The Final Four (21 page)

“It’s no sweat, Coach,” says Crispin. “You’d do the same for me.”

YESTERDAY

Sitting in the middle of a semicircle, surrounded by his teammates in their locker room, Crispin carefully taped his hurting right pinkie to his ring finger for support.

Hearing Coach Kennedy clear his throat, Crispin focused his eyes on the center of the room.

“Coach Barker has more experience than I do. He’s been here before and won. So somewhere along the line I’ll probably cost us a point or two. And the rest of you will have to make up for that,” said Coach Kennedy, taking a step closer to his players and leaving the Xs and Os on the board behind him. “The Spartans’ biggest advantage is Malcolm McBride. He’s the best athlete on the court. But their biggest disadvantage can also be McBride. Sometimes he doesn’t get it. He thinks the basketball belongs to him, that it has
his
name on it.”

Crispin held the tape taut with his teeth, and then he ripped it from the roll, before pulling the piece even tighter around that pair of fingers.

“So Mr. One and Done never heard that Phil Jackson quote you’re always pushing?” asked Aaron. “The one that goes, ‘Basketball is sharing.’”

“If he has heard it, apparently it’s never made much of an impression on him,” said Kennedy.

“Coach, you think we can
help
him to feel that way—that the rock is really his?” asked Roko, from Crispin’s immediate left.

“I’ll bet Roko can do it. And maybe the
Red Bull
can bring it out in McBride even more,” said Crispin, to the murmuring approval of his teammates.

“You guys might be on to something,” said Kennedy, with a grin. “But don’t become overly concerned with McBride, or the size of their big men. Remember, our biggest plus is
us
. We’ve been looking after each other since the beginning of the season, way before we ever got this far. We believed in each other before
anybody outside of this room ever did. That means we were winners before our record proved it. Just don’t get caught up in the media hype that this moment is too big for a team from Troy, Alabama.”

That’s when a player shouted out one of the clichés he’d read about his team’s chances. “They’re content just to be here.”

Then a few more voices followed after him.

“This experience is something Troy can build on next year.”

“Cinderella’s always gone before midnight.”

“Will they melt in the glare of the national stoplight?”

“I see you guys have been reading your own press. That can be a dangerous thing,” said Kennedy. “The reporters who write those stories—they’re outsiders. They don’t really know us or how we’ll respond to the pressure. Crispin, you’re a senior. You’ve seen this team take shape over the past four years. How do you think we’ll respond?”

“I think that any pressure will disappear once the game starts. We’ll just clear our minds and we’ll be in the flow.”

“I agree. By the way, Crispin tells me he has an announcement to share with the team,” said Kennedy.

Crispin took a deep breath, looking around him, from side to side, before he spoke again.

“There’s been a lot of attention on this ‘Hope of Troy’ thing. How Hope’s been our good luck charm and stuff. I wanted to say something here that’s private, intended for our ears only,” said Crispin, squeezing the five fingers on his right hand together. “This morning, Hope and I decided to put our engagement off
for a while. Neither one of us is really ready for it. I wanted you to hear it from me. And to know that it’s not going to affect my play. We’re a team, and a good one, too. That’s how we got this far. We don’t need good luck charms. We just need to continue to play together, and support each other on the court.”

“You’ll have our support, always,” said Roko, touching a closed fist to Crispin’s left biceps. “We’re more than a team here. We’re a family.”

Then other voices echoed that feeling through the locker room.

“Win or lose, brothers to the end.”

“Yeah, we’re here for you, Crisp. All of us.”

“If all I’m remembered for is being a good basketball player, then I’ve done a bad job with the rest of my life.”

—Isiah Thomas, former NCAA and NBA Champion

8:09 P.M. [CT]

M
J shadows his man on defense as the Spartans protect a slim two-point lead. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Red Bull slip free from Malcolm, beginning his drive to the basket. Without hesitation, MJ slides over into Roko’s path, leaving his man alone. But as MJ commits himself, he sees Roko’s eyes shift to the open spot on the court that MJ just left.

Roko delivers the ball to MJ’s wide-open man.

No Spartan helps out to cover him, and MJ can only sprint back there, too late to stop the shot.

“Stay with
your
man, not mine!” Malcolm roars at MJ as the ball rips through the netting. “Know your place out here! Find it and stay there!”

With the score now tied 88–88 with 1:45 left, the Spartans advance the ball.

The Trojans are focused on Malcolm, waiting for him to jet to the basket.

Coach Barker holds two palms out in front of him, telling his team to take their time. Malcolm passes off to his teammates, with the rock always coming right back into his hands.

As the shot clock ticks down to ten seconds, Malcolm gets more serious about his coming assault on the rim. His final pass is to MJ, whose defender has backed way off of him, cheating towards Malcolm.

Then, with the memory of Barker’s speech about taking the open shot scorched into his brain, MJ fakes the pass back to Malcolm.

The feint buys him even more room, and MJ takes a long breath before he goes into his shooting motion.

MJ blocks out everything around him—Malcolm, the defenders, the crowd, and even how much that one shot means.

Gliding off his fingertips, the ball feels almost weightless to MJ.

The crowd noise explodes in his ears as the Spartans regain the lead.

LAST NIGHT

MJ was looking out a window at the lights of New Orleans when Malcolm stepped out of his bedroom in the hotel suite they were sharing.

“My own bedroom and my own toilet—now this is class,” said
Malcolm, wearing a green sweat suit and walking barefoot. “Not like that joke of a room they give us in the athletes’ dorm—four walls, two beds, two desks, one cramped toilet.”

“Better get used to luxury. You’re going to be a multimillionaire in about three months,” said MJ, who addressed Malcolm’s reflection in the window without turning around. “But you’re not the only lucky one. I’ll be improving my living conditions, too, you know.”

“Yeah, how’s that?”

“I’m getting a room of my own in the dorms, doubling my space. I figure you’re moving out after the championship game on Monday night,” said MJ. “You’ll sign with a big sports agency, and they’ll rent you out a mansion and a sports car until the draft comes and you’ve got dough of your own to throw around.”

“I’ll move my parents into that mansion before you can blink,” said Malcolm, going over to the window himself and looking out beside MJ. “That’s a lot of lights from clubs and hotels. Do they have any project buildings here in New Orleans?”

“They’ve got plenty of poor people, so I’m sure they do—projects and homeless shelters,” said MJ. “Hey, I was impressed by what you said today to those reporters. I actually agree with you for once. The college basketball system
is
a rip-off for the players.”

“I don’t have time to think about that now,” said Malcolm. “It’s all about taking down Troy.”

“So from your comments I guess you won’t be donating a bunch of money to the MSU athletic department, as a thank-you for getting you into the pros,” said MJ.

“That’s right. Michigan State didn’t do a damn thing for me,” said Malcolm, with his voice gathering momentum. “I put money in the school’s pocket, in Coach’s pocket, the sneaker company’s. They ought to build a statue of me, instead of me ever giving them money.”

“Well, what are you going to do with all that money? Something for kids who live in the projects?” asked MJ.

“You know what? I’d really like to. But I don’t do favors for people,” said Malcolm. “Doing a favor’s what robbed us of my sister. That’s a line I can’t cross.”

“Yeah, but it’s like you said to me one time—it’s not a favor if they don’t ask. So you offer.”

Malcolm opened his mouth to argue, then he closed it again. He just looked out the window silently for a while.

“Well, I guess I could see kids all over Brewster-Douglass wearing my pro jersey if I built something like a rec center. Then they wouldn’t have to play ball on the street all the time, dodging the drama that jumps up out of nowhere. But still, I don’t like the idea of giving money away.”

“
Freshman
, think about it. The government is going to take at least thirty percent of what you make in taxes. Only they haven’t got a clue how to spend that money right. And I’ll prove it to you. Ever see anything change in your neighborhood? See things get any better?”

“Not where I’m from, and especially not for kids,” answered Malcolm. “Even when my sister went to China with her high school band, that money came from people all over the projects in ones, fives, and ten-dollar bills.”

“So you and your lawyers create a foundation. Most of that same money the government was going to take, you can spend it any way you want, like on that rec center you just thought about. You and your parents can do something in your sister’s name.”

“You know, I kind of like that idea. The Trisha McBride Foundation for Youth,” said Malcolm, tapping at his own image in the glass.

“Think about it.”

“I will,” said Malcolm, before he paused. “Not that I ever wanted a college roommate. But if I had to have one, you’ve been all right. You even made an impression on me here and there.”

“And I think I can say my respect for you has grown,” said MJ. “Anyway, the man your father named you after, Malcolm X—he probably would have been proud of what you said at that news conference today.”

“Why’s that?” asked Malcolm. “I know X didn’t play college ball.”

“Because you challenged the system, you
stand
for something now,” said MJ. “You know what X said?”

“No, what?”

“He said, ‘If you don’t stand for something, you’ll fall for anything.’”

LIVE RADIO BROADCAST OF THE GAME
8:10 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
new
Michael Jordan making his own mark on this game with that shot! It’s Michigan State by a basket, ninety to eighty-eight. The clock down to a minute ten. Bacic with the ball for the Trojans.

Color Commentator: That’s seventy seconds, the same number on the Trojans’ sneakers. Is that some kind of fate?

Play-by-Play Man: Bacic passes to Rice down low. Rice passes out to the corner. Inside of one minute to play. The Trojans now get it back to Roko Bacic. McBride in front of him. Bacic on the drive. The running one-hander. It’s good! He banked it in off the glass with McBride all over him! We’re tied at ninety!

Color Commentator: Tremendous defense by McBride. I can’t fault it. Just a better shot by the Bull, taking the only option he was given.

Play-by-Play Man: The crowd is frenetic. Could we see a fifth overtime? McBride is on the dribble. Bacic confronts him, contesting McBride for every inch of court now.

Color Commentator: I have a feeling these two will—

Play-by-Play Man: And Bacic steals the ball! He just took it from McBride! He has a half-step on him for the hoop. He lays it in and scores. Bacic scores off the steal. The Trojans are in front ninety-two to ninety. Just thirty-four seconds remain. The shot clock is turned off.

Color Commentator: McBride blew that breakaway dunk early in this fourth overtime, and now that steal. He’s going to have a lot to live with if the Spartans can’t rally from here.

Play-by-Play Man: McBride with the ball. Bacic is hounding him. He got a hand on the ball and almost stole it again. Bacic nearly swiped the ball again, but McBride recovers. Now Baby Bear Wilkins screens for McBride. Bacic can’t fight through. Crispin Rice runs at McBride now. Sixteen seconds to play. A mismatch, with Rice guarding the smaller, quicker McBride. And now Michael Jordan bumps Rice. McBride’s free. He steps back for a long three. Bull’s-eye! The Spartans lead by one, ninety-three to ninety-two! There are eleven seconds left to play, and the Trojans call time-out.

Color Commentator: That’s guts. McBride’s still standing on the court talking to his right hand, with the game clock frozen on his uniform number—eleven. But instead of having a conversation with his hand, McBride should be thanking the rear end of
Michael Jordan for bumping Rice. That’s what ultimately got McBride free.

Play-by-Play Man: If you’re coach Alvin Kennedy, if you’re coach Eddie Barker, what do you do now?

Color Commentator: I think you pray. You thank your lucky stars for being a part of this game. But beyond that, you want to keep your team alert. Anything can happen out there. It already has and it probably will again. You tell them—no spectators, no one standing around, everyone involved until the final whistle blows.

Play-by-Play Man: Both teams seemed exhausted at the end of forty minutes of regulation time. But now this game is more than three hours old. They’ve played just eleven seconds shy of four additional five-minute overtimes. That’s nearly sixty minutes of game clock, not to mention the emotional exhaustion as well.

Color Commentator: At this point there’s no such thing as exhaustion for these players. There’s just the will to win. One team is going on to the National Championship Game in forty-eight hours; the other team is going home. That’s enough to carry them forward. I just feel sorry that the poet Homer didn’t get a chance to chronicle
this
Trojan War.

Play-by-Play Man: The Spartans and Trojans are exiting their respective huddles, and the crowd gives them both a tremendous round of applause. Come to think of it, the fans of these two
schools must be as drained as the players. And I’m told we have an update from Rachel Adams on the sidelines.