Pull (2 page)

“I'll go talk to him,” Dad says to Mom. They both cut their eyes at me, like this is my fault too. At this point, I'm pretty sure that if a tornado ripped through downtown Indy, my parents would blame it on the fact that I let Wes into my car with pot.

“Get to bed,” Mom snaps at me. As I stand, she gives me a parting shot. “This isn't over,” she says.

2.

First, no car. Not until Christmas. Mom slapped that one on me first thing this morning. So I'm back to bumming rides or hoofing it, like I'm a freshman again.

Second, no Wes. That was my dad's order. He didn't give a timetable, but it's not like I'm in some hurry to kick it with Wes anyway.

But now, it's Coach Bolden's turn. On the first day of school, I'm already in his office. Getting called in is starting to seem like an annual ritual. He doesn't waste any time. “I've already heard about what happened last night,” he says. “I just want to see if you have any explanation.”

It's the kind of opening my parents never gave me—some room to tell my side of things. Then again, this is Coach Bolden we're talking about. There's no easy road here. He listens patiently while I tell him that I had no idea that Wes had weed on him. Then he even nods along while I explain that the only thing I did wrong was swerve a little bit
while a cop was watching. But when I'm done, he leans forward and jabs his index finger down on his desktop. “One game,” he says. He raises that finger and points it at me. “You sit.”

I flop back in my chair and turn my palms up. “What?” I ask. “I didn't even
do
anything.” I know that tone will work about as well on Coach Bolden as it did on my parents, but at this point I don't care. I really can't believe people are crashing down on me this hard for something someone else got busted for.

To my surprise, Bolden doesn't lose it on me. Instead, he shakes his head patiently. He runs his hand across his bald dome and then squeezes the back of his neck, like he's trying to rein himself in. Then he leans forward again. No finger jabs. No raising his voice. “Derrick,” he starts, “there are a bunch of coaches in this state who wouldn't care that you wound up in jail last night. They wouldn't care if the drugs
were
yours. Hell, they'd barely care if you were selling. They'd only care about getting you in uniform for the season.” I cross my arms and look away. I want to say,
Well, yeah. That's what a good coach does
. But instead I just take what's coming. “I care more about this school, about the way we want to do things, than I care about that first game,” he says. Then he narrows his eyes, digging into me just a little. “And I sure as hell care about those things more than I care if your feelings get hurt.”

I scan the wall behind him. Bare. Most coaches would have plaques or trophies or some kind of mementos from their best seasons. For Bolden the reminder of his best seasons is right in front of him. I'm the one that gave him two straight sectional titles and a regional title. And I'm the one who can get him a big, fat state championship ring this year. Still, I had my chance to get out from under his wing. I could
have transferred, but I didn't. So now getting mad at Coach Bolden's discipline would be like getting mad at the winter for being cold. “Okay, Coach,” I say. “I'm sorry.” Really, what else can I say at this point?

Bolden flashes a brief smile and then yanks open a desk drawer. “I want you to understand something,” he says. Out comes a folder. He slaps it on the desk and opens it. Inside are a few pages with my name at the top. I can tell right away they're game logs—full stats for every game I played my first two years at Marion East. Bolden drags his finger across the page like he's reading a medical chart. “There's so much to like here,” he says. “Probably why you've got a big stack of mail from schools all over the country. But you know what it tells me?”

He eyeballs me, but I don't answer. He keeps looking at me now, even though his finger is still trailing across the page.

“It tells me your high school career is halfway over,” he says. “That means two things, Derrick. The first is that now you're an upperclassmen and a leader. I can't take it easy on you. I have to come down on you or every other player on the team will test me. But the second is more important to you. Being a junior means the word
potential
no longer applies. As a freshman, everyone looked past it when you had a bad night. Last year, when you struggled for a month, nobody recruiting you blinked. Get a technical? Cough up six turnovers? Didn't matter—because you had
potential
. Well, you hit junior year and nobody talks about potential anymore. They want to see results. So listen.” He leans forward a few inches further, like he's going to reach across the desk and grab me by the collar if I don't pay attention. “None of those schools will stop recruiting you for what happened last night. They sure didn't cool on you even after you got
outplayed in State last year by the Kernantz kid at Evansville Harrison. But if you keep screwing up—you're the one with weed on you next time or you start a fight on the court or you have a string of bad games—a few of them are gonna stop coming after you. They'll start thinking you're just one more guy who never lived up to his potential.”

With that, he points to his door. Conversation over. As I leave, though, he gives me one parting shot. “You're a big boy now, Derrick. That means you have to be on it all the time.”

Damn.
Welcome to junior year.

Of course Uncle Kid's waiting for me outside school. He's styling, sporting a button-down with a flashy pattern. It's a little oversized, its short sleeves rippling in the breeze. It hangs down over his freshly purchased khakis. He's leaning against his new ride—a bright red Chrysler 300—and the sun reflects off his shades. He looks like a million bucks. He can't be raking in all
that much
at his bartending gig.

“D-Bow!” he shouts, loud enough for everyone filing out of Marion East to hear. “Let's take a ride, man.” He gazes up into the cloudless sky. “I know you're in school, but the weather says it's still summer.” Like a chauffeur, he opens the passenger door and motions for me to get in.

Any fool would know Kid's not just here to take his nephew on a quick cruise. Everyone's got a point to make to me today. But his smile's infectious, so I hop in. Kid trots around to the other side, climbs in and fires up that engine. He gives it a good rev, then pulls out with some velocity. All along the street, heads turn. He's not rocking some Benz, but it's a sweet ride and people notice.

Kid takes a left on 36
^th
and then another on Meridian, taking us south into the city. He smoothes his hand across the dash as delicately as if he were petting a cat. “What do you think?” he asks.

“Not bad,” I say.

“Not
bad
?” he sneers.

“All right, Kid,” I tell him. “You're killin' it in this ride.”

Kid nods, pleased with himself. He lowers his window and loops his arm out along the side. Ever since he started working, he's been all puffed up—both in terms of ego and body. In less than a year's time, he's packed some thickness on his frame. He's not fat, but to see a belly starting to poke out on a guy once as rail-thin as Kid is a surprise. We give him never-ending grief about it, but he just laughs it off. He'll just pat his stomach and tell us some extra poundage is proof he's living right.

We zip downtown. The buildings seem to rise up around us, all those windows reflecting the sun. It makes me wonder sometimes what's going on inside them—people making high finance deals or having late afternoon drinks or scheming white-collar crimes? I don't know—the life inside of them is a total mystery to me.

Kid takes us straight down to the city center, circling around the monument, before kicking us a couple blocks east—right smack at the entrance to Banker's Life Fieldhouse. He points as we roll past. “There's the dream, D-Bow,” he says. “Suiting up in that Pacer uni someday. Ballin' out on the biggest stage.”

I nod, pretend like I'm into it. Sure, I have my NBA dreams. And, yeah, I fantasize about getting drafted by the Pacers. But I've been on enough of these drives around town with Kid to know that he's up to something else.

“You think about where you'll go in between now and then?” he asks.

“College?”

“What else?” he says. While we're idling at a light, he leans over like he's letting me in on a secret. “And, man, you know your mom is gonna get all up in that decision. You
know
she's not gonna let you go somewhere you can just skip classes for a year before bolting.”

I have to laugh a little at that. It's as true as anything Kid's ever said. Then I tell him what I'm thinking—namely, I have no idea about where I want to play in college. Indiana's pushing hard, and I'm most definitely interested. They've got the history, they've got Big Ten competition, they've got an energetic coach who knows his stuff. It's where about 80 percent of Indiana high school players dream of going—but I can't shake the feeling that maybe I should do something
different
. Like maybe I should see some other part of the country and play where I won't get compared to every other point guard in Indiana history. I don't get into all the details with Kid, but he feels me.

“It's a tough call,” he says. “I remember when I was your age—had everyone begging me to come to their campus. But, man, they all say the same things. Gets to the point where you can't tell West Lafayette from West Virginia after a while.”

It's strange to hear Kid talk about this. Now, he'll talk your ear off about what a baller he was way back when. But he usually doesn't get into what happened at the end of his high school career. In fact, I only know the basics—run-ins with Coach Bolden, suspensions, more trouble, until all that heavy recruiting he's talking about dried up.

We turn left on Delaware, but Kid gets into the far right lane and
creeps. “Problem is I spent more time there—” he jabs his index finger violently toward my window—“than I did at any college.” I look and see the county courthouse. Damn. He got me talking about hoops and I almost forgot what was going on—it's another lecture. Maybe Kid senses my disappointment, because he steps on the gas and raises his voice. “Listen, D. Nobody's ever scored a bucket while they're sitting in lock-up.”

With Kid, I know I can fight back a little. “Man, everyone's acting like I killed somebody. It was
weed
. The stuff's legal most places. And it wasn't even
my
weed. All I got in the end was a traffic citation. People need to chill the hell out.”

Kid nods. He changes lanes and picks up more speed, racing to beat a light. “I know it, D,” he says. “But that's how it starts, how it was with me.”

“What you mean?” I ask. Everyone still talks around what happened with Kid, always stopping short of coming out with the details.

He holds up his hand to cut me off. “Ah, I'm not getting into all that again. Not twenty years later. All I'm saying is that I might not know as much as I let on about basketball—but I know a thing or two about derailing a career. So listen. You might think Wes is your boy, but you try dragging him along with you, it's gonna be like trying to dunk with sandbags tied to your ankles. If that kid's dead weight, you got to cut him loose.”

This—more than the fear the cops tried to put in me, more than my mom's righteous anger, more than Coach's warnings—sinks in. I still don't think I did anything that wrong, but I realize Kid's got a point. At the same time, I don't see how I can drop Wes without tearing off
a part of myself. We ride for a while in silence, all that static filling the air. Finally, we cross over Michigan and Kid's had enough serious time. He puts down the windows and starts some beats on his crack sound system. No more old CDs like he used to roll with—now he's got an iPod in the jack, like he's finally joined life in the twenty-first century.

3.

The only event that shook things up was when the calendar hit September 9. Open season for recruiting a junior. And, man, the phone flat
blew up
. I didn't even think that many people in the world had our number. But it rang off the hook. And then it shifted to my cell phone.

Everyone warned me, but I didn't realize how relentless coaches can be. The big names are putting their assistants after me, so I haven't talked to guys like Calipari or Pitino or Krzyzewski yet. Maybe they think they're above it all. But at places like Clemson and VCU and Iowa State, the head man himself has been on with me. And Indiana—Coach Crean called me personally, but I bet that's just because I'm in-state.

For now, I'm just hearing them all out, telling them I'm a long way off from making a decision. And that's the truth. I'm taking everything slow. When I have news for schools, it's coming through Coach or my folks. That's the way we set it up in the summer. I even squashed my Twitter and Facebook so I wouldn't send out something that got taken the wrong way. Besides, like my mom said, when's the
last time something good came out of a young athlete being on Twitter? And we decided—all of us together—that we're playing things the right way. No freebies, no payouts, no kickbacks. I know that's not how the game's played these days, but that's how it gets played when your parents are Tom and Kaylene Bowen.

But tonight's the first practice, so I'm that's all that's on my mind when I hit the cafeteria. Then I see Wes. It's not that he's just a friend. That makes it sound like we hang sometimes on weekends, catch each other at parties, and say
‘sup
when we pass in the halls. He is
the
friend in my life. I mean, I can't remember a time when Wes and I weren't tight. Mom tells me that even before we could walk, we were hanging together. Wes' mom would drop him off at our place and we'd crawl around the living room getting into trouble. To me, Wes is more blood than friend.

So it kills me—just kills me—to see him catch my eye in the lunch room and then look away. He spins on his heel and makes tracks for a far table. Watching him do that makes me feel like a bone is breaking. It hurts worse than when he didn't own up to the weed. Around me, Marion East churns on—students shuffle through the lunch line with their trays in their hands, teachers hover around the edges of the cafeteria on the lookout for trouble, and the whole room swells with the fast chatter of people spreading gossip. Meanwhile, I'm standing there like my feet are made of stone while I watch Wes bail on me.

“D-Bow!” Someone shouts, calling me by my nickname. “Over here,” another voice calls. I turn and see our two bigs—Chris Jones and Tyler Stanford—waving to me. They're all amped for tonight. They've got some space cleared out for me at a table with a few cheerleaders.
That's where I belong. I head that way. But then something stops me, like there's a hook lodged in the fabric of my shirt. My parents have banned me from hanging with Wes on our own time. If I walk away now, maybe that's it. If he doesn't want to hash it out, then I've got to be the man in the situation. Otherwise, what? Wes and I are through? No deal.

I stride across the cafeteria, confident as if I'm walking to the stripe to ice a game. I get to Wes and stand over him. Below me, he looks smaller than usual. He's hunched over his tray, trying to just ignore everything and everyone. So I sit down next to him, putting us closer to an even level. “Wes,” I say, “man, we got to talk. It's been a month.”

He drops his fork on his tray with a clatter. He pushes back from the table. “Talk about what?” he asks. He looks down at his watch, like he's late to some important meeting. All I notice is that it's a pretty heavy piece—way out of Wes' price range.

“What is
up
with you?” I ask. I raise my voice more than I intended, and I can feel the attention of the cafeteria settle on us. So I try to act chill. I lean back in my chair and shrug. “I mean, seriously, why you getting all worked up on
me?
”

Finally, Wes relents. His shoulders slump down and he sighs. “Man, I'm just pissed at the world these days,” he says. “It's got nothin' to do with you.”

I don't jump on him right away. Dealing with Wes these days is like handling a lit firecracker. “I feel you,” I say. “But, man—and I'm not trying to get all up on you—if you put weed in my car, then it has a
lot
to do with me.”

Wes stiffens. For a second, I think he's going to bolt and that will
be that. But at last he nods. “I'm sorry, D,” he says. “I just panicked when you got pulled over. I knew better, but I thought maybe they wouldn't find it.” He pauses, squints his eyes like he's thinking of the answer to some riddle. When he does, his face fills with tension. I get an image of what he'll look like when he's older. “I just didn't want to get run in again.”

I nod, silently pleased that he at least apologized. Then it hits me. “Again?” I ask.

Wes juts his chin out. Now that his secret's out, he puts on a tough face. Like getting into more trouble makes him cool or something. “Yeah,” he drawls. “I got busted back in June too. Got pinched lifting from Ty's Tower when you were off playing AAU.”

Maybe that jab about me being at AAU is a guilt trip—like I'm supposed to be here to take care of him 24-7. Well, it works a little. It kills me that I didn't even
know
. And it kills me more that maybe Wes is in real trouble. I think again about how he hangs with guys like JaQuentin Peggs. I think again about that watch he's rocking. I also think about Kid's warning. There's a time to just cut out on someone. But not yet. Not with my boy. “Wes, man, I'm right here now. If you need—”

He cuts me off. Just holds up his hand like he's heard it all before. “It's nothing,” he says. “Home detention's no big thing. Besides, JaQuentin says he's got a guy who can get it dropped in another week. No sweat.”

We sit there in silence while Wes takes a few bites. Then he sets his fork down and waves his hand at his tray like he's disgusted by his food. He crumples his napkin and throws it on his tray. He gives a nod to me, scoops up his mess, and he's on his way—to where, I don't know.

Wes was the one who got home detention, but it feels like I got it too. No wheels, no Wes, no Jasmine—it's meant I'm pretty much just hoofing it to school and back, and only getting a sweat up when the weather's been nice enough to hit the Fall Creek court. Well,
no Jasmine
isn't quite right. I still see her. We even fooled around some last weekend when her parents were out. But it's not like it was a year ago. In the middle of a conversation, her attention will wander. It's like sitting with someone who's got a plane to catch—they're right next to you, but part of them is already leaving you behind.

But right now that doesn't matter. Let every coach in the country call. Let Jasmine move halfway across the world. Let Wes waste all his time with losers like JaQuentin. I've got something else at last—finally,
ball
.

Already Coach Bolden's put us through our sprints. And already a few freshmen have damn near bowed out. And already Coach Bolden's gotten so mad at our lack of hustle that he's kicked a ball into the third row, sending his assistant Coach Murphy sprinting after it. But that's all show to get the new guys up to speed. Now the real practice starts—we're going through offensive sets with the first team.

I've got a good lather worked up. I'd love to just run five-on-five. Let it rip up and down the floor. Instead, I obediently listen to Coach. “The whole focus changes this year,” he says. “We don't have Moose around, so we can't just work through him in the post. We want to spread teams out and look to drive.”

That's my game right there—go to the
hole
. The next thing he says I don't like so much.

“Usually, we'll have Derrick at point, but he'll be sitting the first game. If you don't walk the line off the court, you don't play for Marion East,” he barks. Coach Murphy nods up and down in agreement, both of them making a point for the younger players. Then Coach Bolden points at me. “Flip that jersey, Bowen,” he says. “Run with the twos until you earn that starting spot back.”

That hurts. Everyone in the gym—hell, everyone in the state—knows I'm the engine for this team. Bolden's doing me dirty on the first practice. But what can I do? He's in charge, so I peel off my jersey, and flip it from red to green—the color of back-ups.

That means I get to watch while the coaches work through the sets. They're sizing up our horses for the season, and so am I.

At the bigs we've got Tyler Stanford and Chris Jones. Neither one's a true center, but they've got some bulk. Stanford in particular. He must have spent all summer in the weight room, because he's cut up pretty good. He's a senior now, and he finally looks it—his face has lost that boyish innocence. Now if he sneers when he's grabbing a board, people know they best step back. He's honed his shot some too. I hit him when he's facing from fifteen and in, he'll knock it down. Jones, I don't know about. He's there by default after paying his dues for a couple years on the bench. He's got size, but that's about it. Only way he's getting buckets are point blank—then again, Murphy and Bolden can work wonders, so maybe Jones will develop.

J. J. Fuller's at the three. He's been through the grind with me last year. I can't say we're tight, but I trust him on the floor. He's shaved
off his old flat top, which made him look like he was straight out of the 80s, down to a close buzz. But he still looks rigid. His face always has a serious expression, like he's trying to figure out a calculus problem. His moves on the court are the same way—forceful but methodical, always in straight lines with no flow. Even his shot is a line drive, but it finds bottom if he's within sixteen or seventeen feet. And the kid hustles. Even as Coach has them walking through the set, Fuller carries out his fakes like it's game-time.

Then there's Josh Reynolds at the two. A sophomore. Last year, he was a mess. If he can get some confidence though, the skills are there. He's grown a little in the off-season, up to my height—6′3″. And that shot is smooth enough. His challenge will be on the defensive end, where older players will try to overpower him.

With me at the point, it's enough. We've got some weaknesses, but you can say that about any team. The problem is, with me sitting on the sidelines, the point's being run by Malcolm Rider, a scared-witless freshman. Even walking through the sets, he looks confused. Fuller rubs off a baseline screen, and Rider is still looking to the opposite wing.

“No, no,” Bolden says. He's taking it easy on the kid, not raising his voice. Coach puts a hand on his shoulder and gently pivots him the other way. “Once the play to the wing is done, you're looking for that baseline cut.”

They run through the offense a few more times, and then it's live action. I take the floor with the second team. If the ones think I'm going to take it easy just because they're my boys, I've got a wake-up call in store for them.

First thing I do is dig into Rider. He tries driving right, and I cut him off. He looks to make an entry to Jones, and I deflect it out of bounds. Next time I keep my hands active, scaring off any passes except a bail-out to the wing. Once Rider gives it up, it's pretty obvious he doesn't want the rock back. Scared. Since he's no threat, I sag off him. And since I know where the offense wants to go, I give them fits. Reynolds passes to Fuller on the wing. I peel off Rider and jump the pass. I pick it clean and take a power dribble the other way—then I pull up since we're supposed to give right back to the first team instead of running full. But everyone knows that was an easy throw-down in the other direction. Next time, the ones work it down to Stanford, but he's too slow to make his move. By the time he rises, I've dropped all the way down from the elbow. I spike that thing out of bounds. Give a little holler of authority as I do it. That one draws some reactions all around. It's nice to remind everyone that even if I'm in green I'm the boss on the court.

The ones start again. By this time, they look a little discouraged. Rider most of all. He's extra tentative now, and I take advantage. I flick at the ball once and get a piece. He scrambles to control near mid-court, but then he picks up his dribble. “Dead! Dead!” I yell, and my teammates clamp down behind me. Rider pass-fakes, pass-fakes, pass-fakes. Finally he extends the ball too far. I pop it loose, corral it, and this time I can't help myself—I push it down the court with a couple power dribbles and tomahawk one home.

Murphy's beside me in a heartbeat. He's all smiles, acting like he's amped that I'm bringing it so hard the first day of practice—but then he pulls me aside. He calls down to the other end to tell them to keep
running drills, then loops an arm around my shoulder. He walks me toward the side basket. “Easy there, killer,” he says.