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11.

Two weeks before Christmas, and it's the showdown in Banker's Life Fieldhouse. They've got the four schools that made State last year all together for a two-day tourney. We squeaked by Muncie Central last night, so the Saturday night showcase is us and Evansville Harrison. The two of us are a combined 14-1, and that only loss is from when I sat out the opener. But I don't care about the venue. I don't care about the crowd. I don't care about any games this season that are in the rear view mirror.

I care about what's on the other end of the floor. Evansville Harrison stole our season last year. They caught us fresh from upsetting the Hamilton Academy powerhouse and clipped us before we knew what had happened. And then there's Dexter Kernantz. I seethe every time I see someone rank him higher than me, but here's the dirty truth—he outplayed me last year. He controlled the game from wire to wire. I got mine, but he got more.

As we warm up, I check him on the other end. He's in constant motion. Darting to the rim, chasing down a loose ball, flitting from
teammate to teammate to talk them up. He's got this ashy look, one of those guys who seems to be any number of races depending on the light. He's got a tattoo of a Chinese character on one shoulder. When he talks with his boys, he jukes around. But none of that matters. What matters is he's got the quicks and he's got the smarts. I better bring it tonight.

After a few more minutes getting loose, we huddle up. Coach goes over our sets. He doesn't mention last year's loss specifically, but he sends us off with a little dig. “Remember,” he says, “just because these guys don't run every chance doesn't mean they're not getting after it. Don't get lulled. Not again.”

That's all the pep talk I need. We hit those boards, and there's a fire in my belly. I do my quick checks of the stands. Family. Jasmine, who gives me a quick wave. Then Lia, five rows behind Jasmine. Can't look at her long, or I
will
get distracted. Then over to the band, my head turning out of some kind of muscle memory, even though I know there's just some anonymous kid where Wes used to sit.

“Derrick!” I hear. “
Derrick!
” I turn back to the bench and see Bolden, waving me in for one last word. “You okay?” he asks. His eyebrows are pinched down, like I've done something to get him worked up.

“I'm good,” I say.

He gestures toward the floor. “Usually you're trying to get everyone all wound up. You're quiet. That's not like you.”

I nod. “I'm done
talking
about getting amped, Coach. Tonight I just want to
play
.”

That brings a rarity—a big ol' wide smile on Coach Bolden's
leathery face. He claps his hands once in approval. Then he's back to the bench and I'm back to the hardwood.

The refs get us set, the crowd simmering in anticipation. Harrison's big man, Scotty Sims, isn't terribly skilled, but he's got several inches on Stanford, so when the ball goes up they control easily. Right away they get it in the hands of Kernantz. He's a waterbug. Driving. Backing it out. Changing directions. He hits me with a killer crossover to get a crease, but I recover in the lane. I have some size on him, so he can't rise up clean. He kicks it to the wing instead, and their offense hums along.

Everyone gets a touch. No looks though. So it's back to Kernantz. He circles out top, resetting, and everyone else flattens to the baseline. First possession, first time soloed up with Kernantz. I clap my hands and dig into my defensive stance. I keep my feet light so I'm ready to move. I know he's too quick to just clamp down, but the key is not to let him get all the way past. Then someone will have to help, and that's when Kernantz just carves folks up. He takes his time, using a few rhythm dribbles to his left. Then, quick as a whip, he spins right and attacks. I stay on his hip as he rips into the paint. He gives a deft little bump, planting his left shoulder in my chest, then hops back to create space. I jump with him, but I'm just taking the bait. He leans back toward me as he rises. He's got no chance at the shot, but when we make contact he gets what he wants—a whistle, first foul on me, two quick free throws.

The guy's good. Crafty.

He buries them both, so we get the rock down a deuce. We're in no huge hurry on our end either. We run through our offense multiple
times. On a few occasions, I know I could attack, but I don't want to show off all my moves yet. I want to hold back some go-to stuff Kernantz has never seen. On a quick reversal, I spot Stanford short baseline. I put the leather in his paws. He can drain that, so Harrison's big lunges at the shot fake. A quick duck under and dribble to the rim and Stanford ties it.

It's like that the whole first, then into the second. Long possessions, but good ones. It's not like every shot falls, but nobody starts chucking up cheap ones. And I swear there's maybe three turnovers between the teams.

Every player who's hit the boards has brought their best, but I know what's up—this is really a game between me and Kernantz. No, we don't score every bucket. But those possessions run through us. The team that wins the point guard match-up is going to be the team that wins the game. Even Bolden knows it. “You're doing a good job out there,” he tells me at a dead ball. “Keep distributing. Keep staying into Kernantz.” That's about as thick as Bolden lays on the praise in the middle of a game.

We're tied at 19, our ball out on the side. I bring it into the front-court and start into our offense. Again, there's nothing easy. When I give it up, Kernantz follows me through some screens, always between me and the ball. Textbook. On my baseline cut, I stop short at the post. “Ball!” I shout to Reynolds. It takes him a second. By the time I squeeze the orange, Kernantz has me bodied up best he can. Still, with my size some help comes from the high post.
Zip
. I put that thing on a cutting Jones. He fights through some traffic for a shot, but as soon as it leaves his hands I see it's off. I put a swim
move on Kernantz to get position. I time it up. Then I rise for another throwdown off the rebound. Plus a whistle.

That gets the crowd pumping again. And it's just a little sign that no matter how skilled Kernantz is, there are things I can bring to the court that he just can't.

One problem. The official's pointing the other way. Evansville Harrison ball. Nobody can even figure out why. Bolden just puts his hands palms-up on the sidelines and stomps his feet. “What's the call?” he shouts. Then I see Kernantz down on the baseline. He's sprawled there like he's been shot. At last the ref points to me and makes a hook motion with his elbow. Un
real
. He's calling me for that swim move. I look at Kernantz, see him crack a little smile while his teammates help him up—all of it was an act.

Our crowd throws an absolute fit. Two seconds ago they were celebrating my jam. Now they're about to storm down and murder that ref. It doesn't matter. They can yell all they want, it's not going to change the call.

Evansville Harrison gets ready to in-bound the ball, but not before a buzzer at the scorer's table—it's Rider, coming in for me. That draws a fresh round of
boos
from our crowd. Not because they're on Bolden's back—he's just protecting me from a third first-half foul, hoping we can hang until halftime—but because it makes that call seem like even more of an injustice.

I hit the bench in disgust. I towel some sweat off my face, hear all my teammates tell me it was a garbage call. Coach Murphy clears a seat next to me and gets in my ear. “Don't let it get to you,” he says. “Get back out there in the second half for winning time. We'll hang until then.”

So he says. But when he looks at the court, I see the expression on his face change. Murphy takes a deep breath, then rubs his jaw like he just got punched. Rider against Kernantz. That's death.

Kernantz lets the offense run for a little while, just sizing Rider up. Then
bam
—he catches it off a cut and sees Rider leaning. Crossover. Dip into the lane. Deuce.

We can't answer. We've got no zip to our offense now and Fuller takes the game's first truly bad shot—a leaner in heavy traffic. Sims clears for Evansville, hits Kernantz at the hash, and that kid is gone so fast he leaves vapor trails. Rider makes a desperate stab at the ball as Kernantz leaves him, and then it's a free run-out for another deuce.

I check the clock. Three minutes until half. The way this is going, we'll be down twenty by then.

It's not twenty. But it's bad. They put a seven-point run on us before Stanford stopped it with a bucket. Then they closed out the half with another six-point run, to make it 32-21 at the half. That's a tough climb against any team, but against Evansville Harrison it's Mount Everest.

“You can't get all this back at once,” Bolden tells us in the locker room. The other starters are slumped down in their chairs, catching their breath. I'm the only one at attention, so it feels like Coach is talking directly at me. “If we get impatient, they'll carve us up. We just have to take it one possession at a time. But we can't just wait around either. Soon as that clock starts ticking we've got to be sharp.”

The locker room is pretty dead though. My first two years when we'd get run by Hamilton Academy, we knew it was just because they were so deep and talented. But it just made us want to take another
crack at them the way little brothers keep itching to take on their big brother. Against Evansville Harrison it's not so much that they're more talented, but they're so in control of everything. They're so assured of themselves, it's like they've filled us with doubt.

“We got this,” I say. “Heads up, boys.”

That lifts spirits a little bit, but it's mostly show. Time to take my own advice—lead on the floor.

We get the ball first, and right off I'm itchy to make my mark. But I know Kernantz is just waiting for me to lower my shoulder so he can flop again. Instead, I run the offense. This time I'm not holding anything back though. When I run a dribble exchange with Reynolds out top, I break our set and cut straight down the lane. Jones and Stanford widen out to the baselines, giving me space. I open up in the paint. Reynolds is quick enough to see it. Gets me the rock before help can come. I use my size to just rise over Kernantz. Bucket.

Poof—doubt's gone. Nothing like seeing that rock find bottom to get people's minds right.

I pick Kernantz up full-court. I've got no fantasies about turning him. I just want to show my teammates that it's time to get after it. Kernantz barely notices. He brings it up and sets their offense humming. They're in no hurry with a nine-point lead. But it's
way
too early to try icing things, even for them. When they dump it to their center Sims in the post, I can see he wants to take Stanford. But he's slow with his move. He dribbles, dribbles, dribbles, trying to back down. I'm at the foul line, waiting. When he picks up his dribble, I dive down hard. Hands straight up so I don't draw a whistle. He's off-balance, but he forces one up anyway. Front rim and off. Fuller rips.

I sprint to the hash for the outlet, but Kernantz and the off-guard are back, so I hold up. I widen to the wing, but I see Stanford busting it hard. Sims is trailing a good three steps behind him. I wave Fuller out of the middle to give Stanford space and then hit the big man right in stride. He gathers, takes a late hack from Sims, and muscles one in with the whistle. Just like that, we're right back in it. Our crowd knows it. They're on their feet and
loud
, feeding our fire. And Kernantz knows it too. He calls his boys into a quick huddle before the free throw and rips into them pretty good—I can't hear everything, but he gets up into everyone's face, jabbing his index finger at their chests. This thing's back on.

We chip and chip. These guys are too good to just let us chew through their whole lead with one big run, but the closer we get the more they press. Even Kernantz forces a few. He misses an impossible runner. The next trip he tries to fool me with the same move he threw at me in the semis last year—he points behind me like he's calling for a ball-screen and then snaps back for a three. Only this time I'm not fooled. Instead of turning my head, I get all up into him. He fires anyway. An easy swat. Then it's a footrace to the ball, one I win. I feel the crowd rising, ready for me to throw one down, but Kernantz makes a late play—knifing across my path and swiping at the ball—so they have to settle for the lay-in. It still cuts their lead to a single point with a little over two minutes left.

Now they're really sweating it. Except for Kernatnz, they all look tight. And I know that means one thing—he's going to try taking over. Sure enough, when he crosses mid-court their coach makes the signal—his right index finger up with his other hand flat. Iso Kernantz. The two
of us on an island up top. My calves are burning from checking him all game, but I know I just need one more stop. First Upchurch. Then May. This is the third time now I'm locked up with another elite, game on the line. Two out of three won't be good enough.

While he dribbles, I can hear my teammates behind me, shouting
Stick him, D
and
You on this now
. The crowd is one massive roar. Behind Kernantz, I can see our bench. The players are all up pumping fists and waving towels. Murphy's crouched on one knee, scowling so severely you'd think he was the one getting ready to check Kernantz. But then there's Bolden. He's standing straight. Arms folded across his chest. A calm expression.
Damn
, I think
, Coach thinks we've got ‘em.

Kernantz takes a couple deep breaths, then starts toward me. The key is to not bite on any fakes, but to be ready to jump when he attacks for real. He crosses left, then between his legs right. Then a step-back. Then it comes. He spins back right and darts into the lane. I'm on his hip the whole way. He comes to a jump-stop at about ten feet. Every nerve in me says
Rise
, but I keep my feet. I body him, straight up, and all of a sudden he's got nowhere to go. “Dead!” I scream. “Ball's dead!” And my boys clamp down. Kernantz pass-fakes, pump-fakes, pass-fakes again. At last there's a whistle. No cheapie on me this time. Steps on him instead. Our ball. Two minutes even.