Sharkman (13 page)

21

A
n hour later, I found myself staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror of the men’s locker room, wearing a reversible Seacrest High green and white practice jersey and matching shorts.

Who was I?

The last Kwan Wilson to step onto the hardwood for basketball practice had been a boy—a cocky fifteen-year-old sophomore who weighed a buck eighty wet. The next Kwan Wilson—version 2.0—was the one I still expected to see . . . an angst-ridden, dark-haired Asian American adolescent anchored to a wheelchair by legs wrapped in flesh and frailty.

Gazing back at me was a man with a clean-shaven scalp and a sculpted physique. My former pencil neck was thick and wide, sloping past pronounced trapezius muscles to rippling deltoids and pecs that danced at my commands. I flexed my arms and my biceps exploded into tan softballs. I raised my jersey and marveled at my six-pack abs. And my legs . . . they were long coils of layered muscle that still felt alien—like a recently purchased vehicle with that lingering new car smell.

Whoever I was . . . I liked it.

“Nice haircut, douchebag.” Stephen Ley slapped me across my scalp. “Don’t hurt yourself out there today. My brother needs you Monday to shoot his TV commercial.”

“That’s not happening.”

“Oh yeah, it is. Because if you don’t show up, I’m going to tell all those reporters following you around like groupies that I supplied you with steroids, and it’s bye-bye basketball.”

I could feel my blood simmering, the muscles in my back convulsing. Gritting my teeth, I shouldered past the six-foot-seven-inch star forward, knocking over a trash can in the process.

Ley laughed. “Watch out—Asian Roid Rage’!”

Varsity basketball coach Bradford Flaig was used to dealing with postgame interviews with the local high school beat writers. Not this circus. Microphones representing every major prime-time news network were being shoved in his face. Camera crews were circling the feeding frenzy, jostling for position. A few foreign correspondents lurked along the periphery, translating the scene in their native language.

“Coach, when’s Kwan’s first game?”

“Seacrest’s next game is Friday afternoon. Kwan hasn’t made the team yet.”

“Is Kwan even eligible?”

“The kid carries a 4.3 grade point average. He makes my whole team eligible.”

“Steroids, Coach—is he eligible if he tests positive for steroids?”

“The Florida High School Athletic Association no longer mandates testing for steroids. Besides, Kwan has assured me he’s never used them.”

“Then how do you explain his muscles? The kid went from a wheelchair-bound geek to an amateur bodybuilder in two weeks.”

“Look, I’m not a doctor. I heard one medical expert say that it was a rebound effect, no pun intended. A combination of his spine healing, along with the human growth hormone and hyperbaric treatments. All I know is that we’re happy to see him walking again. If he can regain the All-State form he had when he played in San Diego, then terrific.”

The mob rushed toward me as I grabbed a basketball from the rack and started dribbling. Coach Flaig cut them off, threatening to close practice if the media left the bleachers. Naturally, the cheerleaders decided this afternoon would be the perfect time to practice in their uniforms—which made the students filling the stands happy and the players even happier.

All except me. I was a bundle of nerves; every dribble and shot filmed and scrutinized.

Warm-ups were a disaster. During layup lines, I dribbled the ball off my foot twice, and then I jammed the little finger of my shooting hand when Ley drilled me with a chest pass at close range. The three man full-court weave was a little better, but my legs still felt disconnected from the rest of me, my brain stymied by “phantom paralysis.” By the time the coaches split us into two squads (white jersey starters versus green jersey bench players), I was drenched in sweat.

Coach Flaig had the two squads walk through their offensive sets without defense while I watched from the sideline, trying to absorb the guard responsibilities. After ten minutes, the crash course ended and it was time to scrimmage, yours truly instructed to play the point for the green team.

Starting center Sal Salunitis won the tap for white. I quickly matched up with Seacrest’s starting point guard, Gary Carr, who curled around a high pick set by Ley at the left elbow and hit a three-pointer.

No one had called out the screen, and Ley’s defender hadn’t bothered to hedge around the pick to allow me a chance to catch the quick guard.

A player in green inbounded the ball to me. I pushed it down the floor against Gary Carr, struggling to initiate the offense against the white defenders, who were cheating on the play. A bad pass led to a Carr layup and boos from the stands.

By the time the game clock dipped below the fifteen minute mark, my team was down 14 to 2. Ley had eight of the white jersey’s points, and he was talking serious trash to my teammates, who were becoming more intimidated with each possession.

Dribbling the ball by the top of the key, I called for a high post screen. Ley knew it was coming and switched off on me as I drove the lane, clubbing me over the bridge of the nose with a flagrant foul as I attempted a layup.

Woozy, I remained on my back, blood dripping from both nostrils into my mouth. For a long moment the crowd remained silent, wondering if I had reinjured my spine.

Coach Flaig was taking no chances and pulled me from the game with 11:37 left on the clock. For the next three minutes I sat alone on the bench, pinching a blood-soaked towel to my nose as the bleachers slowly began to empty.

And then something happened.

It began in my chest, a steady pounding that sent my rib cage vibrating like a pile driver hammering concrete. It raced up my carotid arteries along either side of my neck and into my temples, driving the blood into my brain.

And suddenly my senses were on fire—my awareness of my internal and external environment magnifying into what I can only describe as a four-dimensional perception.

I could track every player on the court by his distinct sweat.

I could feel the acoustic vibrations of the ten bodies in motion, and somehow I knew predator from prey.

I could see subtle openings and flow patterns on the court as the action seemed to slow in my vision by a third.

My body responded to each of these sensory perceptions—my back arching, the adrenaline flowing, my pulse racing.

I stood up and grabbed Coach Flaig, squeezing his arm. “Put me in.”

He was about to say no, only my vice-like grip cut him off. Then he saw the look in my eyes and blew his whistle. “Sub. Wilson’s in for Tom Murray. Rusty, you run the point for green. Kwan, run the two.”

The stands stopped emptying. The video cameras rose with the students’ iPhones.

The crowd sensed something was about to happen.

The white team had the ball. I “felt” big Sal Salunitis moving behind me to set a back screen to free me from my man, who was dribbling toward me, attacking my left foot—only my left foot suddenly became my right foot as I anticipated his next dribble, my right arm shooting into the tiniest gap, my right hand intercepting the ball as delicately as a frog’s tongue picks off a fly.

I was by him in a blink, racing down court for an uncontested layup—only instead of laying the ball in, I elevated four feet off the hardwood and completed a three-sixty, two-handed dunk—all as smooth as a baby’s behind.

And suddenly the gymnasium came to life.

White inbounded the ball, only the two-guard was forced to bring it up the court as I refused to allow Gary Carr to breathe—anticipating every cut he attempted as he tried to free himself—his muscles foretelling each action before his body moved.

Ley called for the ball out on the wing. He pump-faked his defender in the air and drove to the hoop uncontested—never seeing my right hand, which swatted the layup into the third row of the bleachers.

Now the gym was jumping. Now my teammates were energized.

We set up on defense. The sideline inbound pass went to the six-foot-eleven-inch Salunitis, who backed into the low block—where I poked the ball free and headed down court with only one defender to beat.

I slowed to allow Stephen Ley to get to the lane ahead of me, and then I leaped from just inside the foul line, my right hand cradling the ball against my wrist, my arm whirling in a powerful arc which began at my right ankle and ended at the rim in a thunderous tomahawk dunk that sent Ley sprawling over the end line.

I stood over him, my feet straddling his waist—the crowd screaming, the coaches rushing onto the court to separate their two stars—only we never scuffled, we never exchanged blows. Perhaps it was the psychotic black pools filling my eyes, or the throbbing pulses reverberating through my neck like two garter snakes—or maybe it was simply the force of the blow that had bounced him onto the hardwood. Regardless of what it was, Stephen Ley knew better than to get up in my face and challenge me.

Coach Flaig pulled me aside, then blew his whistle. “Kwan, switch your jersey to white and play the two, Mark Maller, go green. Timekeeper, put ten minutes on the clock and reset the score to zeroes. White has the ball . . . let’s go!”

Enemies-turned-allies, Ley and I put on a clinic—the high school equivalent of LeBron James and Dwyane Wade. We hugged when the buzzer sounded, and the entire team gathered around us—the cheerleaders and students surrounding the team, the media capturing it all for tonight’s news—a freakin’ basketball scrimmage, for God’s sake.

The hype continued downstairs in the locker room, with the talk focusing on a run to the state finals and did I want to go to a beach party Friday night after the game, and did I see Tracy Shane, the head cheerleader, eyeballing me from across the sideline? Ley, who was dating her best friend and cocaptain, Erin Smith, said he’d introduce me to the foxy brunette, and in a blink of neurons it was Anya who?

Stripping down, I wrapped a towel around my naked body and joined my teammates in the shower.

Heads turned. Eyes stared.

“Jesus, Kwan . . . how’d you get so muscular?”

“Dude, you look like the Chinese version of the Hulk.”

“Arnold Schwarzenegger meets Arnold from
Happy Days
.”

“That’s your new nickname—Arnold!”

“He looks more like a Chinese version of Mr. Clean.”

“I’m Korean” was my only retort to the time-honored tradition of “Jock Wars: Rip the Runt.” Physically I wasn’t a runt. But I was a minority and I was different, and that made me shark bait.

Sure, I could have flipped out. Physically, I could have mopped the flooded tile floor with their broken bodies . . . showed them who their real daddy was as I forcibly taught them how to distinguish a Korean from a Chinese from a Japanese from a Vietnamese. But these were my teammates now, and verbally abusing me was their way of accepting me.

Come Friday afternoon, the only color that would matter would be the color of our uniforms—and that was the beauty of sport.

* * *

Rusty Allen, one of the team’s backup guards, drove me home after practice. Rusty was a good guy who was not a part of the Stephen Ley entourage. He warned me not to fall for the star forward’s “buddy-buddy” routine. “Ley will put his arm around you while he stabs you in the back. You got the better of him today, but trust me, he doesn’t like you.”

I imagined he liked me even less when he watched TV later that night.

ESPN had looped my windmill dunk and defiant stance over my fallen teammate. Combined with postings to the social networks by the students in attendance, my “in-your-face” slam and “Allen Iverson” gesture had gone viral. Getting even more views was a song parody of Psy’s “Gangnam Style,” titled “Kwan-dunk Style,” which featured highlights of the entire scrimmage.

Pushing past the media circus on our front lawn, I entered my grandmother’s house to find Sun Jung and her friends watching the dunk on a local news show.

“There he is, my favorite grandson . . . what happened to your hair? Never mind. You just in time to see yourself on TV. Wait, I can replay it on the DVR.”

I watched the highlights, grinning from ear to ear.

Sun Jung warmed my dinner while I signed assorted paraphernalia for her friends, only one of whom had ever been to our home, at least since I had moved in.

My grandmother had a surprise. Awaiting me in my room was a brand-new queen-size bed—courtesy of a local furniture company. Sun Jung said they’d send a photographer to take a few pictures of me lying on my new mattress; “three minutes for a free bed, no big deal.”

I thanked her and leaped onto the mattress. To lie down in a regular bed after spending nearly a year in a narrow hospital bed with rails was heaven. Closing my door, I popped in a Linki
n Park CD, grabbed my laptop, and spent the next two hours propped up in comfort, surfing the Internet.

I never heard the doorbell ring, so I was surprised when Li-ling entered my bedroom carrying a brown paper bag.

“And there he is, Mr. Kwan-dumb Style.”

“Li-ling? What are you doing here?”

“I’m delivering an IV from Dr. Becker.” She tossed me the brown paper bag. “The reporters thought I was delivering Chinese food . . . racist assholes.”

“What happened to Anya?”

“Anya doesn’t want to deal with you anymore.”

“Why? Li-ling, what did I do wrong?”

“I can’t say. At least, she asked me not to tell you . . . but I can be bribed.”

“I don’t have any money.”

“Who said anything about money?” She took out her iPhone. “Take off your shirt and flex.”

“Are you serious?”

“It’s for my blog. You want to hook up with Anya or not?”

Feeling ridiculous, I tugged off my T-shirt and flexed. “Start talking.”

“Anya’s brother died back in India when she was thirteen.”

“How?”

“Anya and her older brother, Rudy, were traveling on a bus in New Delhi when three men started getting rough with her. Buses can be especially dangerous places in India for women, so Anya and her brother got off at the next stop. The men must have gotten off, too, only Anya didn’t see them until they were on top of her.”