Quicks Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to real personalities or college programs are made only for dramatic effect, and are not intended to be construed as actual fact.

  QUICKS: D-Bow’s High School Hoops. Copyright © 2016 by Kevin Waltman. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written consent from the publisher, except for brief quotations for reviews. For further information, write Cinco Puntos Press, 701 Texas Avenue, El Paso, TX 79901 or call 1-915-838-1625.

  FIRST EDITION

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Waltman, Kevin, author.

  Title: Quicks / by Kevin Waltman.

  Description: First edition. | El Paso, TX: Cinco Puntos Press, [2016] |

  Series: D-Bow’s high school hoops; book 4 | Summary: “Marion High, an inner-city school in Indianapolis, has never had a state championship. It’s D-Bow’s senior year, his A-Game is ready, big-time colleges are taking notice, and he’s dreaming big. What’s rattling D-Bow is the cocky white guy, Daryl. He wants D-Bow’s job at point. It’s time for D-Bow to man up. He needs to be the team leader, and he needs to bring that A-Game. —Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016014621 | ISBN 978-1-941026-63-2 (e-book)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Basketball—Fiction. | High schools—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction. | African Americans--Fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Sports & Recreation / Basketball. | JUVENILE FICTION / Boys & Men. | JUVENILE FICTION / People & Places / United States / African American. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / General (see also headings under Family).

  Classification: LCC PZ7.W1728 Qu 2016 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016014621

  Book and cover design by Anne M. Giangiulio

  For Gram and Mah and Dack

  CONTENTS

  PART I

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  PART II

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  PART III

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  OVERTIME

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PART I

  1.

  On these blocks, it’s different. The numbers in official box scores? Sure, those matter. Those let you leap to college. To the L. But they don’t count the same way as skills on the blacktop. That’s the real proving ground.

  My Uncle Kid for example. Never scored a D-I deuce. Flamed out in Juco. And now he’s middle-aged and crashing at our house because he doesn’t have the scratch for his own place. But he can still get out there on that Fall Creek court and bring it. So he can strut all summer because he can run off ballers half his age.

  It’s early August, the threat of school staring us in the face. And it’s brutal hot. So after a few games, the crowd thins. Now it’s just a three-on-three battle on the other end, while Kid feeds me on this one. My boy Fuller—locked in at the three spot for Marion East this fall—watches us while he unlaces his kicks and takes big swigs from a Gatorade.

  I catch baseline, rise in a smooth motion. Bucket. Then to the wing behind the stripe. Wet again.

  “I’m telling you, D,” Uncle Kid says, “don’t sweat this Gibson guy. I’ve seen him run. Nothing special.”

  “He’s got a little burst,” Fuller chimes from the sideline.

  I catch the rock at the top of the key, then stop mid-stroke. I stare at Fuller. “What you trying to say?”

  He holds his hands up apologetically. “Nothing, man. He’s got quicks. But no real J to respect. Too small to finish at the rim. Just quicks.”

  I nod at Fuller to let him know it’s cool. Then I go back to my work. Next shot’s back rim, the rebound soaring so high that the rock arcs across the sun in the distance. Kid chases.

  Burst. Quicks. That’s the last thing I need to hear. I’m still lugging around this brace on my knee. Still feeling that old tightness after my step-up exercises. Still have to wait until the court clears so I can come work on my J—the only hoops I can have until I get clearance. And I’ve still got the scar from the surgery—a reminder that one wrong step can wipe out a season, a career.

  I spent the summer entertaining home visits from coaches and setting up official visits to high majors. I’ve got the stars next to my name. Got the scholly offers. Got the stats from three seasons of tearing it up at Marion East. But quicks is the one thing I’m still missing.

  Fuller polishes off the last of his Gatorade. He arcs the empty at a trash can fifteen feet away. True. He smiles. Doesn’t matter if it’s trash in the garbage or leather through the nylon—finding bottom is always good. “Later, D-Bow,” he tells me, then starts hoofing it toward home. I finish my workout with Uncle Kid in silence, then we hit it, too.

  For a while the only sound is the traffic. It’s thick on Fall Creek, then dwindles to a couple creeping cars once we’re into the neighborhood. A thumping bass here. A squealing tire there.

  “You can’t seriously be sweating Darryl Gibson,” Kid finally says.

  I shrug. “Nah. You kidding? Everyone always hypes the new kid just because. No worries.”

  Kid bobs his head in agreement. We’re a block from Patton now. My knee’s just the littlest bit tight after the workout. “That’s right,” Kid says. “Gibson’s flavor of the day. But I mean, he had two years to prove himself down in Bloomington, and he barely made a dent in the stat sheet.”

  We keep talking as we walk. We spill out all the reasons not to worry. I’ve still got a couple months to get right. No way Coach Bolden would hand over my starting spot now, not after all we’ve been through.

  “And let’s face it,” Kid says as we open the door. “Ain’t no white boy gonna transfer to Marion East and steal minutes from you.”

  He gives me a playful punch on the shoulder and laughs. But it’s short-lived. There’s Mom on the couch, sending a severe frown his way. “What kind of mess are you putting in Derrick’s head now?” she asks.

  “Oh, let it go, Kaylene,” Kid says. “I’m just making a little noise at him.”

  She rises up a few inches from the cushions. “Don’t you tell me to let it go. Not in my house. Not about my son.” Then her focus snaps to me. “And don’t you go listening to some garbage about white-boy-this or white-boy-that. Racist nonsense.”

  Kid can’t take this. “Oh, come on. It’s not racist. I’m not saying he’s evil. Just saying Darryl Gibson can’t be much of a baller.”

  Mom stops him with another look. “You think I’ve lived a black woman’s life in Indianapolis and don’t know racism? But I am not letting my son think turning that kind thing around on white people helps him one single bit.”

  And that’s the word in this living room, true as if it’s chiseled in stone. One, because it’s my mom’s living room, and it’s best not to mess with Kaylene Bowen. Two, because she’s nearing the end of her second trimester. And she’s thirty-eight. And it’s swamp-ass August outside. She gives a little humph then settles back into the couch, wincing with the effort.

  Thing is, it makes a difference. Gibson being white, that is. I know my mom’s right. I mean, we’ve talked about this since I
was a kid. There are plenty of things to be bitter about—the way the city lets our schools drown and our streets break into a million potholes. Or the way they press on a kid from the neighborhood who steps out of line while teenagers up in Hamilton County run pharmacies out of their bedrooms. Or how they stitched the Monon Trail right over our neighborhood, so rich people could bike or walk their dogs across our patch of land without actually having to see us. But resenting white people won’t change a thing. Makes it worse, my dad says, but I still only halfway believe him on that.

  Still. It matters. Getting pushed by a new kid would hurt no matter what. But when a white person shows up at Marion East they’re either lost or logging community service hours. So I can’t lose minutes to a white kid. I just can’t.

  “Dinner’s almost ready!” Jayson calls. And for the first time I snap out of my train of thought and take in the chaos behind Mom.

  Dad and Jayson are whipping together dinner, but that means a circus of water boiling over and dirty spoons scattered on the counter and strands of spilled spaghetti squashed on the floor. Meanwhile, my girl Lia is setting the table, as serene as my dad and little brother are chaotic. She glances up at me and smiles, quickly blows a little kiss before anyone else can see. Then she goes back to smoothing out napkins and arranging glasses. My head swims at the sight. Mainly because she’s as fine as a girl can be, and she’s cool to hang with, and she’s been there for me every step of the way on my rehab. But it’s that last part that has a troubling little undercurrent—she’s been there all the time. When I met her she made me chase a little, kept me off balance. Now she hovers like we’re married. But what am I supposed to tell her? Stop being so nice to me?

  Everyone crowds in. Reaching. Grabbing. Slopping pasta on plates. Mom clears her throat, just once, and then everyone settles down while she says a quick prayer. She’s never been real religious. She hits up church out of habit but doesn’t Jesus you to death. But she’s been insisting on prayers before meals lately. Mostly, I think she’s hoping for divine intervention so she can feed the extra mouth that’s coming in a few months.

  “Amen,” she says at last. Then there’s the briefest pause before everyone dives into their food. It’s a flurry. And with six of us squeezed around our little table, I can barely get enough elbow room to grab a fork.

  “You okay, Derrick?” It’s Lia, her eyebrows pinching down at me like I just spit on the salad.

  “Fine.”

  “You’re quiet,” she says. “You sure you’re okay? Workout go all right?”

  “Good,” I say.

  “Okay,” she says, clearly not believing me. In terms of couple drama, this isn’t even a blip. I just start to dig in, but my right elbow keeps bumping Dad every time I take a bite. We go through a few rounds of Sorry and No problem, before I sigh and let my fork clank down on my plate.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Lia asks again.

  “I’m fine,” I snap. Lia looks away, simmering. Mom stares at me like she’s about to climb across the table—belly and all—and smack some manners into me. “I’m sorry,” I say, trying to undo as much damage as I can. “I didn’t mean to be a jerk.” I look back at my plate. “I just can’t get any room.”

  2.

  Already you can feel the heat easing up. The cool is coming. And with it, hoops. First practice in three weeks.

  I’m in senior study hall, killing time. At Marion East, if you keep your head down and plug away—don’t show up high, don’t get arrested—you’re golden. Sure, I’ve got to keep cranking in trigonometry and English and on and on, but I’ve got this game down. Hell, at this point they basically tell you exactly what’s going to be on the tests, so I’m not sweating it. So I use this time to get my head right.

  Except Darryl Gibson keeps intruding on my thoughts. He’s a surly guy. Doesn’t say much. But his legend grows daily. He’s still wrecking it at the Fall Creek court, to the point that he’s earned an obnoxious nickname—D-Train, after the way he barrels to the rim. And at school, he’s earned a rep of someone not to be messed with. Word is a couple thugged-out guys tried to jump him the first week and he put them both on their asses in the bathroom. Probably just a story, but people believe it.

  Just this morning, he came cruising down the hall while I was kicking it with my teammates and he barely nodded at us. Like he’s too good or something. It makes me think back to when I was a newcomer. I used to walk these halls thinking I had something to swagger about, too. I remember how I resented Nick Starks—he was the senior point I was trying to uproot from the lineup—and maybe that’s how Gibson sees me. Whatever. That’s his problem, not mine.

  “Bowen,” a voice calls. I come out of my daydream. There’s Mr. Mason, in front of me. He’s holding up a hall pass with one hand, his other propping up his head like it weighs a hundred pounds. “Looks like you got a get out of jail card.” He’s got retirement in his eyes, and he gives no shits at all. Doesn’t even look at me while I walk up and pluck the pass from his hand. First couple weeks of study hall, kids would try to get a rise out of him. They’d pull out phones and play games at full volume. They’d drop f-bombs in casual conversation. They’d stretch out on the floor, plop down their bookbag for a pillow, and nap. Mason never blinked.

  Now some people actually study. What’s the point of acting out if you can’t get a teacher to notice?

  I check the clock, see there’s only twenty minutes left in the period. “Do I need to come back here before next bell?” I ask.

  Mason shrugs. He opens his desk and pulls out a bag of chips, opens them with a loud crinkle. “No point, I guess.”

  Then I’m gone. As I walk down the hall, I check all the slogans.

  Belief Efficiency Schoolwork Tenacity = B.E.S.T.

  We Are the Hornets. Our Strength is in the Hive.

  Always Aiming Upward!

  They’ve been there forever. Same slogans and signs since the first day I set foot in Marion East. Every school has them—constant attempts to keep kids motivated. When you’re young, they seem to mean something. Like a little life instruction manual written on the walls. Then you hit junior year. Senior year. Things change. You see kids who had promise spiral down. You see kids who graduated full of hope stuck in their parents’ house, no better prospects than minimum wage jobs. Over and over and over.

  Then again, what’s the choice? To not believe in possibilities? To just give up? No way. And whenever I get that kind of feeling, I’ve got something to save me—hoops. There the rules make sense. Nobody’s going to change them on you mid-game either. Give me the rock. Get me between the lines. Then I’ll show you what’s B.E.S.T.

  I hover outside of Coach Bolden’s door before I knock. I’ve been called down here so many times over the years that I don’t even worry. Sometimes it’s been a pep talk. Sometimes a brutal lecture. Sometimes it’s been to take a long look at my mid-term grades.

  I knock.

  “It’s open,” a voice says.

  Then, when I duck my head in, there’s no Bolden. Instead, the other two seniors on the squad—Fuller and Chris Jones, our big who spent all summer bulking up—sit silently in folding chairs. Across from them, behind Bolden’s big old desk, sits Lou Murphy, Bolden’s longtime assistant. He points at one last chair that leans against the brick wall. “Grab a seat, Derrick,” he says.

  I do as I’m told, but my senses are on high alert.

  Once I sit and face Murphy, he clears his throat. He clasps his hands in front of him and sits them on the desk, then decides against it and lays them palms-down as he leans forward. Murphy’s always been our go-to guy, that players’ coach who strokes our egos when Bolden comes down too hard. But now he just looks too young. Instead of his smooth, copper-colored face and that nervous smile behind the desk, there should be Bolden’s hawkish scowl—dark, wrinkled, ready to attack.

  Finally, Murphy just pops up, like the seat’s full of thorns. He claps his hands. “Let’s just get to it,” he says. “I want
ed to let the seniors know first. Coach Bolden isn’t coming back this year.” As he says it, he motions back to the chair. Maybe he meant it as a sign of respect—like it’ll always be Bolden’s seat—but it makes it feel like the old man’s dead.

  “What’s wrong?” Fuller asks. He’s a senior in high school whose forehead wrinkles up like a senior citizen’s. He’s a bull, always moving straight ahead, on the court and off. “Something happened to him, right?” he says, as much an accusation as a question.

  “No, no,” Murphy says. “It’s nothing like that. He just decided it was time to retire.”

  I don’t say anything, but I’m angry. I’m not sure why, but it seems like a betrayal. Jones must feel the same way, and he doesn’t hold back. “Just like that?” he yells. “The old man said forget it right before my senior year? After all the work? After all the damn suicides I’ve run for him, he just walks?”

  Murphy nods, understanding. “I hear you,” he says. Then he catches himself and takes a harder tone. “But Jones, it is what it is. Man up about it. Coach was getting up there. If he wants to spend his days doing the crossword and watching cable, he’s earned it.”

  Nobody says anything after that. We just let the news settle over us the way a January snow silences the city as it falls. There’s just the wheeze and rattle of the air conditioning unit. I start remembering all my go-rounds with Bolden—the fight over playing time my freshman year, his crazy lineups that put me at the four-spot, the heart-to-hearts during my sophomore slump, his fire-breathing lectures when I let my head get too swole as a junior. And then his patience and counsel through my recruitment and my injuries. It’s hard to imagine Marion East hoops without him prowling the sideline, chewing out officials, stomping his foot on the hardwood. Gone. Retirement isn’t death, I guess, but it kind of feels like it to the people left behind.

  “So?” Jones asks at last.

  “What?” Murphy says.

  “So who’s the new coach?”

  Murphy widens his eyes. “I am,” he says, a little too defensively. Then he softens, remembering that he didn’t exactly explain that part to us. And finally, he lets a little smile creep in. He shakes his head. “The old man didn’t really give the school much of a choice to do anything else,” he says. “He just dropped the news on them yesterday. Probably knew it all summer long, but held out so they’d have to let me have a crack at it.”