Swagger (11 page)

For the last twenty minutes, we played five-on-five, using the two side courts. Hartwell moved Levi to my team. For the first part of the tryout, I'd been trying so hard to please Knecht that I'd played lousy. During that full-court scrimmage, I was determined to play my game.

The first couple of times up and down the court, both sides were just feeling one another out. Then Levi made a block and hustled to the corner to retrieve the ball. He hit me with a solid outlet pass near half-court. I didn't have numbers for a fast break, but I pushed the ball anyway, looking for an easy transition hoop. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Levi flying toward the hoop, about ten feet behind me. I pulled up, waited a beat, and then lobbed the ball up above the rim. Levi soared up, caught it, and jammed it down.

Both my pass and his finish were fantastic, and guys on both teams were wide-eyed. I was grinning and so was Levi—until we heard Knecht's whistle. The old man was up and out of his seat, energetic for the first time all day.

“What are you doing, Levi?” Knecht demanded as he tottered over, his face bright red, onto the court. Levi hung his head as if he were a toddler who'd been caught crayoning a wall. “Just lay the ball off the backboard,” Knecht commanded, his voice stronger than it had been all day. “Just lay it off the glass and in. That's all you need to do.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hartwell caught my eye and then looked at the ceiling.

T
HE NEXT DAY KNECHT TOOK
control. As Hartwell stood off to the side, Knecht called out the names of ten players he wanted at center court for a scrimmage. He sent me and the nine other guys over to a side court to shoot around.

I panicked.

The meaning was clear. I was in a battle with nine guys for one of the final two roster spots. If I had a bad practice—or if a couple of the other guys had a great practice—I wouldn't even make my high school team. All hope of a scholarship would be gone.

Hartwell saw the fear in my eyes and came over to me. “You're okay, Jonas,” he said, putting his arm around my shoulder and giving me a shake of encouragement. “You're number eleven on Knecht's chart, and he doesn't even have a number twelve. Once you make the team, he'll see how good you are. You'll get your chance.”

His words were like the gift of a hunk of bread to a starving man. All that day, and all the subsequent days of the tryout, I played in-your-face defense, blocked out on defensive rebounds, made safe passes, and didn't turn the ball over. Nothing I did was flashy or very fun, but on Friday, when Knecht posted the roster, my name was on it.

In the locker room, the guys who made the team hung around for a while to celebrate. DeShawn wondered aloud whether the team's style of play would change with Hartwell as an assistant. “Maybe he can drag Knecht into the twenty-first century.”

“First he'll have to drag him into the twentieth,” Cash said.

Everybody laughed—even Brindle—everybody except Levi. “Come on, Double D, it's just a joke,” Cash said. “Knecht's not God.”

Later, when I thought over what Cash had said, I realized how on the mark he'd been. People like Knecht and like Levi's father—they were gods to Levi. He had them way up on a pedestal. I thought about my own father. He was a good guy, but he made mistakes, and I knew it. I was glad I didn't think of him as a god, and I'm sure he was too.

T
HAT SUNDAY LEVI'S DAD'S CHURCH
held its first services. Weeks earlier Levi had asked me to go, and I'd said yes. Now that the day had come, I was edgy. Was his father one of those crazy preachers who yelled about Satan and sin? And what about the people I'd be sitting with? Would they roll around in the aisles?

The church still looked like a store from the outside, but what Levi and his father had done inside was amazing. Levi had mentioned getting wooden pews from a church that had merged with another congregation. I figured the pews would be old and ratty like something from Goodwill, but they'd been sanded and oiled so that they looked both brand-new and a hundred years old at the same time. The same thing was true of the wood floors, which gleamed in the golden light. The plain wooden altar in the front of the church was lit from above by a spotlight so perfectly positioned that the light seemed as if it were coming from heaven.

The church was a thousand times nicer than I thought it would be, and the service was also far different from what I expected. I'd been worried that I'd be surrounded by a bunch of crazy people constantly screaming about Jesus. Instead, the service was dull. For twenty minutes, different people came up and read passages from the Bible. Then Levi's father talked. There was no mention of hellfire or damnation; most of what he said was about how Hollywood was making American girls and boys chase after sinful dreams. When he said those words, I glanced to where Levi and his family were sitting, looking for Rachel. She was dressed in church clothes, not the skintight, low-cut outfits she wore at school, but she was chewing gum, and as I watched she blew a tiny pink bubble.

About ten times I thought the sermon was over, but Levi's dad kept talking. The hard seat got harder; my back started to hurt; my nose started to itch; I had to pee. I didn't think he'd ever stop, but finally he led everyone in an Our Father and it was over.

I wanted to leave, but before I left, I searched out Levi. “You did a fantastic job,” I said, gesturing to the whole church. “This place is amazing.”

He was smiling. I was about to leave when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around, and there stood Ryan Hartwell. Hartwell must have come in after I had because I hadn't seen him during the service. I fidgeted as Hartwell said the same things I'd said, and Levi's smile grew even broader. It was clear that Hartwell was going to hang around for a while, so I slapped Levi on the back, told him how great the church was one more time, and then beat it out of there.

A
T PRACTICE ON MONDAY, COACH
Knecht looked better—at least from a distance. He'd shaved and was wearing a coat and tie. Still, if you got close to him, you could see gray stubble on his chin that he'd missed, and he had a long red gash on his neck where he must have come close to cutting his own throat while shaving.

Once the whole team had taken the court, Knecht talked about the importance of hard work and then sat off to the side while Hartwell ran the drills. Anybody walking into the gym that day would have assumed that Hartwell was the head coach, but the guys on the court knew the playbook was 100 percent Knecht.

Every offensive set started with four players outside the three-point arc. The point guard was positioned at the top of the key. From that basic set, we ran a weave: pass and cut, pass and cut, pass and cut.

If a defender lost focus, then the offensive player was supposed to make a backdoor move to the bucket. The guy with the ball would hit the cutter with a simple bounce pass for an easy lay-up. If the defense stayed alert, then it was up to someone—usually Cash—to knock down a three-ball before the shot clock ran out.

All week Knecht had us practice that basic set over and over. It was boring for us, so it had to be even more boring for Hartwell. He stood on the court, whistle in his mouth, taking instructions from Knecht. I could feel him chafing under Knecht's tight control.

The dustup happened on Thursday. I was point guard on the second team, and my defensive assignment was to guard Brindle. Early on I anticipated a pass and tipped the ball free from Brindle. It wasn't a clean steal, so Brindle was able to get back on defense, but I pushed the ball up-court anyway. Brindle set his feet in the paint, hoping to lure me into a charging foul. I didn't bite. Instead, I drifted to his left and banked in a ten-foot jumper.

The ball was barely through the net when Knecht's whistle sounded. I hoped he'd praise me both for scoring and for avoiding the foul. Instead he wobbled onto the court to let me have it. “If you don't have a lay-up on the fast break, pull the ball out and set up the offense,” he growled. “How many times do I have to say it?”

Hartwell came to my defense. “That was a good shot, Coach. Ten feet. Uncontested. A clean look. That's a shot you have to take.”

Knecht's eyes flashed. “I'm the coach of this team,” he snapped. His eyes came back to me. “If you don't have a lay-up, pull the ball out. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

Then he turned to Hartwell. “Got it?”

At first Hartwell didn't answer. The two stared at each other. “I got it,” Hartwell said at last, and only then did Knecht make his way back to his chair along the sideline.

 

We practiced right up to Thanksgiving break, but when Wednesday's practice ended, Knecht told us to take the rest of the week off. “Family first,” he said. The time off was okay with me; I'd run Knecht's weave so many times, I think I could have done it in my sleep.

Thanksgiving wasn't much different from any other night. There'd been some talk of going to Uncle Frank's, but that had fallen through, which was okay with me. The Blue Jay restaurant was open, so my dad was working. I sat across from my mom and ate a turkey leg, some mashed potatoes, and a slice of pumpkin pie. After dinner I went to my room and played video games. I thought about calling Levi and seeing if he wanted to head over to the Good Shepherd Center to shoot some hoops by streetlight, but I knew he'd be at the dinner table with his whole family.

 

 

 

 

T
HE SEASON OPENER WAS ON
November 30 at home against Juanita High. My mom would be in the stands, but for the first time ever, my dad wouldn't be at my opening game. When I told Levi, he stuck his hands in his pockets and frowned. “My dad has never seen me play.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“He says sports games are for children, not for adults.”

“What about your mom? Does she come to your games?”

“My mom doesn't understand basketball. Besides, she's got the girls.”

 

The tension before an opening game is about the same as before a championship game. As we suited up in the locker room, everyone was jumpy, laughing too hard at jokes that weren't very funny. Once we were in uniform, Knecht called us together for a moment of silent prayer. Levi closed his eyes and prayed, and Brindle also had his head bowed. Most of the guys looked at one another, uncomfortable.

Once the prayer ended, Cash, as team captain, led us onto the court. Cheers rained down on us from the stands, the adrenaline kicked in, and I felt a familiar tingle up and down my spine. I could almost believe I was back at Redwood High playing for Coach Russell.

Almost, but not quite. As game time drew nearer, the starters—including Brindle—peeled off their warm-up clothes while the rest of us stayed in our sweats. I felt my spirits start to sink, so I forced myself to stay positive. A lot can happen in a basketball game. Brindle could twist an ankle, commit a bunch of fouls, or turn the ball over and get yanked. Or I could sub into the game to give Brindle a breather, hit a couple of jumpers, and force Knecht to keep me in. “You'll get some minutes,” Hartwell had promised me. “Play well and you'll earn more.”

The horn sounded and the season was under way. I took my seat on the bench and watched anxiously. Three minutes into the game, Brindle committed his second turnover. I peeked down at Knecht, but the old man had his eyes fixed on the court. Finally, with two minutes left in the first quarter, he pointed to me. “You, get in there for Donny.” I reported at the scorer's table and then knelt down, waiting for the next dead ball. With just over a minute left, the ref finally called a foul, stopping play.

A minute to do something.

I did something all right. I drove past the guy guarding me and tossed up a wild shot that didn't even hit the rim. After that stupid shot, I hustled back on defense, staying in front of Juanita's point guard, not allowing him to penetrate. He passed off to a forward who missed from fifteen feet. Levi cleared the boards and hit me with the outlet pass. I wanted to fast break, but from the sideline I heard Knecht: “Slow it down, kid. Set up the offense.” So I did. We ran twenty seconds off the clock before Cash hit a jumper to tie the score. Ten seconds later the quarter ended, and at the beginning of the second quarter, Brindle was back on the court, and I was back on the bench.

I didn't get another call from Knecht until the last minute of the second quarter. This time, I didn't make any mistakes, but I didn't
do
anything, either. When the half ended, Knecht patted me on the back. “That's what I'm looking for, kid. No mistakes.” His words were like a punch in the gut. Was that all he thought I could do? Did he even know my name?

The score stayed tight throughout the second half. That's how games usually are when a team runs a slow-it-down offense. You don't put up many shots, but neither does the other team. I didn't play in the third quarter, but I got a couple of minutes to start the fourth. Once again, I was like a cardboard cutout of a player; I took up space, ate up time, and did nothing more.

Watching the final minutes of the game while stuck on the bench tore me up. I saw three fast-break opportunities that were wasted. I kept looking at Knecht, but he never even glanced my way. I did catch Hartwell's eye a couple of times. Both times he grimaced and then shook his head.

With thirty seconds left in the game, we had the ball, trailing by a single point. Brindle ran Knecht's offense: pass and cut, pass and cut. With five seconds on the clock, Cash broke backdoor and—for a split second—was wide open. Brindle made the pass, but the ball was inches too far. The ball slipped through Cash's fingertips and out-of-bounds, and that was that.

After the game, the guys dressed and filtered out. I was sitting on a bench in front of my locker, still only half dressed, when Hartwell came over to me and gave my shoulder a squeeze. “Hang in there, Jonas.”