Los Angeles | 2011
Bradley's POV
The buzzer sounded, signaling the start of the fourth quarter. I walked back onto the court, my chest burning, my legs feeling like lead. We were down by five, 42-37, and I was exhausted. But as I looked across at Damien, I saw the sweat dripping from his dreadlocks, too. He was human.
I took the inbound pass, my mind racing. I needed to get David involved, get a quick, high-percentage basket to stop the bleeding. I drove hard, trying to draw the defense, but Damien was on me, his presence suffocating. I tried to drop a pass to David, but it was too risky; Cole was shading the lane. I pulled it back out, resetting, but Damien was giving me no space. I faked a shot and drove past him, launching myself toward the rim for a layup.
I was in the air, the ball in my right hand, extending... and then he was just there. Again.
Damien had recovered, his long arm uncoiling. He was a spectre trailing me, he snatched the ball clean out of my hand mid-air, just as I was reaching my apex. It was the same, impossible, humiliating mid-air snatch from our one-on-one. He ripped the ball away as I fell back to the court, landing hard on my hip.
"I told you," he breathed, not even looking at me as he started dribbling up the court. "You're still nothing."
He then proceeded to one-by-one challenge everyone in my team, to dismantle us piece by piece.
He got the ball to Cole, who passed it back. Leo stepped up, trying to cut off his drive. Damien hit him with a crossover so vicious that Leo's feet got tangled. Leo, recovering with his incredible speed, sprinted to catch up and tried to score but was followed and blocked by Damien, who pinned his layup against the backboard with contemptuous ease.
"Too slow," Damien taunted.
On the next possession, Patrick got the ball on the wing. He'd been working on his fadeaway jumper, and he created just enough space from Cole to rise up. But Damien left me and came flying at him. He didn't even try to block it. He just got right in his face, taunting him as he shot.
"Your hand movement's sloppy," he snarled, his voice a low growl. "I guess if all you do is beat your meat with that hand, you can never throw a ball for shit."
The words were so vulgar, so unexpected, that Pat grew angry and lost all focus. The shot missed badly, an air ball. Patrick landed and immediately shoved Damien, his face red with rage.
"Do it. Start it all over," Damien said, a feral grin on his face, welcoming the confrontation.
"Pat, no!" I yelled, stopping Patrick before he could throw a punch. "Don't. He's not worth it. Get your head in the game."
Patrick glared at Damien, but he backed down, his breathing ragged. Damien just laughed.
Then he went after David. He drove the lane, and as David went up to contest the rebound, Damien came down hard on his arm. It was a clear foul, but the seniors just shrugged. David, furious, tried to post Damien up on the next play, but Damien just guided him into a brutal, waiting screen from Cole, using the same "iron wall" tactic I used David for. David hit the screen and fell, and Cole scored on the easy roll.
Damien looked at me, his arrogance dripping from him "There is nothing you and the others can do that I can't do better."
And in that moment, I felt the walls closing in on my ability to win. He was right. I was exhausted. My strategies were being used against me. My teammates were being systematically broken down. I looked at the scoreboard. 47-37. We were down by ten.
I knew that I can be better than Damien, but Damien has already achieved his physical peak while I was still falling short. This was the truth that burned. My mind was writing checks my fourteen-year-old body couldn't cash.
He's older, he's at his physical peak, and I'm still falling short. I can't compete with this. But as the thought formed, another, harsher voice cut through the panic. No. Stop it. That's what you always do.
It was a coward's way out, a pre-made excuse for failure. Was I weaker? Yes. But was that the only reason I was losing? No. He was smarter in the third quarter . He was more skilled in the one-on-one. I was blaming my body to protect my pride. If I couldn't beat him as I was, I just wasn't good enough. The thought was a cold, sharp slap, but it was the truth.
"Hey," Leo said, patting my back as we inbounded the ball, breaking my spiral. "We're not done."
"Stay in it, Brad," David said, his voice a low growl of support. They were supportive, but I still felt worthless. I was the leader. I had challenged this guy. And I was failing them.
Screw it. We have to do what we have to do no matter what.
We got a stop, through sheer grit. The ball came to me. We were down 48-43. Five points behind. I was gassed. Damien was on me, his hands active, taunting. I had no energy to drive, no angle to pass. I just... threw it up. I took the ball up the court intending to score via a three-pointer, which even if it was shoddy, I was able to make. It was a terrible, unbalanced, desperate shot. My legs felt like jelly. But it hit the backboard and dropped in.
A lucky, "shoddy" three. It put us only two points behind.
The seniors looked nervous. Damien looked furious. He tried to force the issue, driving into a triple-team and turning the ball over. Our ball.
"Set the play!" I yelled, trying to get organized. But there was no time. The clock was bleeding. Charlie got the inbound. I knew he was their weak link.
"David, Pat, front Damien! Don't let him touch the ball!" I screamed. They both covered Damien, a wall of flesh. I left my own man and sprinted at Charlie. He panicked. He saw me coming, saw his primary option was gone, and threw a wild, high bounce pass toward Steve. Leo intercepted it. "GO!" he yelled. Fast break.
Ten seconds left. Leo was flying. I was sprinting alongside him. "Leo! Three!" I screamed, positioning myself at the three-point line for the win. Leo passed. I caught it. But Damien was a blur. He had broken free of the trap and caught up. As I bent down to throw the three-pointer, he was right there, his hand in my face, blocking my shot. No at that moment, I made a split-second decision. I couldn't shoot. I had to go for a layup.
I ducked under his arm, gathering the ball, and launched myself toward the basket. I remembered my desperate jump against Max during the junior high Finals. I put every last ounce of my will, my anger, my frustration, into my legs and jumped with the same amount of force. I was rising. I was high. I was about to reach the basket, thinking this might be my first Dunk. And then... I wasn't. My legs, already taxed from the game, gave out in mid-air. I started to descend, feeling dejected. I had failed. Damien was still rising, ready to swat the ball into the stands.
I had no time. No options. In a final, desperate, dejected act, I didn't shoot. I just threw the ball towards the board, a wild, hopeless fling. Damien, his timing set for a block on a dunk or layup, was unable to block it. The ball flew over his outstretched fingers. It hit the board by sheer chance, high, near the corner of the square. It rattled, hanging on the rim as the buzzer rang, a deafening, final sound. ...And it fell in. The gym was silent. I landed hard, collapsing onto the hardwood, my chest heaving.
Tie game. 48-48.
I landed hard on the hardwood, a jarring impact that sent a shockwave up my legs and into my protesting ribs. I immediately felt some pain in my joints and leg, a deep, fiery ache from the sheer, desperate force of my jump. But it was different from the championship game. It wasn't the sharp, tearing, wrong kind of pain. It was not as damaging as the last time I attempted that gamble. It was the pain of exertion, not destruction.
The buzzer's echo faded, replaced by a stunned, absolute silence from the handful of seniors watching. The ball had gone in. I had tied it.
I looked over. Damien also landed, his own momentum carrying him near the stanchion. The look on his face wasn't anger or mockery. It was pure, unadulterated surprise, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly open. He stared at the hoop, then at me on the floor, as if trying to process an equation that didn't add up.
He pushed himself to his feet, a low chuckle escaping him. He then proceeded to walk up to me and stood over me, blocking the gym lights. I tensed, my body bracing for a taunt, an insult, a foot to the ribs.
Instead, he extended a hand down to me.
I was at first shocked by the gesture. This was the guy who had grabbed my skull, who had humiliated me, who had told me I was "nothing". After some hesitation, I looked from his hand to his face. The feral grin was gone, replaced by something I couldn't identify... respect? I took a breath and accepted it.
His grip was strong, and he lifted me up as if I weighed nothing. He didn't let go immediately, his eyes searching mine.
"My god, Naird," Damien told me, a strange, almost joyful jubilation in his voice. "You just don't stop, do you?"
I just stared at him, my mind unable to process the compliment, the shift in tone, or the fact that I was still standing. My ribs were screaming, and my legs felt like water.
"What?" I asked incredulously.
"You mean to tell me you don't realize what you just did?" this time he asked incredulously.
I just shook my head, wincing as I shifted my weight. "It was a fluke," I said, downcast. "It somehow went in. It's got nothing to do with skill or play."
I looked at him staring at me, wide-eyed in disbelief. Suddenly, I was grabbed from behind and I got tense, my instincts screaming, until I realized it was David.
"Dude, what the hell was that!!" David exploded in my ear, his voice a roar of pure adrenaline.
"Holy shit balls, man, that was un-fucking-real!" Leo joined in, his eyes manic.
"No shit, Brad, since when could you do that?" Patrick asked, his usual calm completely gone.
"Guys! I don't know what you're talking about!" I shouted, overwhelmed by the sudden sensory assault.
At this point, Damien gathered attention back towards him by speaking, his voice cutting through our huddle. "Naird, you just performed a mid-air hand switch that culminated in a basket. Do you realize how fucking hard that is?" he said, his voice deadly serious. "It is damn near impossible to do for high schoolers, and you went even further beyond. You jumped before I did and only began descending when I reached my peak. That was pro-level hang time. And you jumped what must've been a 37-inch vertical. Naird... you're a damn MONSTER!"
My mind went blank. Hang time? 37-inch vertical?
'Holy Shit!!'
"Yeah, 'holy shit' is the right word," Leo said, and I realized I had said that out loud.
"You win, Naird."
Damien dropped another bomb. I just stared at him. "I have never seen a player do that, and I have been playing high school basketball for the past three years. So yeah, you win this one."
This was all suddenly very confusing to me. Why was Damien being nice and polite all of a sudden? This was the guy who had terrorized me, who had grabbed me by the head.
"Wait, why are you doing this?" I asked him, my suspicion overriding my exhaustion.
"Doing what?" he shot back.
"This!" I said. "The sudden kindness and politeness. It's like you changed within seconds."
He stared at me amusedly, then let out a long, tired sigh. "I don't hate you, Naird. I hate this school. This team. What it represents." He glanced at the seniors, who were now looking at the floor. "I tried reforming it, just like you are, when I came in. For the first year, I wasn't even allowed to touch the ball because I was new and was easily beaten by my seniors. So I practiced. I learned. Then I beat my seniors in my second year, so I tried to organize, to improve ourselves. I succeeded. I took this team from Division 5 to Division 3. But then... my teammates failed me."
At this, Steve and the others lowered their heads. Cole seemed to be unbothered.
Damien continued, his voice laced with an old bitterness. "We couldn't win as much as I thought we could, because not everyone supported me as much as I believed they would. It's not even their fault. They just accepted that the best we could do was be in Division 3. So I had to live with it. Now I'm a fourth-year senior, while Steve and the others are 3rd years. They play as a hobby, and I couldn't care less. I just began the order of practice and the hierarchy system to keep some kind of shape."
"So, you gave up," I interjected. The words were an accusation. Damien's face grew tight at that.
"The seniors... my own teammates... left!" he snapped. "They wanted to focus on their SATs instead of wasting time in a 'drowning basketball club.' So yes, they left, and I was FORCED to give up!" He looked at me then, the anger fading into a strange, raw envy. "You are a very arrogant person, Bradley. But the irony is that you are blessed with loyal friends, while I, who had been nothing but good to my teammates, was blessed with cowards and imbeciles who ran away at the first sign of trouble. I envied that. So yes, I was meaner to you than most."
He shook his head, looking suddenly defeated. "Yet in spite of it all, you have proven to be more than capable of shouldering this team. And perhaps... with your crew... you might go further than I ever did. Good luck, Naird. The team is yours. I'm done." Damien said it defeatedly as he began walking away.
"Wait," I called out. He stopped but didn't turn. "I know you've been disappointed. But maybe you could try with us." I said, pointing towards my team. "We are short one guy, you know," I said, smiling.
He chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "Nice try, but I can't join you by abandoning these guys. Even if they can't do shit, they have been here and practiced with me every time I wanted to," he said, pointing towards Charlie, Steve, and Cole.
This was my opening. This was the compromise my dad had taught me. "I don't mind them staying. But I want Steve to apologize. For what he did to me and my crew." I took a firm stance.
Damien looked at Steve, who grew tense. "Damien, you said we could beat him if it came to it," Steve said, looking betrayed. "I did, but I never told you to send him to the hospital," Damien fired back firmly. "That wasn't me, dude, seriously!" Steve defended himself. "It was Jackson and the others! They took it too far, and before I knew it, we were all in a brawl. It's not like he didn't hit back! He broke a tooth from his punch, I still feel the pain in my jaw!"
Jackson. I filed that name away. That was indeed suspicious.
"Be that as it may, you hurt him far worse than he hurt you," Damien said. "The decision is still yours, Steve."
Steve and Damien continued to stare at each other, a silent battle of wills. Then Steve sighed. "Fine."
Steve stepped towards me, his face a mask of resentment. "I am sorry for hitting you, Naird. It won't happen again."
It was forced, but it was something. "It's alright," I said in acceptance. Damien nodded at Steve in affirmation.
"I guess I will see you for practice tomorrow... Captain," Damien said, the last word weighted, a formal passing of the torch. He finally walked off the court. Steve and the others followed him.
David, Leo, Pat, and I just stood there, the gym suddenly silent, the adrenaline leaving us. "So... that happened," Patrick said, before chuckling. So did the rest of us.
"You didn't really forgive them, did you?" Leo asked, his eyes sharp.
I looked him square. "No. But there is valid concern for us to look into how that fight went down. I remember that neither Cole nor Charlie hit me. Did they hit you guys?"
At that question, everyone mulled it over before shaking their heads. "So that means that it was only Steve who fought me, and then it was this Jackson and his crew that stoked the flames from there," I added thoughtfully.
"We have to be careful moving forward with this," David expressed.
"We will be," I said, picking up my bag, my body screaming in pain, but my mind clear for the first time all day. "But for now, we can go home and relax. We did what we aimed to do." I looked at my friends, my crew.
"From tomorrow, we gotta find our coach and work out how to win in both our division and perform well in the open division." The road would be long from here, but I now had both the wisdom of experience and the fire of youth in my team for aid and support.