True Legend (7 page)

ELEVEN

M
r. Gilbert made it clear, as the two of them walked through the front door, that there was nothing for him to worry about. Nothing that was going to happen at the party was a violation of NCAA rules, even if there were a couple of what he called “Nike guys” in the house.

“But I'm not even in college yet,” Drew said.

“You're the most famous high school basketball player in the country. In the eyes of the NCAA suits, you might as well be playing by their rules already.”

“Wish I'd played better tonight.”

“Tell me about it,” Mr. Gilbert said, but even as he did, he pulled Drew closer to him and said, “Who's got your back?”

“You do.”

“Who's like your personal GPS, keeping us pointed where we want to go?”

“You are,” Drew said.

It was always like that, almost from the first night they met back at the AAU tournament in New York. We. Us. Mr. Gilbert wanted the team at Oakley to do well. Obviously he had a lot invested in the school and the coach. And Mr. Gilbert was the one who'd picked the school out for Drew before his mom even made it official that they were moving.

All part of the
mi casa es su casa
deal, the house in this case being a high school.

But in the end, the only team Mr. Gilbert really cared about—even more than the college team Drew would be playing for in a year and a half—was him and Drew.

As they moved out into the pool area, music playing, waiters serving food and drinks, Drew immediately spotted a tall guy with a shaved head, a crowd of people around him, laughing loudly at something somebody had just said. It was Stu Jarvis, who'd played college ball with Mr. Gilbert at USC and who did work for Nike now.

Drew wondered what Stu Jarvis would think if he knew that Mr. Gilbert liked to refer to Nike as “the mob” when it was just him and Drew talking. Telling Drew that once the time came, there'd be no choice, he'd have to wear Nike shoes.

“Basketball version of being a made man,” he'd say.

Mr. Gilbert walked Drew right over to Stu Jarvis now.

“Now, this is a social event, Nike man,” he said to his old friend. “So no business talk tonight—I mean it. There's plenty of time down the road for you two to get to know each other a
lot
better.”

Stu Jarvis did the same kind of lean-in King had done with Drew before the game. Though in his case it was more like a lean-
down,
because Stu went six six, at least. Mr. Gilbert had said he'd played three years in the league for Golden State, before the anterior cruciate ligament in his right knee, his ACL, had ripped like a raggedy shoelace.

“Tough one tonight,” Stu Jarvis said. “That shot at the end should have fallen. Where I sat, I thought you had it as soon as the ball left your hand.”

Drew knew he couldn't possibly mean that. Couldn't possibly be sincere.
Maybe it figures that he works for a sneaker company,
Drew thought.
Because the man's acting like somebody trying to sell me a pair of shoes.

“Should have been able to get a better look,” Drew said. “
I'm
better than that.”

Stu Jarvis put his arm around Drew the way Mr. Gilbert had, laughed. “Yeah,” he said, “you are.”

Just a little edge to him, behind the smile, giving him a little jab the way Mr. Gilbert had.

“But twenty-two, sixteen, eight still isn't a bad night,” Stu Jarvis went on, reciting Drew's stats. “Most guys would kill to have numbers like that, and here you are acting as if you stunk the joint out. And you still had the confidence to take the last shot.”

“Well, thanks, Mr. Jarvis,” he said, trying to sound modest. Hearing Lee's voice inside his head, one of Lee's favorite lines about him, the one about how nobody faked sincerity better than True Robinson.

“The other kid tonight, all he does is shoot,” Stu Jarvis said. “You, son, are a
playa.
”

“Thank you,” Drew said again.

“I'm sure you get asked this all the time,” Stu said. “But I gotta ask something, just 'cause I got so many coaches on scholarship who are gonna be begging me for some skinny on you tomorrow, knowing I was with you tonight.”

“Ask away.”

“Any of their schools might be starting to get your attention yet?”

“I'll let you in on a secret,” Drew said, lowering his voice.

“Hit me.”

“The only school I'm worried about tonight is Park Prep. And how they ended up with more points than we did.”

Drew couldn't help but think,
I'm as phony as this guy is.

Stu Jarvis laughed and said, “Well, there
is
a reason why they keep score in sports,” and then walked off, heading in the direction of another one of Mr. Gilbert's friends, the center fielder for the Dodgers, who hadn't lost their game tonight.

Next Mr. Gilbert wanted Drew to spend some time with an
LA Times
guy Drew recognized from the locker room, one who told him he'd finished his story at what he called warp speed.

“Of course,” the guy said, “it wasn't the story I came here looking to write tonight.”

He was smiling as he said it—everybody here seemed to be smiling at Drew. But his eyes weren't. It was almost as if Drew had let him down, too, in addition to himself and his teammates and his school.

Maybe even his mom.

“Sorry,” Drew said. “I was sort of looking for a different ending myself.”

“That's the problem with sports,” the reporter said. Drew had been told his name and had forgotten it already. “We can't make it come out the way we want it to, even in a high school game.”

“Maybe next time,” Drew said.

“Let's hope so,” the reporter said.

Not saying it in a mean way, just with an edge. The same edge Drew had heard in the Nike man's voice. Letting him know that, even though it was a high school game, they treated you differently when you lost.

He started to move off, but the reporter put a hand on his arm.

“Listen,” the
LA
Times
guy said. “I want to tell you something before you go: I want to be your go-to guy in the media.”

“Go-to guy,” Drew said.

“I want it to be me instead of somebody from ESPN, or
Sports Illustrated,
or Fox. I want to get with you now and stay with you. You got something to say, I want you to say it to me.”

“Even when I lose?” Drew said.

“As long as that doesn't happen too often,” the guy said, and laughed, as if somehow that was funny.

“I'll work on it,” Drew said.

“I'm serious. When you're ready to write your first book, I want to be the one with the tape recorder.”

Now, that almost made Drew laugh, the reporter coming right at him this way, talking about writing books when Drew had almost no interest in reading them.

Drew stayed with him for a few more minutes, gave him his phone number and his e-mail because he didn't see any harm in that, and finally broke loose, feeling the way he did on the court when he broke loose from a double-team.

He found Mr. Gilbert and told him he was fixing to leave.

“Not yet,” Mr. Gilbert said, trying to make it sound casual instead of like an order. “Just a few more people to charm,” he added. “So the evening isn't a total loss.”

Another diss. Mr. Gilbert wasn't even trying to pull his punches now.

“Can't you charm them for me?” Drew said. “You got more than enough charm for both of us. And you're always telling me you know me better than I know myself.”

But he let Mr. G pull him over and get him talking with a woman Drew knew was the weekend sports anchor on KTLA, the one who reminded him of Megan Fox. And who smiled at him until she noticed the quarterback from USC, one everybody was talking about for the Heisman Trophy, on the other side of the pool.

Drew watched her go, shaking his head. Amazed at these people. Knowing they were treating him differently than they would have if he'd made the last shot. Acting like they were his friends, but all of them, in their own ways, letting him know the deal, that they liked winners better.

Even Mr. Gilbert had been different with him tonight.

But Drew knew something: this was his world now, like it or not. People giving him fake smiles and him giving them fake smiles back. This was the Los Angeles you always heard about.

Land of make-believe.

When it was just the two of them, Drew asked Mr. Gilbert if he could leave now, asking for permission like he would from his mom.

“I'll text Eddie,” Mr. Gilbert said. “He'll meet you out front.”

Drew said, “You sure this is no bother? I could have Lee come get me.”

Knowing Lee would.

“Hey,” Seth Gilbert said, “I'm not taking away your car-and-driver privileges just because you threw up a brick like that at crunch time.”

When Drew got outside and checked the time on his cell, it was only eleven thirty. He knew there was plenty of time to get to Lee's house. He was about to text him, tell him to save him a couple of slices or else . . .

But he didn't.

He got into the front seat of the car next to Eddie, not wanting to treat Eddie like a chauffeur, even though he pretty much was in this case.

“Would you mind taking me all the way home?” he asked.

Knowing he wasn't going straight home the way he wasn't going to Lee's.

He was going to Morrison Park.

TWELVE

J
ust being at Morrison made Drew feel better.

He looked down and realized he still had his game sneakers on, had forgotten to put on the pair of old blue Nike Cortez shoes, nylon with the white swoosh, that he had in his locker. But he didn't have his ball with him, so it didn't matter that just being in Morrison gave him his usual late-night urge to walk over to the lighted court and start shooting around.

Drew stopped and sat down on one of the swings in the kids' playground, even though he was too big for it, heard the creak of the chain, the small noise sounding loud in the big quiet of the late night.

Maybe,
Drew thought,
it's not the court that I like the best here.

It's the quiet.

Not having anybody talking to him or acting like they were laughing with him when they were the only ones laughing—and fake laughs at that, to go with their fake smiles. Not having people ask him questions. Not having to tell them what they wanted to hear.

Maybe he liked Morrison in the night because nobody wanted anything from him here. He didn't have to play the part of team-man Drew here, humble Drew. Nobody bossed him around the way Mr. Gilbert had tonight, like Drew was one of his waiters, almost like he wanted to punish Drew a little for losing the game. And Drew had just let it happen, had just taken it until Mr. Gilbert allowed him to leave.

Even though the day was coming when he wasn't going to let anybody even
think
they were bossing him around, telling him where to go and what to do, whether they were fake smiling or not.

For now, Drew Robinson knew he had to pick his spots where he could be his own self.

Though on nights like this, he wasn't sure who that was anymore.

He didn't stay on the swing set for long. It was moving up on midnight now, he saw that when he turned his cell back on. A little earlier than when he usually showed up here with his ball. As soon as the phone was back on, he could feel it vibrating. It had to be texts from Lee, wanting to know where he was.

Drew turned the phone back off.

If people could reach you on your cell anytime they wanted, then you weren't really alone, were you? And now there were all the stats on Twitter. But why wouldn't they be tweeting, from LeBron on down, the world having convinced them it was hanging on their every word?

Drew walked over to the small patch of trees where he and Lee had hidden out the night they'd come to watch the guy. Nobody was on the bad court, not yet, and maybe not ever tonight. No matter. Drew sat down, prepared to wait.

A few minutes later, he saw headlights, turned and saw it was a police car making a slow turn in the parking lot near the playground. Had to be Archey and Delano, looking past the playground and seeing that the lighted court, Drew's court, was empty tonight.

Drew closed his eyes when the cruiser was gone, tired all of a sudden, like everything that had happened in the game and at the end of the game and after the game had finally worn him out. He felt the energy coming out of him, like air coming out of a basketball when you got a needle stuck in it . . .

Drew closed his eyes.

He didn't awaken until he heard the bounce of a ball.

THIRTEEN

D
rew had made up his mind on the way over: if the ghost guy was there tonight and ran away again, he was going to run him down and find out who he was, why he'd come to the game.

Why he'd left his court to come watch Drew play on his.

Why he'd looked as if Drew had let him down more than anybody else in the gym.

Drew got up, moved up behind a tree closer to the bad court, to get a closer look. The guy had taken off his sweatshirt tonight, was wearing a black T-shirt with his jeans, like he wanted to blend into the night. But he had the same Lakers cap, same old Air Jordans he'd been wearing the other times.

Same game.

With some new moves tonight, almost like he was adding elements to his game.
Before long,
Drew thought,
I'll be able to come up with a scouting report, like I'm getting ready to play him in a real game.

He couldn't take his eyes off the guy.

It was as if he was playing an imaginary game of one-on-one, like the ghost guy was up against another ghost, not merely dunking or flying through the air, but playing with a purpose. He'd back in sometimes and then shoot fadeaway jumpers. He'd take the ball back to the top of the key, dribble left, then make this blinding crossover dribble back to his right, not dunking the ball, just laying it in.

Drew got lost in watching him all over again, but finally decided that if he didn't make his move, he might be here all night.

So he came out of the trees.

“Hey,” he said, keeping his tone casual, not wanting to scare him off like he did before, not really wanting to have to chase him after having played every minute against Park Prep.

The guy was about to shoot a three when he heard Drew's voice and froze. Just stayed in that pose, like Drew had snapped a picture of him on his phone.

He didn't run.

Instead he looked at Drew and said, “You should have passed.”