The Final Four (8 page)

Malcolm shook his head while counting off reps.

“I don’t like tutors. They’re too stuck up,” Malcolm interrupted himself. “Besides, D is still passing.”

“That’s what I figured you’d say,” said MJ. “So I told her I’d coach you up on it. I passed that class with a B-plus, same professor.”

“What’s the catch?” asked Malcolm, through the strain of the last few curls.

“No catch. It’s for the team,” replied MJ.

“That’s good by me,” said Malcolm.

“So how come you can accept a favor from me, but not the
other way around?” asked MJ. “Some magical Malcolm McBride
rule
I don’t know about yet?”

Malcolm dropped the weighted bar across his unmade bed, with its shape making a deep impression into the mattress.

“It’s not for
me
. It’s for the
team
, right? Anyway, it’s not a favor if it’s your idea. Only if I ask you. That’s the way it works,” explained Malcolm, who started shadowboxing with himself in the mirror, which hung on the wall between a TV and a mini-fridge. “Why didn’t you ever tell me you took that class?”

“Are you kidding me? I didn’t even know you were in it,” answered MJ, with Malcolm turning away from the mirror towards him, continuing his jabs and crosses. “I’ve never seen you with that textbook or heard you talk about any of your professors. And how can you get a D in black history? That’s shameful.”

“Nobody can grade me on that. I live black history every day. I’m even trying to change it by becoming another black millionaire, maybe a black
billionaire
,” answered Malcolm, feinting punches to MJ’s head and chest.

“That’s not enough to pass a college class, to get credits,” said MJ, standing toe-to-toe with Malcolm.

“Credits? I got street credits in black history. You know, that life experience stuff that can bury you if you don’t pass,” said Malcolm, bobbing and weaving with his head now, while still punching. “You wouldn’t know about that, growing up in those soft Dearborn suburbs where everybody’s got a front lawn with sunflowers.”

“Well, I’m as black as you,” snapped MJ. “And I’m the upperclassman here, so take it down to the gym.”

“Yeah, but I carry this team. That cancels out that upperclassman shit right there,” said Malcolm. “And you’re not nearly as black as me. Remember, I went to
Martin Luther King
High School, and I live in the Brewster-
Douglass
Houses. The Douglass part gets its name from Frederick Douglass. He escaped being a slave and got himself an education. That’s what I’m about to do when the NBA draft comes— escape being an NCAA basketball slave.”

After one of Malcolm’s jabs got too close, MJ said, “Stop it. I told you before, I don’t like play fighting.”

Teasing MJ, Malcolm popped him in the chest, with a force closer to a real punch than a tap.

On instinct, MJ punched back, hitting Malcolm hard on the right biceps—his fist slamming the tattooed portrait of Trisha.

“Hey, that’s my sister! You don’t touch her!” said Malcolm.

“It’s not your sister. It’s just a tat,” MJ shot back. “You’re the one who wanted to play this shit. Get over it!”

“Yo, just because you’re not man enough to get a tat of your dead dad, don’t lay your hands on my family,” said Malcolm, before throwing a shove.

MJ tackled Malcolm on the spot. They went tumbling over MJ’s bed, and then they crashed up against the wooden door, punching and kicking at each other.

LIVE RADIO BROADCAST OF THE GAME
7:32 P.M. [CT]

There are three broadcasters: a play-by-play man, a color commentator, and sideline reporter Rachel Adams.

Play-by-Play Man: An air ball from the foul line! My goodness! You know this young man, Michael Jordan, must be feeling the immense pressure of the moment for that to happen.

Color Commentator: That’s why it was so important that he stepped away from the line just then, to shake everything loose, to reset and collect himself. That slapping hands with his teammates really serves a purpose beyond emotional support. It gets you to readjust your whole body, to relax yourself and come to the line again. And whatever Malcolm McBride came in to say, I’m sure it will help him to focus.

Play-by-Play Man: You’ve been to the Final Four and played nine seasons in the NBA. What’s your mental outlook after an air ball on a stage this big? It has to be damaging.

Color Commentator: Personally, I haven’t done something like that since junior high school. And I never did it in my college or pro career, thankfully. I have seen it at this level, though. It’s tough to deal with. But I’m sure young MJ is no stranger to pressure.

Play-by-Play Man: All right, Michael Jordan readies himself at the line. It sends chills through me just to say his name, like part
of me is reliving the past. Here’s his second foul shot. It’s up. It’s perfect. Michigan State leads by two points.

Color Commentator: Great job by young MJ in blocking out the negative and putting that air ball behind him.

Play-by-Play Man: Roko Bacic bringing up the ball with sixty-eight seconds on the clock. The Spartans playing man-to-man defense. Bacic over the mid-court stripe. McBride in front of him. Bacic passes to Aaron Boyce. The last time Boyce was in the Superdome, he and his family were seeking shelter from Hurricane Katrina. But a different type of storm is brewing here tonight. Boyce passes down low to Crispin Rice. He puts the ball on the floor. Bacic cuts to the hoop. Shovel pass from Rice through heavy traffic. Bacic scores! He laid it in! Troy ties it up at seventy-one apiece.

Color Commentator: Credit the cut. Credit the pass. Like my mother always said, the best soup is made at home by more than one chef. And then it’s shared at the table together. Terrific teamwork right there.

Play-by-Play Man: The crowd on its feet. Forty-five seconds remaining, McBride into the frontcourt with the ball. The freshman sent us into overtime with a last-second shot, saving the Spartans’ season and extending his college career. Bacic cuts off McBride’s dribble. The pass left to Baby Bear Wilkins. Now the ball right back into the hands of McBride. Michigan State with
twenty seconds left on the shot clock, thirty-six remaining on the game clock. McBride trying to break down Bacic one-on-one. The Croatian glued to his every move. McBride into the lane. He hesitates, steps back. He goes up. He hits! He hit it! McBride made the shot! Michigan State is back up by a bucket with twenty-two ticks left!

Color Commentator: For all of his complaining about the state of college basketball, with that shot McBride says, “Put the NBA and all its riches on hold—I’m taking my team to the National Collegiate Championship Game.”

Play-by-Play Man: Troy inbounds. Now they get it to Bacic. The Red Bull with a full head of steam. Seventeen seconds. McBride hounds him. He cuts right, McBride still with him. Now left. Bacic launches a jumper. It’s good! It’s good! We’re all knotted up at seventy-three. Time out Michigan State, their last.

Color Commentator: Red Bull got the separation he was looking for. And without hesitation, he went straight up with the shot. That was beyond clutch. The only negative—he left twelve seconds on the clock, an eternity in this game. Now, can Michigan State and McBride answer back?

Play-by-Play Man: Before this current run in the tournament, Troy was best known for scoring the most points in a collegiate game. Back in 1992, Troy defeated DeVry 258 to 141. When the score was called into the
Atlanta Journal-Constitution
, the sports
editor there thought it was a prank. That Troy squad didn’t even make it to the tournament. Now here they are, two decades later, out of nowhere, threatening to win the whole thing.

Color Commentator: From what we’ve witnessed tonight, no one should refer to Troy as a Cinderella team anymore. Maybe entering this game there were still some doubts as to whether Troy really belonged. Maybe even some doubts in the minds of their own players. But this has turned from what could have been a fairy-tale, we’re-just-glad-to-be-here scenario into a stone-cold war, the Trojan War. You can credit the man in the middle of the Troy huddle, coach Alvin Kennedy, with laying the foundation for that transformation. And everyone realizes that at the end of this tournament, the big-money offers will come flooding in from larger universities in need of a coach. We’ll see if Troy can hold on to Kennedy.

Play-by-Play Man: So you think that in essence, this isn’t the same Troy team that began the tournament nearly three weeks ago?

Color Commentator: That’s right. Michigan State would have blown
that
Troy team out of the Superdome. These Trojans are the same in size and weight on the outside. But
inside
, they’ve grown immensely. They’ve bonded. I’d call it team chemistry, but that would be understating the process. It’s been more like nuclear fusion.

Play-by-Play Man: And how does that affect Michigan State, the team with more raw talent?

Color Commentator: The Spartans have got to find that ability to grow within themselves right now. They’ve got to become something more than they already are. Whether that means someone besides Malcolm McBride steps up or McBride himself becomes the catalyst for making the people around him even better.

Play-by-Play Man: As the teams come back onto the court, let’s go to our sideline reporter, Rachel Adams. Rachel, what can you share with us?

Rachel Adams: As everyone knows, Spartans coach Eddie Barker has been struggling with his voice this week. He had his team pulled in extra close around him as he feverishly diagramed a play. So it was hard for me to hear anything outside of that tight circle, especially over this crowd noise. But after the Spartans broke their huddle, Malcolm McBride looked at me and simply said, “Bank on it.”

Play-by-Play Man: Here we go. Michigan State to inbound the ball. Bacic is all over McBride. The Spartans can’t get it to him. The pass comes in to Baby Bear Wilkins instead. Now the Trojans double-team McBride, and Wilkins can’t get it to him either. Nine seconds to go. Wilkins still holding the ball. Finally, he passes down low to Grizzly Bear Cousins, who’s confronted by Crispin Rice. He sends it back outside to Wilkins. McBride still smothered by the defense. Five seconds. Now Wilkins loses the ball! It’s rolling free. Three seconds. Two seconds. It’s picked up by Michael Jordan near half-court. He heaves up a forty-footer at the buzzer. It’s in! No, it’s
out! It’s out! It rattled back out. Oh my! That shot was halfway down and it came back out!

Color Commentator: That could have changed young MJ’s destiny. For a brief moment in time, he could have been more famous than the original Michael Jordan. But it wasn’t meant to be.

Play-by-Play Man: Michael Jordan still sitting on the floor where he tumbled after that shot. Both of his palms pressed up against his temples, as if to ask, “How in the world did it ever come back out?” Here’s the replay on our monitors. A desperation shot that should have had no chance at all. First, it goes in, and then rims out. Heartbreak City, folks.

Color Commentator: If you could see it on radio, and you’re a Michigan State supporter, I’d tell you that this is what gut-wrenching looks like in slow motion.

Play-by-Play Man: We’re headed to a second five-minute overtime session. And a fight breaks out on the court! It’s between the two mascots! Unbelievable! Sparty and T-Roy—two guys in seven-foot foam rubber costumes—get into a shoving match in a wild scene that’s now being broken up by security.

Color Commentator: This is what the Final Four is all about. Emotions pushed to the limits, and even more so now as we strap ourselves in for double overtime.

“When you go out there and do the things you’re supposed to do, people view you as selfish.”

—Wilt Chamberlain, who once scored 100 of his team’s 169 points in an NBA game

7:36 P.M. [CT]

M
alcolm sees Roko extending a hand to MJ, reaching to pick him up off the court.

“Don’t offer your damn hand to my man!” snarls Malcolm, rushing over. “Go worry about your own players. Go save your stupid mascot from catching a beating.”

Roko holds both palms out in front of Malcolm, like a Trojan shield.

“No sweat,” says Roko, backing away. “You can help him.”

Then Malcolm reaches an arm out to MJ and says, “Next time pick your own ass up. Nobody helps you in this world but yourself. And you’re not supposed to be hoisting bombs. You should be setting screens to get me open.”

“Are you kidding me? I almost won it,” MJ tells him, rising to his feet with Malcolm’s help.

“That
almost
crap is for losers. I’m
going
to win us this game,” says Malcolm, heading back towards the Michigan State bench alone.

At the Spartans’ bench, Barker pulls Malcolm, MJ, and the rest of the players in around him.

“On offense, start by pounding the ball down low to our big men, Grizzly and Baby Bear,” croaks Barker, looking almost directly into Malcolm’s eyes. “Five minutes is a long time. We want to get that last foul on their center, Rice. They’ve got no one with any size to fill his shoes. So attack him. He’s either got to foul or let us go to the hoop. Once they crumble inside, this game is over. Now, let’s get it done.”

Ringing inside of Malcolm’s head is one contrary phrase:
Just get me the damn ball!
But of course, he doesn’t say it out loud, not in front of Barker.

An instant before the huddle breaks, Malcolm is the last one to drop his hand on the pile, putting his at the very top.

AUGUST, ONE YEAR AND SEVEN MONTHS AGO

It was a few minutes past ten p.m. With his parents having just gone to bed, Malcolm grabbed the framed photo of his sister, the one of her full face smiling soft like a heavenly angel’s, from the glass table in the living room. He snuck it out of the apartment and brought it with him to a house party in one of the other Brewster-Douglass buildings.

A basketball buddy of Malcolm’s who was running the party—another guy going into his senior year of high school along with Malcolm—told him a scratcher would be there. Not just any scratcher, but one with some real skills. Malcolm had already seen the guy’s work on somebody’s arm—a blazing basketball being dunked through a hoop of fire, a tat that caught Malcolm’s eye straight off.