night,
Drew told himself.
Billy DiGregorio just stood in front of their bench, arms folded, nodding at Drew. No time-out, thatâs what he was telling him. Just play.
Drew knew that was Coachâs style in moments like this. The rest of the guys knew enough to spread the court, give Drew one chance to break the defense down off the dribble and get to the basket. If he couldnât, they all knew heâd find a way to pass to Lee.
Drew looked past King, to the clock behind the basket, and made his move with ten seconds left.
He crossed over on King, got past him with a left-handed dribble, then crossed
back
over to a right-handed dribble and got a step on the other defender. But King got a hand on the ball from behind Drew. Not enough to knock it away, just enough to knock off his timing, make him waste a couple of seconds getting the ball back under control.
Drew was a step inside the free-throw line.
True or False?
King had said.
True, he thought to himself.
True Robinson.
It didnât matter that theyâd been talking about King Gadsen all night. Theyâd be talking about Drew on their way home, the shot he was going to make to win it for his team.
But more for himself.
Next game heâd be a nice team player.
The entire Park defense seemed to be collapsing on him. Drew could hear Leeâhaving the night of his life, in the game he said heâd been waiting his whole life to winâyell,
âTrue!â
Lee Atkins, trying to make himself heard over the roar that the end of a game like this makes.
âIâm open!â
Lee yelled.
Drew knew he was. He had been all night and had to be now. But this time Drew wasnât passing. This time Drew was shooting, even in all that traffic, going as high as he could, as high as he did when he wanted to dunk the ball, still having to shoot
around
the stupidly long arms of the Park center, right before the horn sounded.
It was such an awkward shot, an awkward midair move, that Drew went down without being touched after he released the ball. He was sitting on the court when the quiet of the crowd, the worst kind of quiet in sports for the home team, told him the shot had missed.
Park 85, Oakley 84.
Drew stayed where he was for a moment. Before he got up, he saw King Gadsen standing over him. Still not offering him a hand.
âJust so you know,â King said, âyour buddy, heâs still open over there on the wing. He just stopped calling for the ball.â
King left him there.
Drew didnât move, just turned his head. And Lee hadnât moved from the wing.
Was
still standing there.
Staring at Drew like he was a stranger.
For some reason, Drewâs eyes moved past Lee, past the Park kids celebrating on the courtâ
his
courtâwent up through the stands, up to the top of the gym, the far corner of the place, away from the basket where Drew had attempted his hero shot.
Up there, all alone, was a guy in a Lakers cap and a hoodie.
The ghost guy.
Eyeballing Drew has hard as Drew had eyeballed him at Morrison.
Shaking his head in disgust before he disappeared again.
TEN
D rew knew he should have passed Lee the ball for the last shot, knew his pride and his ego had gotten in the way of his basketball sense.
But he couldnât bring himself to admit that after the game.
Instead he told the reporters that he was going to kick it over to Lee but then he thought he could get all the way to the basket before the Park defense forced him into a tough shot.
âI want the ball in my hands at the end of the game,â he said. âI want to take that shot. Tonight it wouldnât go down for me, but I had to try to make something happen.â
Yeah,
he thought, even as he told his locker room lies to the reporters.
I made something happen, all right.
Made us lose by a bucket.
And then Drew heard Lee from the next locker, saying how many shots Drew had made tonight, that you could never go wrong with the
Drew told himself.
Billy DiGregorio just stood in front of their bench, arms folded, nodding at Drew. No time-out, thatâs what he was telling him. Just play.
Drew knew that was Coachâs style in moments like this. The rest of the guys knew enough to spread the court, give Drew one chance to break the defense down off the dribble and get to the basket. If he couldnât, they all knew heâd find a way to pass to Lee.
Drew looked past King, to the clock behind the basket, and made his move with ten seconds left.
He crossed over on King, got past him with a left-handed dribble, then crossed
back
over to a right-handed dribble and got a step on the other defender. But King got a hand on the ball from behind Drew. Not enough to knock it away, just enough to knock off his timing, make him waste a couple of seconds getting the ball back under control.
Drew was a step inside the free-throw line.
True or False?
King had said.
True, he thought to himself.
True Robinson.
It didnât matter that theyâd been talking about King Gadsen all night. Theyâd be talking about Drew on their way home, the shot he was going to make to win it for his team.
But more for himself.
Next game heâd be a nice team player.
The entire Park defense seemed to be collapsing on him. Drew could hear Leeâhaving the night of his life, in the game he said heâd been waiting his whole life to winâyell,
âTrue!â
Lee Atkins, trying to make himself heard over the roar that the end of a game like this makes.
âIâm open!â
Lee yelled.
Drew knew he was. He had been all night and had to be now. But this time Drew wasnât passing. This time Drew was shooting, even in all that traffic, going as high as he could, as high as he did when he wanted to dunk the ball, still having to shoot
around
the stupidly long arms of the Park center, right before the horn sounded.
It was such an awkward shot, an awkward midair move, that Drew went down without being touched after he released the ball. He was sitting on the court when the quiet of the crowd, the worst kind of quiet in sports for the home team, told him the shot had missed.
Park 85, Oakley 84.
Drew stayed where he was for a moment. Before he got up, he saw King Gadsen standing over him. Still not offering him a hand.
âJust so you know,â King said, âyour buddy, heâs still open over there on the wing. He just stopped calling for the ball.â
King left him there.
Drew didnât move, just turned his head. And Lee hadnât moved from the wing.
Was
still standing there.
Staring at Drew like he was a stranger.
For some reason, Drewâs eyes moved past Lee, past the Park kids celebrating on the courtâ
his
courtâwent up through the stands, up to the top of the gym, the far corner of the place, away from the basket where Drew had attempted his hero shot.
Up there, all alone, was a guy in a Lakers cap and a hoodie.
The ghost guy.
Eyeballing Drew has hard as Drew had eyeballed him at Morrison.
Shaking his head in disgust before he disappeared again.
TEN
D rew knew he should have passed Lee the ball for the last shot, knew his pride and his ego had gotten in the way of his basketball sense.
But he couldnât bring himself to admit that after the game.
Instead he told the reporters that he was going to kick it over to Lee but then he thought he could get all the way to the basket before the Park defense forced him into a tough shot.
âI want the ball in my hands at the end of the game,â he said. âI want to take that shot. Tonight it wouldnât go down for me, but I had to try to make something happen.â
Yeah,
he thought, even as he told his locker room lies to the reporters.
I made something happen, all right.
Made us lose by a bucket.
And then Drew heard Lee from the next locker, saying how many shots Drew had made tonight, that you could never go wrong with the
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