Swagger (2 page)

M
Y NEXT GAME WAS FRIDAY
night against Sequoia High, our cross-town rival. As we came out of the locker room to loosen up, Coach Russell pointed to the top row of the stands. I followed his finger and spotted a stocky man with a movie camera mounted on a tripod. “That's my brother Jim. He'll be filming you.”

The place was rocking, lights and sounds filling every inch of the gym, but as I moved through our pregame drills, all I felt was the camera trained on me like a rifle. I looked down at my hands just before tip-off, and they were shaking.

The jitters stayed with me through the opening minutes of the game. On an early fast break, I dribbled the ball off my foot and out-of-bounds. The next possession, I hoisted up an air ball from about twenty-eight feet. “Settle down, Dolan,” Coach Russell hollered, palms facing down.

Sequoia's guard, Alex Fuentes, brought the ball up. Just as I went for a steal, Fuentes crossed over on me and drove to the hoop for a lay-up. As he ran back to play defense, Fuentes smirked at me, as if I were nothing.

That smirk snapped me out of my funk. For the rest of the half, I was in his face on defense and eating him alive on offense. I hit a step-back jumper at the three-minute mark, and then faked the same shot only to blow by him for a lay-up the next time down. We were trailing by seven when Fuentes gave me his little grin again; at halftime we were up by four points. During that stretch, I totally forgot the camera.

And I didn't think about it during the second half, either. A point guard isn't a scorer; my main responsibility was to get the other guys going, particularly Mark Westwood, our center. Early in the third quarter, I gave a couple of nice lobs over the top that resulted in easy dunks. After that, I spread the ball around, getting different guys on the team touches. Everything clicked, and we ended up winning, 58–39. My line: thirteen points, nine assists, and three rebounds.

Afterward Coach Russell high-fived us all. “Great game! Great game!” As the locker room emptied, he motioned for me to stay behind. Once we were alone, he told me he was going to make DVD copies of the video his brother had shot and get them in the mail. “Shouldn't someone edit it first?” I asked. “I screwed up royally in the first quarter.”

Coach Russell shook his head. “Trust me, Jonas. Sending a complete game is the way to go. Coaches will know we're not hiding anything. Honesty matters.”

That was like Coach Russell, always completely straightforward. I didn't think much of it in those days. I thought all adults were that way. I didn't know then what I know now.

 

In the locker room, I changed into street clothes and then went to an arcade with Mark where we played video games and talked hoops. “You might make all-league next year,” Mark said. “You're playing lights out.”

When I returned home later that night, the house was dead quiet. I assumed my parents were asleep, but when I turned on the light, I saw my dad sitting on the sofa with his leg up on an ottoman, a heating pad wrapped around it. The instant the light went on, he took his leg down and unwrapped it.

“You okay?” I said.

“I've been better,” he answered. Then he smiled. “I was at your game tonight.”

“You were? I didn't see you.”

“I had to leave at the end of the third quarter. Damn leg. You stunk it up early, but you sure came on. Did you finish strong?”

“We killed them.”

“I figured as much.”

In the dark room, in the quiet, I almost told him about the video and the letter to the colleges. But before I could find the words to start, my dad stood. “Well, I'm off to bed. You made your old man proud today, Jonas.”

I
SPENT SATURDAY AT THE YMCA
on Hudson Avenue playing pickup games. One odd thing happened: Alex Fuentes, the guard for Sequoia High, came in after I'd been there for half an hour. It was tense between us for a few minutes, but then we both relaxed, and he turned out to be a good guy. “You thought I was dissing you?” he said at the water fountain between games. “I'd never do anything to get anybody ticked off, especially not you. You're the toughest matchup I've had all year.”

Monday morning, right before lunch, I got a note calling me to the coaches' office. When I stepped inside, Coach Russell held up a couple of pages of paper and waved them around. “I printed a list of Division Two colleges that give scholarships. There are some in every part of the country. You have any preference as to where you want to go?”

“Wherever you say, Coach.”

He shook his head. “No, Jonas, not wherever I say. You're the one who's going to live there.”

In fifth grade, I'd done my state report on Vermont, filling twenty pages with pictures of rolling mountains that seemed to be on fire because of the autumn colors of the trees. “Are any in Vermont?” I asked.

“There are a couple in Vermont, and even more in Massachusetts and New Hampshire and Connecticut. But are you sure you want to live in New England? It gets cold there.”

I'd never once thought of living in New England, but as soon as he said the words, I somehow knew that New England was the place for me.

“New England,” I said.

“New England it is. I'll make fifty copies of this DVD and your transcript, and write a letter of recommendation for you. You'll need to sign up for the SAT. I'll contact the NCAA Clearinghouse and help you get that paperwork done. You can address the manila envelopes in my office during lunch. That I'm not doing for you.”

I addressed half the envelopes during lunch and the other half after practice the following day. Then, for the next four games, I played the best basketball I'd ever played in my life.

I
KNEW THAT AT SOME POINT
I'd have to tell my mom and dad about Coach Russell's DVD and the letters he'd sent out for me, but I kept putting it off. I waited partly because I'd look like a fool if no coach called, but mainly because my dad was so worried about losing his job. I'd hear him complain to my mom about the guy from Cal Berkeley. “I swear to God, Mary, he looks at me as if I were a piece of broken furniture. If he could, he'd put me out with the trash.”

February was rolling by. Before every practice I'd give Coach Russell a look, but he'd only shake his head. When we were alone, he'd tell me to be patient, but the better I played, the more I ached to hear from some school. There was nothing—no interest. The game on the DVD was good; the letter from Coach Russell was good. My lousy grades were the problem; I knew it, and so did Coach Russell. Why had I been such a lazy dog?

Then, on the Friday before Presidents' Day weekend, the door opened during my English class, and I was handed a note telling me to report immediately to the library. Coach Russell was waiting for me by the circulation desk. “Monitor College,” he said, his voice excited. “Ever heard of it?”

I shook my head.

“Neither have I. It's in New Hampshire, which is right next to Vermont. Their coach wants to talk to you. Skype.”

“When?”

His face broke into a broad smile. “Right now. Mrs. Johnson, the librarian, is setting up a computer.” Coach Russell put his big hands on my shoulders and looked me in the eye. “Just be yourself, Jonas.”

Monitor's coach was Greg Richter, a young black guy with a close-cropped beard and intense eyes. His basketball questions were easy to answer, but I felt like a fish flopping around in the bottom of a boat once he switched to academics.
How were my reading skills? My math skills? Why had I only taken one lab science class? Could I improve my grades?
Drops of sweat formed on my forehead; my ears rang. Finally I leveled with him. “I've never tried hard, Mr. Richter. But starting right now, I will. I promise.”

Silence.

From three thousand miles away, he looked at me as if he were trying to look into my heart. Finally he spoke. “Thanks very much for your time, Jonas. I'd also like to talk to your parents. How about if I call them on Sunday morning? Say ten o'clock your time?”

I gave him my home number, remembered to thank him, and then the computer screen went blue. I turned to Coach Russell, who had been watching from off to the side.

“You did fine,” he said.

“You think I've got a chance, even with my grades?”

“He wouldn't have called if your grades were a deal-breaker. Believe me, college coaches are way too busy to waste time.”

When I returned home that night, my mom was in the kitchen getting my dinner ready. I couldn't stall any longer, so as she put together a plate of food for me, I told her about Coach Richter and Monitor College.

I kept my voice low, and I said that most likely nothing would come of it, but as I was speaking, she stopped mashing the potatoes and stared at me, her eyes wide. When I finished, she hugged me and then stepped back, taking my hands in hers. “That's wonderful, Jonas. Have you told your father?”

I shook my head. “I'm afraid to.”

She tilted her head, puzzled. “Why?”

I shrugged. “You know. The way Dad talks about the college guys from the corporate office. The way the guy from Cal Berkeley is treating him. He hates them. You know he does.”

My mom frowned. “Jonas, this is
you
. Nothing could make your dad happier than good things happening to you. Tell him right now.”

So I did, and he jumped up and pounded me on the back. “You want to hear something strange,” he said. “As I was watching your last game, I thought:
He could play college ball
. I actually considered calling Coach Russell and asking him to get a recruiter out to look at you.” My mom came out then, and she hugged me again. Seeing both of them smile made me glad I'd told them. They hadn't smiled like this in a long time.

Eventually, my dad went back to his newspaper and my mom returned to the kitchen. I walked down the hallway to my room, opened my laptop, and logged on to Monitor College's website.

The campus was perched high on a hilltop. All the buildings had ivy crawling up their walls. There were photos of students studying in the library, playing Frisbee on the lawn, and drinking coffee in an espresso shop. I could almost imagine myself walking on those tree-lined paths, my backpack crammed with books.

T
HE SUNDAY PHONE CALL FROM
Coach Richter came at the exact minute he said it would. From the kitchen, I heard my dad say that I was dedicated to basketball, honest, and not a hardhead. Next Mr. Richter talked to my mom. The roles changed then; she asked the questions. She must have liked his answers because her head kept nodding up and down.

Finally my dad called me to the telephone. So much was whirling around inside me that I had trouble following Coach Richter's sentences. Still, I did hear the last thing loud and clear. “You'll be getting a detailed letter from me, so keep an eye on the mail.”

I hung up, talked to my parents for a while, and then returned to my room. I took out my history book and tried to study, but I couldn't concentrate.

When I'd been younger, working at the sand and gravel had seemed exciting. Driving a mixer, sending cement tumbling down a long chute, filling some big hole—what could be better to a ten-year-old? I wasn't ten anymore, though. Coach Russell had opened my eyes. Work like that would be great for a year or two. But for a lifetime? I thought about my father, about what the work had done to his body, and about how they were treating him now. What would he do if they fired him? He knew cement mixers, but that was all he knew. I didn't know if I'd like college, but that didn't really matter. Richter was giving me a chance to change my life. I couldn't pass up an opportunity like that.

 

We had a district playoff game, a win-or-go-home game, on Wednesday night against St. Francis in their gym down in Mountain View. The Lancers had lost only twice all year, so we were slated to be the team going home.

The advantage of being an underdog is that nobody expects anything from you. I figured if I played my game—which was scoring a little and passing a lot—we could hang close through three quarters. If you hang close, anything can happen in the fourth quarter. It would be terrific to tell Coach Richter that I'd led my team to a huge upset.

What I didn't anticipate was the intensity of the Lancers' defense. From the opening tip, St. Francis double-teamed me as soon as I crossed midcourt. I'd pass out of the trap, setting up a four-on-three for the other guys. We should have scored in bunches, but my teammates couldn't hit anything. Once guys miss a few open shots, they start thinking, and then they miss everything.

With my teammates struggling, I tried to take over the game. I dribbled too much; I forced up wild shots. Coach Russell called a time-out to settle us, then another one. From ten rows up, I heard my dad yell at me to calm down, but I couldn't. When the horn sounded, ending the first half, we were down, 32–13.

We played better in the second half, but we never cut the lead to fewer than twelve. The final score was 64–46, ending our season with a thud.

On the drive home, my dad told me that my future was bright. I nodded, but an hour later I lay awake reliving all the dumb plays I'd made. If Coach Richter had seen that game, he'd have never called.

A
WEEK AFTER THE ST. FRANCIS
loss, I shot around for a while after school with Mark, and then I walked home. As usual, I checked the mailbox before stepping inside. This time, instead of coming up empty, I pulled out a thick envelope with Monitor College's address in the upper left-hand corner.

Both my parents were at work, so I had the house to myself. I carried the envelope to the kitchen table and carefully opened it. Inside was a letter and a color brochure. I put off reading Richter's letter and first flipped through the brochure. The photographs were similar to the ones I'd seen on their website: ivy creeping up the side of old brick buildings, golden trees lining gravel pathways, pure white snow blanketing a winter landscape. I closed the brochure, took a deep breath, and then read the letter from Coach Richter.