Boot Camp (14 page)

The other team had already been introduced as well as the first three members of our team. It was obvious, judging from the crowd's cheers,
that we were the team they were pulling for. I knew people liked cheering for the underdog. I also knew our opponents had beaten everybody sitting in the stands and hadn't been particularly nice about it.

Kia's name was called out and she skipped out onto the court, hands held high above her head, as big cheers rolled out from the bleachers.

Gabrielle jumped to her feet. She was waving a big sign that said
Go Girl!
She and Kia had become good friends over the last few days. They were both confident, determined and far from shy.

Kia tapped hands with everybody on our team, and then she went over and shook hands with both refs.

“And now, playing at power forward for the mighty mighty Zebras…Nick the quick!” said the announcer.

Head down I trotted onto the court as the crowd cheered. It was almost as loud as they had cheered for Kia and definitely louder than for anybody on the other side. Gabrielle was on her feet again. I liked the support but not the Go Girl! sign that she was still waving.

I slapped hands with our team members, and then I went over to shake hands with the two refs.

“Good luck,” Sergeant Kevin said. He was being very serious and formal—like a good ref should be.

“Feeling nervous?” Sergeant Push-up asked as I shook his hand.

I was tempted to say no, but that would have been a lie.

“Yeah, a lot,” I said.

“I know where you're coming from,” he said. “Jerome is always nervous before he starts to play.”

“He is?”

“For sure. Big game, big audience. I always figure if you're not nervous you're really not ready to play.”

“Thanks, I'll try.”

“Do you think your team can win?” he asked.

“I guess we can.”

“You guess? Just remember, if you think you can do it, then you can. Can you win?”

“We can win,” I said but didn't sound very confident

“Remember, attitude leads to altitude,” he said.

I remembered Jerome saying those words to us—is that where he'd gotten them from…from his father?

“I'll ask you again,” he said. “Do you think you can win?”

I shook my head. “No, I don't think we can win…I
know
we can win.”

He broke into a laugh, and I trotted back to our team as Johnnie introduced Jamal.

The crowd got even louder, although along with the cheers there were a couple of boos. Jamal had annoyed more than a few people during the course of the camp.

He came on, quietly, businesslike, his head down, not looking at the crowd or responding to them at all. He tapped hands with everybody, and then he went off to shake hands with the refs.

Kia leaned in close. “Is this going to work?”

“Only one way to find out. Let's play some ball.”

Two members of the other team walked down to our end.

“Good luck,” one of them said.

“Thanks,” I said, “and good—”

“Because you're going to need lots of luck if you think you have a chance against us,” the other team member said.

“Not luck, a miracle,” the kid behind him snapped, and they both started laughing as they walked away.

“Don't waste your breath arguing with them,” Kia said. “We don't talk to trash, we take it out.”

They stopped laughing, but Jamal started.

Almost all the kids at boot camp had been friendly to us and everybody else. Not these guys. They thought they were better than everybody else. I guess, judging from the game scores, they were better players. That didn't mean anything about them being better people, though.

“Just forget about what he had to say,” Kia said.

“No,” Jamal countered, “don't forget. Use it. When you feel tired, just dig down and remember that smirk, that laugh, that attitude. No way I'm letting that guy get the last laugh.”

A whistle blew, and we went out to center court.

We knew we couldn't get the tip. Their center was the tallest guy in the camp and had springs in his legs. We were just going to try to figure out where he was going to tip it to and get there first.

Everybody lined up. Sergeant Kevin tossed the ball up, and as the two centers jumped up, we all shifted into different positions. The ball went into a gap that Kia had already filled, jumping in front of their waiting player. He was too stunned to move as she whipped the ball over to Jamal. Instantly there was a player on him. What were they doing? They hadn't gone back to zone but were playing man-to-man as well! I hadn't expected that, but I should have. Man-to-man was the best type of defense to put on a team that was already tired.

Jamal started dribbling. I wasn't worried about him. One man wasn't going to be enough to stop him. He cut to the left, and I realized his man had his head down, trying desperately to stay with him. I stopped, planting myself right in the path he was going to go, prepared to set a pick. Jamal looked up and saw me standing there. He cut in, just brushing by me, and his man, head down,
slammed into me full force. I held my place, and he bounced back, and then his legs buckled and he fell down! There was a roar from the crowd.

Jamal continued dribbling, uncovered. He closed in, faked a pass to Kia and then went in for a lay-up, putting us in front. The crowd cheered again.

I reached down to offer a hand to Jamal's man sitting on the floor. He brushed my hand aside and jumped to his feet. He shoved me backward, and Sergeant Kevin stepped in between us.

“That was a foul!” Jamal's man screamed.

“That was a pick. Perfectly clean and legal pick,” Sergeant Push-up said.

“I guess he's never seen one before,” Kia said, “at least not that close up and personal.”

Without thinking, I started to laugh. Sergeant Push-up gave me a stern look, and I swallowed the laugh.

“Let's play some ball,” Sergeant Kevin said. He threw the ball to one of their players waiting by the baseline.

“Press,” I said to Kia, just to remind her.

The ball was tossed in, and Kia was all over Jamal's man. As he turned to try the other side,
Jamal joined in. He swallowed his dribble, and they converged on him, smothering him. Desperately he tried to look for a man to pass to, but his whole team had raced up court. He threw up a desperation pass, and I leaped up, grabbed the ball and started back down court. We were three on one. I stopped, faked a shot, and put the ball over to Jamal. He dribbled, took his steps and dropped in another easy basket.

“Way too easy,” Jamal said as he picked up the ball and handed it to one of their men.

Once again we put the press on. They threw the ball in, and again the carrier was swarmed by both Kia and Jamal. Stubbornly he tried to dribble out of double coverage, but they had him trapped in the corner and he had to pick up his dribble. Desperately he tossed the ball back to the man who had thrown it in, but before he could move Jamal was all over him and he fumbled the ball away—it just ticked off Kia's hand before it went out of bounds. The two players started to talk—no they started to
argue
—about who had done what wrong.

“Nice to see,” Kia said. “Always good when the other team is fighting with each other.”

“Let's keep up the pressure—press again,” I said.

Jamal and Kia were ready for the ball to come in again. By this time the other team had figured things out and the ball was tossed up court to another player. I immediately went after him—he was my man. Kia and Jamal came running back and got on their men. We were now playing man-to-man defense, and, just like with the press, they weren't expecting it. They tried to run a play, expecting lots of space up top as we settled into a zone. Instead we were all over them, and they scurried around trying to find an opening that wasn't there. Finally they put up a shot—high and wide, clanging off the backboard and into Brandon's hands. To my complete shock he grabbed the ball with both hands and held onto it. He sent the ball over to Kia who turned and passed to Jamal, who was streaking down the court, uncovered. It was a perfect delivery and he dropped another easy layup.

Three shots, three lay-ups, six-point lead. This
was
way too easy.

Jamal scored our first twelve points before they changed defenses and started sending double
coverage after him. As soon as that happened, he started passing to the open man, and we got easy uncontested shots. We put the press on and off repeatedly, as well as switching back and forth from man-to-man to zone coverage. It kept them off balance and helped us build a solid early lead.

Unfortunately, keeping them off balance and getting an early lead didn't mean keeping them off the score sheet. They had height on us, and once they stopped fighting amongst themselves and started playing as a team, they chipped away at our lead. This team also had the one advantage we couldn't overcome—they were rested and we were tired. Little by little they chipped away at our lead until finally, with only a few minutes left in the game, they'd pulled even. Then their best shooter hit one from behind the arc and they pulled away to a three-point lead.

There were times when I knew what was going to happen, and what I had to do to stop them, but my legs just wouldn't do what my head told them to do. Even worse than running out of energy, we were almost out of time. There couldn't be any more than a minute left in the game.

“Time-out!” Kia yelled.

We trudged over to the bench and huddled together.

“Well?” Kia asked.

“Well, what?” I said.

“What are we going to do now?” she asked, looking directly at me.

I shook my head slowly. “I'm not sure what we should do. They're pretty good.”

“They're not better than us!” Jamal snapped.

I gestured over to the scoreboard. “Three points better than us. I don't have any more ideas.”

“Okay,” Kia said, “in that case tell us what we
shouldn't
do.”

“What?” I asked, hearing but not understanding.

“Tell me what we shouldn't do if we want to win. What should we avoid?”

“Well, we can't afford to sit back. They have the lead and all they have to do is kill time,” I said.

“So you're saying no zone defense, we have to go back to a press and man-to-man again,” Kia said.

“That's what we should do,” I agreed. “I just don't know if it will work…nobody has the legs for it.”

“I'm beat,” Kia said, “but if we don't at least try, they win for sure, so we have nothing to lose. Right after we score we go into a full court press. Everybody is up and contesting for the ball.”

The scorer's table signaled time, and we broke from the huddle. Jamal grabbed me by the arm. “We can still win,” he said.

“I know,” I said. “I haven't given up.”

I in-bounded the ball to Jamal. He started up the court. They were back waiting in a zone defense. I set-up low-post and sealed my man off. I held up my hand, and Jamal sent in a perfect pass. Before I could move, a second man came and dropped down into coverage, and I was double-teamed. I pitched it out to Kia, who rotated it over to Jamal. He put up a shot, and the ball dropped in for two points! The crowd screamed and yelled, kids were pounding on the bleachers, and all three of Jerome's daughters were jumping up and down, waving their signs.

“Press! Press! Press!” I screamed.

I looked at the clock. It was ticking down to under twenty seconds. This was it.

They threw in the ball. I lunged forward, but it shot just past my outstretched hands. Instantly the ball carrier was covered by two men. He passed
off, and we converged on that man. He tried to dribble, but we locked him down, and he had to eat his dribble. He passed the ball off to another man, who was swarmed by two other players and—

“Time violation!” Sergeant Kevin yelled.

We'd done it! We'd pressed them so hard that they couldn't take the ball over half-court in time. It was our ball!

Sergeant Push-up handed me the ball, and I walked over to the sidelines. I looked over at the clock again. It was down to eight seconds left. More than enough time for a shot, but not enough for a second chance. Either we scored and we won, or we missed and we lost. One more chance.

I'd just throw the pass into Jamal and hoped he could put up a winner. I was just getting ready when I realized they'd gone back to man-to-man coverage and two of their men were on Jamal. They weren't going to let him get the ball.

“Stack!” I yelled, and our team formed a line right in front of me while the other team scrambled to try to get in position to cover.

“Break!” I screamed, and everybody broke off in different directions, two of their players trying to stick to Jamal's side and a third following Kia.

“Jamal!” I yelled, and every eye turned to him.

I faked a pass and then turned. Brandon was alone under the net. I threw the pass in toward him—not too soft or it wouldn't get there, but not too hard either or it would go through his fingers. The whole world slowed down as if I was watching a slow-motion replay. I could see the ball gently spinning, the seams rotating, and then the ball hit Brandon square in the hands. It slipped partway out of his grip and my heart rose into my throat, but before it could escape he grabbed it. He hesitated, and then he pumped and put the ball up, through the air and off the backboard. It hit the rim, rolled and rolled and rolled, and then it dropped in!