Authors: Paul Volponi
The Final Four (6 page)
Then, after a few minutes, the EMTs suddenly stopped. They pulled a white sheet over Trisha’s bloodstained face and lifted her lifeless body into the ambulance.
That gut check Trisha had given Malcolm maybe ten minutes ago, shoving the basketball hard into his stomach, turned into a huge empty hole that passed right through him.
“Why aren’t they helping my baby anymore? Why?” screamed Malcolm’s mama, as neighbors rushed to hold her up.
Malcolm’s legs became like rubber, as he wavered back and forth between tears and searing anger.
Without a basketball to cling to, Malcolm threw his arms around his mama.
He felt an earthquake of emotions building inside her—the kind of rumbling that could have brought the Brewster-Douglass Houses crashing down to the ground.
It was all Malcolm could do to hold on.
Later on, at the hospital, Malcolm and his parents were told by doctors that Trisha had been struck in the right temple by a bullet. And that it had probably killed her instantly.
It was the hardest thing Malcolm ever had to hear.
The cops called it a “stray” bullet, one from a battle over which crew would run the projects’ most profitable drug spots. But Malcolm didn’t need the police to explain anything. He walked those streets every day.
In all, the cops counted the casings of seven shots fired from a moving car. Two of them ended up in the body of a teenage dealer on a bench twenty yards from the hydrant where all of those kids were splashing, where Trisha was minding little Sha-Sha. Only those bullets didn’t touch the lives of Malcolm and his family.
The few witnesses who weren’t afraid to talk told the police that the shots came from a black Acura with tinted windows. But nobody got a good look at the shooter’s face, or the car’s license plate number.
There was no birthday dinner that night or talk of food in Malcolm’s house for days. And Malcolm couldn’t remember hearing any music again until the Martin Luther King High School Crusaders Marching Band played “Wind Beneath My Wings” at Trisha’s funeral.
At the cemetery, Ramona came up from behind Malcolm and threw her arms around him. “I feel like this is all my fault,” sobbed Ramona. “If I didn’t ask her to mind my daughter, she’d still be here.”
Malcolm wanted to scream at her,
That’s right! This is all on you!
But he didn’t. Instead, he broke free from Ramona’s grasp and tossed a handful of dirt into Trisha’s grave, on top of her coffin.
That night in her bedroom, Malcolm heard the same
tutt
sound the dirt had made every time he dropped a finger onto the skin of his sister’s snare drum. He listened to it, still angry as hell at Ramona, and hating every bit of the world he could see from the window.
No one was ever arrested over Trisha’s death.
Inside of a week, drugs were being dealt again from that same bench.
Malcolm couldn’t walk past without losing his temper, wanting to throw down with anyone who was doing business there. Ten days after Trisha’s funeral, one of those dealers shot him a challenging look, and Malcolm couldn’t hold back anymore.
“Think I’m scared of that weak-ass ice grill? Maybe things are going to get evened up, big-time!” Malcolm hollered, nearly squeezing the air out of the orange basketball between his palms. “It doesn’t matter if dudes are responsible for my sister or not! Sometimes being in the wrong place is good enough!”
“Better stick to b-ball,” the guy said in a cold voice, before taking a long drag on a cigarette and blowing smoke from his nostrils. “This is no game. Shit’s for real out here. Lots of families lose more than one kid to these streets.”
“Yeah, maybe
your
mama’s going to be the one crying tonight,” said Malcolm, stepping forward. “’Cause mine’s cried enough.”
That’s when another one of that crew put an arm around the guy, pulling him away.
“Forget about it, man. Let’s walk for a few,” he said to his partner. “There’s already too much heat. Last thing we need is another chalk outline. It’s bad for our pockets.”
As they left, Malcolm hocked up a wad of phlegm and spit it on the ground where they’d been standing.
“Five guys on the court working together can achieve more than five talented individuals who come and go as individuals.”
—Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, who played on three National Collegiate Championship teams at UCLA, won six NBA Championships and MVPs, and scored the most career points in NBA history
ROKO BACIC
7:26 P.M. [CT]
R
oko is kicking himself as Malcolm sets his feet at the foul line.
He’s pissed because he should have known better—that Malcolm wasn’t about to wait for anyone, or pass the ball off, after making that steal.
“My bad,” Roko calls out to his teammates. “If I was going to foul, I should have knocked his ass down so he couldn’t score.”
“Yeah, you keep on believing that’s possible, because I sure as hell don’t,” says Malcolm, before the ref sends him the ball.
That’s when Roko realizes he needs to change his thinking. That he needs to fight off every instinct to see the game the way he was taught to play it.
If he’s going to stop Malcolm, Roko needs to see the game through Malcolm’s eyes. And maybe the rest of the Spartans’ eyes, too. Because they’ve probably learned to see things the same selfish way after playing an entire season with Malcolm.
“Thirty-two, Red Bull! Thirty-two, Red Bull! That’s what we run next!” screams the willowy Kennedy, catching Roko’s eye with a subtle wink.
Now Roko understands that Kennedy’s thinking is the same as his.
After Malcolm’s made free throw, the Spartans lead 69–66.
Roko brings the ball up court.
Malcolm gets into a defensive stance, bending low at the knees and slapping both of his palms against the floor, challenging Roko to dribble past.
Roko purposefully eyes Malcolm, and no one else.
Every Michigan State defender has heard Kennedy’s play call with Roko’s name and number attached. They’re all waiting for Roko to take the ball to the basket, ready to tattoo the rock’s wilson logo onto his forehead.
Roko puts his head down. With a burst of speed, he drives towards the hoop.
Both Grizzly and Baby Bear come flying off their men.
Roko can hear their footsteps rushing towards him. Suddenly, he pulls up, spotting Aaron Boyce alone behind the three-point line. He feeds him the ball and Aaron buries the shot.
The game is tied 69–69, with just a little more than two minutes remaining in overtime.
Then Roko punches the air around him with a clenched fist
as the big base drum in the Trojan band punctuates that three-pointer—
Boom! Boom! Boom!
May 23 (Grade 11)
There is no more sun. The sky over Zagreb is black. Uncle Dražen was murdered. He was killed by a car bomb. Everyone knows it was done by organized crime, by miserable mafia type people that don’t deserve to live. He was blown up outside of the newspaper office at 6 o’clock tonight. My tears like a storm have not stopped since I learned the news from my father. Sadness is not close to the description of how I feel. I am totally empty inside. The biggest hole in the world is in my heart.
My mother did not want me to go down there. But I had to see it with my own two eyes. I saw Uncle Dražen’s blue car turned charcoal black. It was melted down to metal bones like a burned out skeleton on the street. The smell of fire was heavy in the air. It is in my nose even now and will not leave. That same fire is burning in my blood to get revenge. A lifetime in prison is not enough for those bastard criminals. My father said there is no body of his brother left to bury. No body of his left to pray over. I know Uncle Dražen’s spirit can not burn. His soul can not burn.
I hope the criminals that did this evil murder burn in hell for eternal days and nights. How do
we know it was these criminals? A week ago they shoved a gun in my uncle’s face and told him to write no more about them. He refused because he is a champion. Another reporter was beat with a baseball bat by the same types. There was no work for me last Saturday at the newspaper. Now I understand why. Uncle Dražen wanted to protect me from possible harm, from violence of thugs. My father said we can not trust the police because some of them are owned by Croatian mafia. They are on the criminals’ payroll for a second job. He said that maybe we are not safe in this house. My father now has his gun by his side for the protection of us. Like my uncle Dražen, I will not be scared of mafia terrorists. Not today. Not tomorrow. I will always speak my mind and have respect for the opinions of others. When I hold my basketball I feel Uncle Dražen close by. Now he will always be part of my game. He will be part of my strength and part of my heart.
My mother wants me to leave Croatia. She wants me to finish high school in the US with my cousins living there. I am not sure. My father says I am old enough to decide my own life. I don’t want to run away from what Uncle Dražen started. But the future here in Zagreb is dark. It is filled with as much smoke and fire as outside the newspaper office tonight. I will always keep this
journal for myself and for my memory of beloved Uncle Dražen. I will miss him forever with my tears, my heart, and my soul.
August 12 (Entering Grade 12)
Today ends my first week living in the US. Big news flash—the city of Montgomery, Alabama is not Zagreb. It is total culture shock. Even the US movies and music I know do not give me the answers to everything. There are other Croatians here besides my cousins, aunts, and uncles. But it is still a new world to me—one without my parents who stayed in Zagreb to watch over the house my great-grandfather built with his own two hands. I pray they are safe. My father says the move will force me to grow up faster. I say nothing will ever do that more than the murder of Uncle Dražen.
I am living with the sister of my mother and her husband. Their four children are all younger than me. The three girls are ages 6, 9, and 11. They are almost babies compared to me and still play with dolls. My boy cousin is 12. He has no interest in basketball or any other sports. Instead he plays the violin. I share a bedroom with him, except for when he practices his music lessons. Then the bedroom belongs 100% to him and I would rather sleep in the doghouse outside. It has been 95
degrees or more here every day so far. And I am melting in the heat and humidity like a redheaded Popsicle.
There are public basketball courts just five blocks from my new house. On the good side, the courts are close enough to walk to. On the bad side, I have already learned that five blocks is a long way to run from angry players. *Note to myself—when returning trash talk do not use the words “make you my little bitch.” **I am no Slim Shady here. I have no real friends yet, just some enemies on the basketball court. **
“What happens is, when you’re good at something, you spend a lot of time with it. People identify you with that sport, so it becomes part of your identity.”
—Mike Krzyzewski, who coached Duke to four NCAA Championships
CRISPIN RICE
7:27 P.M. [CT]
C
rispin can hear the
thud
of Grizzly’s backside and shoulders slamming into him, carving out space beneath the basket. This deep into the game, there’s hardly any pain attached to it anymore. Crispin’s body is nearly numb from the abuse.
That just makes him even braver.
It’s like staring down a dentist’s drill with your mouth full of Novocain.
Those extra thirty pounds of muscle on Grizzly are still doing the job, but they’ve lost most of their biting sting.
Then, bracing for another collision, Crispin feels his left sneaker slide out from underneath him. A slick sweat spot on
the floor gives Grizzly all the advantage he needs. Crispin goes even more off balance with a subtle hip from Grizzly, and the Spartans get the ball into their center’s huge paws.
Crispin hustles back into position, putting his arms straight up in the air to defend against Grizzly’s short jumper.
Their chests barely bump together as the ball caroms off the rim.
The ref whistles Crispin for a foul, his fourth of the game. One more and he’s gone, with no one else near his size on the Trojans’ bench for a replacement.
On the sideline, Coach Kennedy goes ballistic at the ref, screaming, “He’s standing straight up! He’s entitled to that space! Look at him!”
Crispin freezes in place, arms over his head, pleading his case. “How is
this
a foul? Tell me. How?”
But the ref walks away, ignoring them both.
Grizzly sinks the first of two free throws, giving the Spartans a 70–69 lead. Then Kennedy calls time-out, pounding his right palm on top of the extended fingers of his left hand to make a T, as if the ref’s head was on a chopping block between them.
Inside the Trojans’ huddle, Kennedy calms himself enough to call the next offensive play. Then he turns to Crispin and says, “Don’t worry about fouling out. I don’t care if I have to send a midget out there to take your place. Step up to every challenge. You don’t ever want to lose backing down and have to carry that around with you. There’s a minute thirty-two on the clock. But I promise you, life is a hell of a lot longer than that. So stand tall.”