Game (11 page)

Boogie's hand came across my wrist as their center brought two huge hands toward my face. I felt myself falling backward, but I could see, through a
forest of arms and hands and frantic fingers, Tomas higher than I had ever seen him and the ball ripping through the net. Ernie had dropped to his knees at the foul line and was screaming. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but the joy in his face told me everything. We had won!

Tomas had made the basket; the final score was 70–69.

House was slapping Tomas on the back. I got up off the floor and tried to get my breathing back to normal again as I walked toward the bench.

Needham ran over and gave me a high five, and so did Abdul.

“You're a player, Lawson!” a voice next to me said. I looked down, and a short, round guy with curly hair was looking up at me. “You still living in Harlem?”

“I know you?” I asked the guy.

“You will,” he said, and walked away.

Boogie came over and put his arm around me. “Sweet game, man,” he said. “Sweet game.”

It was, too.

E
verybody plays everybody. Six games in all. If there are only four teams, it means there are six possible wins,” Jocelyn said. She was scribbling like crazy on a long yellow pad. “Three teams can win 2 and lose 1. Or two teams can win 2 and lose 1 and two teams can lose 2 and win 1. However, if one team wins 3 games, it's all over because no other team can win more than 2 games. You want to see the math?”

“No.”

There were supposed to be five teams in the regionals, but Trinity dropped out at the last minute,
leaving Our Lady of Mercy, Roosevelt Academy, Lane, and us. The whole school was going ape, and even dudes who didn't play ball at all were walking around talking about the game.

At practice in the afternoon the guys on the team were told that we would each get four tickets to every game, but we could get more if we wanted them. Sky said he needed at least ten for all his women. Abdul said that Sky could have his tickets because his family didn't know a thing about basketball.

House was trying to act cool, but he wasn't. Only the top team was going on from the regionals to the state finals in Albany, and I knew he was already thinking about it. I was, too. The longer we played, the better chance I would have at getting a dynamite scholarship.

I was looking for a Division I school because that was the way to the pros. You didn't see guys from Division II schools being drafted.

“You could be drafted from a Division II if the right scout or coach saw you play.” Fletch and I were sitting on the sidelines watching the team play horse after the workout. “They want more size from a Division II player, though.”

“Why?”

“Because they figure if you're playing with a Division I school and you had any playing time, your stats will tell them if you can play or not. Stats don't mean as much in Division II ball.”

“They looking for white ballplayers?” I asked, watching Tomas dribble across the foul line, stop short, and throw up a jumper that bounced off the rim.

“If it's a predominantly white school, they are,” Fletch said. “If you were scouting for Duke or North Carolina or Kentucky, wouldn't you be looking for white ballplayers?”

“You think that's right?”

“You didn't answer my question.” Fletch sniffed twice, then took his handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose. “So would you be looking for white players?”

“I guess so.”

“Hey, you're finally learning the game,” Fletch said. “Next week I'll teach you how to dribble.”

House had us working on defense.

“I want you to stop the ball as soon as you can,” he said. “We don't want to let a man
walk
the ball
upcourt,
walk
across the midcourt line, and set up plays as if he was playing a half-court game.”

The way House wanted us playing it was that both guards worked at stopping the ball and then getting back into a loose zone. Ernie and I were the best at doing it, and we felt good with it.

On the way out of the gym after practice I saw a bald-headed black man and a young white man talking to Tomas. I figured they were scouts. Maybe they weren't, but I was checking out everything and letting my mind run wild.

I could understand them looking for white ballplayers. I saw on television that some entire college teams, even the benchwarmers, were black.

When I got home, I was really up. Pops was going through the newspaper and talking about buying a used car. I asked him if he was going to come out to Nassau Coliseum to see any of the games.

“Yeah, I can see me out at the Coliseum,” he said. “Maybe you guys can warm up with a pro team.”

I didn't think that was going to happen, but I still let myself dream about some pro scouts digging my game.

 

So it's Saturday and we're in the deeply righteous locker room at the Coliseum and House is explaining everything to us. “We win all our games, we move to the next level,” House said. “It's as simple as that.”

We had a game in the morning and a game in the afternoon. Then a game on Sunday either in the morning or afternoon, depending on what the other teams were doing.

Our first game was against Our Lady of Mercy.

Our Lady of Mercy was a big Catholic school on the northern edge of the Bronx. They must have had money's mama, because they came in really fine blue-and-gray buses. We came in the yellow city school bus. When we got on the floor to warm up, we saw they had dynamite satin sweats. They had a bunch of white cheerleaders from a girls' school, and they were looking generally correct.

The game ball felt a little hard, but it bounced okay. It also had slightly raised sections so you could feel where the lines were.

There were a quadrillion people in the stands and guys selling hot dogs and sodas. They had huge televisions above us, and every once in a while I could see myself as we warmed up. It was awesome.

When the game started, it felt funny. We were playing okay and so were they, but somehow it didn't seem real. It was almost as if we were just going through the motions. House and Fletch saw it, too, and started yelling at us.

“You just come out here for the ride?” House asked. We were sitting on the bench during a time-out. “Because I don't think you came to play.”

I didn't know if it was where we were playing or what. I knew the place was huge, and it made me feel smaller. It was as if the size of the place were taking away my strength. Ruffy wasn't doing much at center and nobody was picking up the slack. There wasn't any excitement in the game, no fire. After the time-out I could feel the team hustling more, but at halftime we were down by five, 39–34.

The second half started with them hitting two treys in a row. One was by my man and House yanked me. I thought he was getting frustrated. Ricky and Ernie were in the backcourt. From the sideline I could see what was shaking. They were snatching the boards big-time over Tomas and Sky. Ruffy got a few boards, but he wasn't getting enough to get us back into the game. Tomas was doing okay
on offense, and I saw that his game looked tighter than I thought it had been.

“Yo, coach, put me back in!” I knelt down in front of House. “I can bring us back.”

House nodded toward the scorer's table, and I went and checked in. When Ruffy fouled one of their guards, I came in for Ricky. They weren't in the bonus yet and brought the ball in from the sideline. I found my man and just started pushing him around the court.

The brother I was holding was about six feet and an okay ballplayer. He was thin and dark-skinned, and he had a few nice moves but set up plays more than he shot unless he was wide open. I pushed him away from the sideline, putting my body against him and leaning with my hand on his waist.

They brought the ball in and set up a pick behind the foul line in front of the key. Their forward came out, ran Ruffy into the pick, and took the J. The ball bounced off the rim and straight up. I went in from the side of the lane and grabbed the ball. Our guys started downcourt. I handed the ball off to Ernie.

“We're not blocking out,” I said to him. “They're getting up in the air with no fight.”

I went downcourt and started yelling at the guys to block out under the boards. I didn't care if the other team heard me, because I figured we were stronger than they were. None of them had any real size and they weren't even close to cut.

I knew blocking out strong would get us back into the game. For some reason we were just standing up straight and jumping for the rebounds when we needed to be leaning on some bodies. Ruffy started to catch fire and use his big body and strength to dominate.

We started controlling both boards. I fed Tomas and he worked the moves that Fletch had shown him, hitting four shots in a row.

The mo changed big-time and their coach called a time-out.

“He's going over to the refs, asking for fouls,” Fletch said.

House saw their coach talking with his palms up, copping a plea. House went over to talk for us.

“Keep feeding Tomas inside!” I said.

“He's playing too deep! He's playing too deep!” Ruffy wanted Tomas to get away from right under the basket.

Tomas was good under there because he collected all the garbage and went right back up on offense and held on to the ball on the defensive boards. But Ruffy was right. He had to come out some, because it was taking too long to set up our stuff with him being in too deep.

When we were on the court again, I talked to Tomas.

“Come out a step, maybe two,” I said.

“Don't tell me how to play,” he came back.

“If we lose, I'm going to punch you in your face after the game,” I said.

He gave me a look, but he moved outside a little. And I figured him to be a better player when he was mad.

The ref started calling fouls on us but that was okay, because we didn't have any from the first half so nobody was in trouble. We caught Mercy with three minutes to go. Then they just folded, whining to the refs about how we were pushing them and fouling them. We were pushing and there were a few fouls that weren't being called, but they were using that as an excuse to lose the game. Good.

The game ended 68–64.

House said something stupid about us finally learning the game. Fletch came over and gave everybody five. He didn't have to say anything else.

 

Relax. Everybody was talking about relaxing, but we were all up way too high.

“This is big-time, man! This is big-time!” Ernie was running around the locker room, scoping out the rubbing tables, refrigerators filled with soft drinks and water, and whatever else he could get into.

House got us together after a while, and we went out for lunch. Some people in the restaurant were looking at us, and a kid came over and asked us were we the Nets from the NBA.

“The Nets can't play with us,” Abdul said. “We're too good.”

The kid gave Abdul a look that said he didn't believe a word he was saying, but he still asked him for his autograph.

Then everybody was talking about why the kid had picked Abdul to talk to and get his autograph. Abdul said it was because he was a Muslim and his inner beauty was shining through.

“Even kids recognize what a beautiful person I am,” he added.

We finished our lunch and went for a walk, with House and Fletch guarding us like we were precious. I dug that. We were all feeling good, but we had another game coming up.

Roosevelt didn't have as many fans as Our Lady of Mercy and hardly any white folks, but the bunch of kids who did come were noisy. They brought only eight players—all wide dudes who looked like they should have been digging ditches or something. They all wore do-rags during warm-ups, which I thought was tough, and they were joking around like they had already copped the win.

“Whatever game you got, you have to leave it on the floor today,” House said. “We don't want to lose because we didn't put out.”

When we lined up, my man put his fist up and I hit it. He tried to hold it firm and show off his manhood. The sucker was cut, but he looked a little funny because he had a long body and short legs. He was my height, though, and I figured him to be strong. The way it turned out, he wasn't just strong, he was like King Kong's little brother. I expected
the dude to start pounding his chest and going chee-chee-chee or something.

They won the tap and brought the ball down, and my man took me in deep and called for the ball. When he got it, he started backing me in toward the basket, and I knew he was stronger than me. I held him out the best I could, waiting for some help. Tomas came over and King Kong went up and blew the layup. As he came down, I boxed him out and got the bound.

I passed out to Ernie and we came downcourt fast. Ernie's man stopped the ball, and Ernie passed it to me. I saw Tomas open on the left side and got the ball to him on a bounce as he moved, and he made the easy deuce.

Their starting five were all big, all strong, but they didn't know a thing about playing ball. On defense they were in a loose zone and just beat on whoever was near them. It got so bad that the refs were calling only the worst fouls. It was like in the school yard—no blood, no foul. On offense it was like they had never been in a gym before. Whoever had the ball did his thing, and everybody else just stood around. Man on man they were good. They
were real good. They moved well, they could leap, almost fly through the air. They had good hands, great bodies. At any moment they had five brothers with dynamite reflexes and bitching nice moves on the wood, but you can't beat a team going one against five.

At the end of the half we were up by eleven and it wasn't even that close. House said they would get their game together in the second half, but I didn't think so. The way they were playing, rapping and joking around with each other, it was as if they didn't know what was going on.

I wanted to win bad, but I felt like I should have stopped the game and asked those brothers if they knew what kind of game they were in. We were on the court living out our lives. I was playing my heart out, trying to get over—what were they doing? Had they been fooled? Did they think that the game was going to do for them whatever they wanted? That it didn't matter how they played as long as they performed the way they wanted? When House took me out at the end of the third quarter, I mentioned that Roosevelt didn't seem serious.

He shrugged. It didn't matter to him. He was
looking for a win for us, for himself. What the guys on Roosevelt were doing was off the screen.

The way Roosevelt played bothered me. I wanted the win as much as House did, as much as anybody did, but the fact that brothers were goofing when they had business to take care of was just wrong.

I played more. It was my game and Tomas's game and Sky's game and the team's game. Everything we had done in practice came in. We ran backdoor plays, overloads, and trey kickouts until we were tired. When House took me out again, he pointed up at the score clock. We had 70 to their 58 with fifteen seconds to go. I flopped down on the bench and took the water some girl was handing me. I didn't drink it, just held it in my hands with my legs stretched out in front of me.