Pull (6 page)

Fuller checks his phone. It's probably just a way of pretending like he doesn't care that Jasmine dogged him out, but then he purses his lips. “Three missed calls from Mom,” he says. “I better bolt.”

He wads his napkins and wrappers on his tray and then hits it, giving me a clumsy fist bump across his tray before he leaves. That leaves me and Jasmine. For a few seconds we stare at each other in awkward silence. It gets broken by a guy calling her order number out, so Jasmine stands to go get it. As soon as she walks away, I kick myself for not having better manners—I should have got it for her. But before that thought's even done, I do something else rude. I toe that top book
a couple times until I can get a good look at the pamphlet she brought in. It's from IUPUI all right, and it's got some application materials. But it's not for college exactly. Instead, it's for dual enrollment classes. I've heard about that stuff, but it's not the kind of thing kids from Marion East do, so I don't know exactly what it means.

Before I can pry further though, Jasmine sets her tray down on the table. “Snoop much?” she says. Busted as can be, I start to stammer out an apology. For once, Jasmine lets me off the hook. “It's okay, Derrick,” she says. “You're digging, but I've been holding back. So it's okay.”

“So what's that about?” I ask, pointing to the pamphlet.

“It's so I can take college courses next semester,” she says. “Get some basic credits out of the way before I get to college next year.” She sees some confusion on my face. She explains more. She's not going to IUPUI for college, she tells me. She's still holding out for a better ACT score. But the stuff she takes at IUPUI in the spring will transfer to college.

I nod and start chowing down on my last few bites of burger. Then it hits me. If she's at the IUPUI campus next semester, then that means she's not at Marion East. “So you're gone?” I ask. I try not to sound hurt, but I think I do anyway.

She nods. “I've got everything I need to take at Marion East out of the way,” she says. “There's not much more there for me.” She winces on that last sentence. It stung me and she knows it. “I didn't mean it that way, Derrick,” she says. “I've been waiting to tell you because—I don't know. Because you and I have always had this
thing
. But I guess I just realized it's a high school thing. One way or another, we're going separate ways soon enough.”

I feel blindsided. Coach Bolden could walk in the door and tell
me that I just dreamt the Warren Central win, that Upchurch lit me up for 30 and we got run out, and it wouldn't be a smack upside the head like what Jasmine just put on me. I can't let it show though. I take a second to gather myself, and then point at her tray. She's made a tragic mistake—she's tried to go sensible at Sure Burger. Plain fries. A burger with no cheese or mayo, but extra lettuce and tomato. “Damn, girl,” I say. “Even when you're trying to indulge, you don't know how.”

She smiles. She offers a polite little laugh. Both of us know it doesn't erase what she just told me, but it lets her breathe easy about it.

Besides, she'll still be in the city even if she's on a different campus. As long as we're in the same state, it's never really over. Both of us know that much.

8.

Indiana. Michigan State. Florida. These schools aren't going anywhere. Neither is anyone else texting and calling and peeping my lines. They might be in a rush to sign me, but it's not like they're gonna stop playing college basketball if I don't give them an answer.

But junior year at Marion East? That's disappearing with each second. So I best make it count. And if Jasmine's bailing on me, and Wes has his head all fogged up with smoke, fine. That just means it's me and my boys.

So come the next Friday, I'm not checking the stands to catch a smile from Jasmine or a fist pump from Wes or to take inventory on the recruiters. Sure, I give a nod to my people, but all my attention's on the other end of the floor. Louisville Ballard. Stacked. All five starters are going Division I, and they have a freshman coming off the bench—LeGarrett May—who's going to be better than any of them. It's the first game of a four-team tourney in Louisville, the kind of thing Marion East never got invites to before I hit the scene.

I make the rounds during warm-ups, pumping my boys up.
They're all juiced for the chance to take on a big-time team from another state. I just want to make sure they've got confidence in themselves, so I talk each of them up. But with a minute left in warmups, Coach Bolden grabs me by the elbow and pulls me toward the bench. “What do you think you're doing?” he asks.

“Getting guys amped,” I answer.

“Amped,”
he repeats, like I've said some dirty word. “Why not
focused
instead? Derrick, I know you can go toe-to-toe with any player on Ballard, but that's
you
. We don't want Josh Reynolds thinking he needs to put up 20 tonight. We don't need J.J. Fuller thinking he's a three-point threat. What we need is for them to know we want to make them work on defense. That we've got to give up crashing the offensive glass so we can get back in transition.”

“I hear you, Coach,” I say. The man's the man, and there's no changing that. I jog back out to get a few more Js in before game-time. A pure three from the corner. A pull-up from the right wing. And then one rip to the hole for an up-and-under. Ready.

In the huddle, Coach runs through our game plan, shouting at us like we've already messed it up. Then it's time—starting line-ups and tip. Just before I hit the boards though, Coach Murphy gets in my ear. “Hey, don't sweat Bolden,” he says. “The old man gets amped too, and that's how it comes out. Help rein the other guys in, but you attack when you get the chance.”

That's
the message I want to hear. As I put my D Rose 5s on the hardwood, I just know—feel it in my bones—I'm about to drop the truth on this gym.

As soon as I get out to center court, I see what Coach means.
Ballard's the real deal. They've got size across the board, especially down low with a 6′10″ beast named James Lacy. And I know from watching game film that everyone but Lacy can stretch the D out to the arc.

Lacy controls the tip over Stanford, and they come at us. I know they can rip it and run in transition, but in the half-court they're pretty methodical. They reverse and look for Lacy. We sink down to scare off the entry, so they zip it back around the perimeter. Not a lot of cuts. Hardly any screens. But all it takes is one slow rotation. And they get it from Reynolds, who keeps his kicks in the paint a split second too long. He can't get back out to challenge his man at the arc, and—zip—Ballard's got a 3-0 lead.

Jones kicks the in-bounds to me, and Ballard offers some pressure. It's just to slow me down a beat. As soon as I get my shoulders past the first man, they all retreat. On our end, we're the polar opposite of them. Sure, we look inside, but our O is built on cuts and screens. I kick to Reynolds on the wing and cross-screen for Fuller. Reynolds looks post, then fakes to me flashing at the elbow. Soon as that's done, he runs a dribble exchange with Fuller. By then I'm coming all the way to the opposite baseline with a little breathing room. Fuller puts it in my mitts. Right away I see two coming at me. That leaves Jones alone on the block. I hit him. Lacy helps, but even Jones is quick enough to shuttle a pass around him to Stanford. An easy bucket.

I decide to give a little pressure right back. I hound my man for the first few dribbles up the floor. Then I hear Bolden thump his foot on the sideline. “Just get back, Bowen!” he shouts. I obey, but I saw enough. Their point guard has size and a sweet stroke—but his handles are shaky. He wanted no part of my pressure.

The game's like a boxing match between a heavyweight and a featherweight. They want to stand there and slug it out—pound, pound, pound down low—and when we get a chance we want to make them chase us until they drop. It pretty much evens out. They've got a 12-11 lead with about three minutes to go in the first.

And then it all changes—May checks in. You can hear the energy ripple through their crowd. He doesn't start, but he's second on their team in scoring behind Lacy. And he'll be running the hardwood the rest of the night. He's a load. He's 6'5” and rangy. He doesn't have any bulk on him yet, but he's strong enough to post. And the kid has hops like nobody's business. Even I can't rise inch-for-inch with May. His natural position is the three-spot, so Fuller gets first crack at him.

Right away you can see where they're going. Straight to May in the post. Fuller's face is all creased with concentration. He tries to root May out of the post. It's enough to make May catch it shallow wing instead, but he doesn't seem to mind. He faces, then jab-steps baseline to make Fuller move. As soon as he's got a little space, he rises—even fading away just a touch. All Fuller can do is stand and watch. While it's in mid-air, I hear May holler
Bucket!
It's no lie.

It's just a deuce in the first, but Ballard's crowd reacts like May just dropped a three at the buzzer. They know we don't have anyone who can check him. I mean, they might not play anyone this year who can. And we can't double both him
and
Lacy. There's almost a little laughter in their cheers, like they're saying
You can't do anything about it, boys.

Well, maybe not on the defensive end. But as soon as I get the rock, I go to work. I'm not going to just freelance, but I'm looking for a crease every time I touch it. Finally, I get some room on a reversal and
attack. I rip it past my man. I have a pull-up available, but that's not what I want. Time to challenge that big man in the middle.

I take a power dribble into the lane. I muscle past a few reaches. Then I'm squared up on Lacy. Only I've got some momentum and he's flat-footed. He waits until I leave my feet, then rises to challenge. I try to go right through him to the rim. And he does what 6′10″ guys do—sends my shot into the second row. But I get the whistle I was looking for. So instead of Lacy woofing at me, I head to the stripe for two. Lacy's saddled with his first—it's just one, but it's a start. And everyone knows there's no difference between a 6′10″ guy and a 5′10″ guy when they're sitting on the pine.

It kills Bolden to see us struggle on defense like this. Sometimes I think the old man would rather we lose 22-21 than win a game in the 80s. So each timeout he's switching someone new onto May. Then, at halftime, he draws up a triangle-and-two scheme—three guys playing zone with one each tagging May and Lacy.

No dice. Nothing works.

By mid-fourth, May's got 26, and he's made it look easy. By now we've gone back to the original plan of checking him with Fuller. But even my boy Fuller—as gung ho as any player's ever been—is starting to hang his head in discouragement. Bolden claps his hands on the sideline and tells him to stay after it. We can also hear people shouting advice from the stands—
Body him up!
and
Make him go left!
—like nobody else has thought of that.

And it's not like Lacy's struggling. He had a double-double by mid-third, and now he's just wearing Jones and Stanford out. It's
Ballard's ball under their basket, with them up 76-70, and both our bigs are gasping for air.

Now I hear another voice cutting through the buzz of the crowd. It's Kid's. “Star time now,” he shouts. “Be the star, D-Bow!”

Problem is, I don't have the size to check either Lacy or May. There's only so much I can do from the point. I've dropped 20 on them with 8 dimes to boot, but that doesn't get us stops. And, simple as can be, they lob an in-bounds over a worn-out Stanford. Lacy reels it in with his left and gathers with a big slap of his right. He's too deep for anyone to even challenge. He thunders it home. Eight-point game.

Bolden calls time. When we get into the huddle though, he doesn't say anything. He pulls out his whiteboard and uncaps his marker, but then he stops. His marker hovers over that board. It alights for an instant, leaving a tiny mark, and then comes back up. He caps it again. “Just get your breath,” he tells us. “Get your legs back.”

We each slump back on the bench, chests heaving. We take swigs of water. We wait for Bolden to say something more. When he sees that expression on our faces, he shakes his head. “That's it. Look, we've thrown every scheme at them. There's nothing more to try. Just take the rest of the timeout and suck it up. Dig down for one more run.”

We do as we're told. When the buzzer sounds, we rise for more. Coach reminds us that we can't get all eight points back at once. “Just get a bucket and a stop,” he says. “Then go from there.”

I'm two steps onto the court when I feel that old, wiry grip at my elbow again. “What's up, Coach?” I ask.

Bolden squints up at me, just the hint of a smile on his old owl face. “You always want to get the guys
amped
, right?” he says.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Well, now would be the time, Derrick.”

And there it is. For two years and change, Coach has held me back. He made me ride pine as a freshman. Made me play at a snail's pace as a soph. But right here, in a hot gym in Louisville, he's handing me the reins. “I got this, Coach,” I say.

I don't have time to bark at my teammates before the ball's live again. I'll have to change their attitudes with my play. Fuller throws the in-bounds to Reynolds in the corner. Right away, it's clear we're dead if I don't do something. Reynolds just looks around, lost, and lets a trap clamp down on him. He tries a weak pass to Stanford, but it gets tipped away. I scramble to the right wing to scoop up the loose ball. I don't even bother re-setting. Just attack. I explode past my man into the paint. Lacy drops down to challenge, but this time he's late. I power one through before he can get there, and his momentum carries him into me. A late whistle, and I've got a chance for more at the stripe.

Plus, that's Lacy's fourth. While the Ballard coaches bellyache to the ref about the call, I sink the freebie. Down five. Our crowd buzzes with hope. That prompts some enthusiastic chatter from Stanford and Fuller, but for all their
Dig in on D now
and
We're still in this
noise, I know I've still got to shoulder the load.

Ballard brings it up. They're not in any hurry. They just want to eat some clock, then find Lacy or May on the blocks.
Bury these guys
is what they're thinking.

I position myself just between the circles, waiting. I even turn my head to shout at Reynolds to not double too early on the post. But that's just show. I'm a snake coiled for the strike. And as soon as
that point—the same one who had the jitters early from my mock pressure—crosses mid-court, I cut him off from going right. A quick stab at the rock when he crosses. A deflection off his ankle. It trickles back between his legs, and he's dead. Before he has time to turn, I've already pinched the pill from him. As I race ahead, I can hear our crowd rising, hoping for some fireworks—a tomahawk, a reverse throw-down,
something
—but now's not the time for showboating. I get to the rim fast as I can, offer a vanilla dunk. It's a deuce all the same. Enough to prompt a timeout from the Ballard bench, their lead sliced to three in a matter of seconds.

“That's what I'm
talking
about,” Stanford shouts as we head back to the huddle. “Get these boys
rattled
.”

He's hollering like he's the one balling out. But let him. Thirty seconds ago, half the team didn't even believe. So if he has some swagger back, let him woof.

This time, Bolden's got more of a plan too. He gets that whiteboard out and starts diagramming feverishly. “All game long we've been doubling from the top,” he says. “Let's change it up one time. As soon as Lacy or May gets it, we're doubling from the backside.” He stops and draws it on the board, so we can visualize. “That means the rotations are going the other way, and”—he makes a quick jag on the board, showing the off-play perimeter player diving down to the paint—“the most important part is this one. You've got to cut off that other post before they see it.”

Back on the floor, Ballard's point brings it up really carefully against me. At the first sign of real pressure, he just dumps it off to their two guard. When they cross mid-court, the plan's obvious. They want
Lacy deep. May's been the man, but I guess when it's crunch time, they want their senior to get the rock. They plod, waiting to get the right look. At last, Lacy gets position on Stanford. They get it to him, but Stanford works hard to nudge Lacy about a foot off the block. That's when we react. Jones comes on a hard double from the baseline. I dive down to take away the easy look to the other post. Reynolds floats out top, playing safety between the perimeter guys.

But Lacy's not looking to pass. He feels Stanford shading him middle. He spins hard for what he thinks is a free run at the rim. Instead, he barrels smack into Jones. The two of them spill in a hulking heap at the baseline. The trill of the ref's whistle splits the air. The whole gym inhales, waiting to see which way it will go. The ref hesitates for a second, like he's caving to the hopes of the home crowd. But then he cups his hand behind his head and punches the air with the other. Charge. Lacy's fifth. Our ball.