the
thuuzzz thuuzzz thuuzzz
of a thumping bass in a passing car. It's not like it's some big deal. Happens about a dozen times
a day. But something—maybe how it's creeping extra slow—makes me get up and check. I go to the window and sure enough, it's JaQuentin's ride oozing down Patton. It makes me shake my head. Only one place he's headed—a couple doors up the street to Wes' place.

I've tried with Wes. I have. As much as I can with my parents watching every move. But more and more it's clear Wes wants no part of me. Or that he's changed into someone else entirely. I mean, last time he texted me he signed off with a dollar sign in his name instead of an S:
We$
. Ridiculous. But if he wants to turn himself into a joke, I guess it's his business. I just hope he doesn't get killed doing it.

The craziest thing is, Wes should
hate
JaQuentin. This whole thing started last year when JaQuentin stole Wes' girl Iesha. And as far as I know she and JaQuentin are still at it. So, what, Wes wants a front-row seat? I don't get it. Not at all.

“
Hoooo!
” Jayson explodes. I turn back to the living room, figuring Minnesota's on a run. No—on the replay, I see Clemson caught them napping for an alley-oop that even Jayson had to respect. Jayson's exuberance draws Kid and April into the living room too—though maybe they just want a break from my folks. Whatever. All I know is that noise out on the street isn't mine to deal with. I got what I need here.

“Clemson's gonna pull away,” I say. “They're tight.”

Jayson starts ripping on them, partly because he wants Minnesota to win, but mostly just to disagree with me.

Kid gives April's knee a quick squeeze then jumps in on Jayson's side. “You watch, D. Gophers are tough at home. Besides, things get jumpy late. You know they'll get some home whistles.”

“Nah, Kid. The refs can't guard people for them. They're all turned around on D.”

Kid smiles, leans over to me. “Okay, big man. You so sure, put some action on it.” I beg off, telling him that not everyone has money to burn. But he keeps on. “Don't have to be money. Tell you what. Clemson wins, I'll clean your room for you. Organize all that recruiting mess. Hell, I'll even text the bad news to all the schools you want off your back. But if the Gophers win you gotta clean my ride.”

It's a sucker bet. I know Kid's never gonna clean my room. Not even if Clemson wins by 40. I peep at Dad, who's been eyeing us as he picks up the kitchen. He shakes his head at me, telling me
no.
But I can't back punk out, or I'll never hear the end. So I reach over and shake on it. I even give April, who's just been laughing at all of us, a quick wink—working up the confidence I'll need to turn that on Lia first chance I get.

“Hey, I want a piece of this,” Jayson chimes. He thinks for a second. Then he lands on it. “Dishes for a week,” he says.

I pause. Take a glance at the screen. Clemson's up six with five and change to go. Got the ball too. “Make it two weeks,” I say.

“Deal.”

And, just as soon as the word's spoken, Minnesota gets a cheap charge call on the baseline. It wipes out a bucket and sends Clemson's bench into protest.

“There it is,” Kid says. “Like clockwork, D. You gotta listen to your uncle. People been getting the screws put to ‘em in Minnesota since before you were born.”

St. Joseph probably regrets the trip. It's a good three hours down here, but after the beat down we're giving them, the trip home will seem like 20.

It's early fourth and we're up 19. Everyone's got theirs—Reynolds dropping smooth treys, Fuller working the mid-range game, Stanford busting out an array of post moves, and Jones cleaning up around the rim. Me? I'm flirting with a triple-double—14 points, 8 rips, 8 dimes. A handful of steals and blocks to boot. Only thing stopping me is Coach. With six and change to go, the buzzer sounds at a dead ball and in comes Rider.

It's cool. A triple-double
would
be nice. But I get the logic. Break in the back-up with a safe lead. Save the mileage on my legs. I hit the sidelines and get a big ovation from the crowd. They know. Lots of fans just get hung up on points. It's not like my 14 is melting the scoreboard. But as they whistle and stomp, it's clear they get that I've controlled every inch of the hardwood tonight. I give them a little acknowledgement back—raise one finger real quick to let them know I feel the love.

I hit the pine and Murphy gets in my ear immediately. “That's how you ball, D,” he says. “You keep it rolling like that and
nobody
gonna come in here and take us down.” He thumps me on the back, then moves down the bench again to talk to other players.

The ovation's nice. The hype from Murphy is appreciated. But at this point, I'm like a well-trained dog. All I want is the approval of the man with the leash. I gaze down the bench toward Bolden, but he's leaning forward to follow every play like the game's hanging in the
balance. Finally, he turns his head a few inches and sees me staring. Then he nods his head ever-so-slightly and gives me a knowing wink. It doesn't even take a second before he's back to the game, but, man, that wink is worth a hundred standing ovations. I hate to admit how much it swells me up with pride. Forget waiting another week for a game, I want back on that court
now
.

Trouble is, it doesn't take long for me to get my wish. Rider's a mess. He gets beat baseline the first trip down. Deuce for St. Joseph. Then he drags his pivot foot to give the ball back. They cash it in with another bucket, Jones getting pinned in the paint. Then Rider throws a long, lazy cross-court pass toward Reynolds. It's the kind of thing that would get pinched in a middle-school game. St. Joseph races down on a break. Rider makes matters even worse by taking a late hack at a guy who's already at the rim. And-one. Just like that the lead's back to 13, with a free throw coming to make it 12.

Bolden doesn't even speak. He just points in my direction and snaps three times. When I check in, Rider hangs his head. He sulks off, looking for pity. But what am I supposed to tell him? What I want to say is
A man gives you the keys to the car, don't wreck it first time around the block
. I figure better just say nothing and let him figure it out himself. When he hits the bench, Murphy and Bolden are both in his ear. They don't jump him exactly, but they're trying to teach pretty urgently.

St. Joseph knocks in the freebie. I get the in-bounds from Reynolds and they pick up with some soft pressure. It's not like things are tight yet, but with five minutes to go they've at least got some life again. I take my time. I cross mid-court and then kick it to Fuller—waiting until he's far enough out that he won't get any wild notions
about trying to score. Then we just run our set. Any time I see someone get a look in their eyes like they might force, I clap my hands and sprint over to get the ball. After about 30 seconds though, Jones catches shallow wing. He's dropped in 10 tonight, his career best. That's all good, but it's given him a false sense of confidence. Before I can sprint over to get it from him, he fires one up.