Archives: April 16-April 22, 2006

April 16, 2006

Emma, Veronica and the rest of the girls are due back tonight, around 8 or 9. And so, after work, I take the opportunity to go for a walk on my own and clear my head a bit.

I think about Emma. We got together last semester, and I've had the sense that this semester has been all about growing comfortable with one another. We've spent more nights together and had more dinners. We've taken care of each other when we're stressed, tired, or drunk. There's still a lot that we have to learn about one another, but in a lot of ways, I'm about as close to her as I've ever been to anyone.

And then there's Veronica. Truth be told, I hardly know her at all. The way Emma says she freaked out at competition is a testament to that. After she had seemed so calm and cool about everything, including losing in semifinals, it seems to have turned out to mean a lot more to her. But then, I sort of like that mystery she has about her. I recall seeing her sing at the open mic, or the party where we played spin the bottle. Everything I've seen from her has had its appeal. It's made me curious, or turned me on. I could walk away from her now, and probably make a clean break of it. It would be one mistake that just the two of us would know about. But then, the fact remains that there isn't any part of me that really wants this to be the end. I'm still dying to see what kind of a future we might have.

I kick a pebble around along the road, thinking about what sort of timetable I have to work with. There's only a month left before the end of the semester, and I wonder what the summer will bring. What would those months be like, in a long distance relationship with Emma. We didn't have any problems, per se, over the month of Winter Break, but there also a point when things weren't perfect. You talk over the phone, night after night. But after days of sleeping in and not doing much, the conversations grow repetitive and stale. I missed her, but all in all, found that the anticipation of missing her, before the break, was worse than when she was actually gone.

I think about going into the summer together with Veronica. Maybe things would be the same. But Veronica has this certain appeal to her, and I see us meeting up, maybe at her home, or maybe at some exotic location. I imagine us making out in the summer heat, maybe making love.

But then, who's to say Veronica is looking that far ahead? We had our night together, and she did come to see me before the girls left town. But, I haven't heard her so much as say the word relationship.

I wonder if I might be able to make things work both ways. I wonder if I could keep things the way they are, but see where Veronica's road might lead.

April 17, 2006

“Hey guys, what's happening,” Mike says, appearing in the doorway. Dave and I are each on our computers, while Emma sits on my bed reading. “Hey Emma.”

“What's going on, Mike?” I ask.

“Well, boys, I have a little proposition for you.” With a flourish, Mike produces a neon green flyer. “Three on three basketball tournament. It's coming up this Saturday, and I want you guys to play with me.” Emma reaches out for the flyer and Mike hands it to her.

We both chuckle. “You want us to play with you?” Dave asks. “I'm flattered buddy, but you just played with us a few days ago. You know we're not exactly at your level.”

“I wasn't exactly on the level with you guys the other day,” he says. “I know I said I just wanted to shoot around. But truth be told, that was a try-out.”

“And you're saying you want to play with us?” Dave asks.

“That's exactly what I'm saying.”

Dave and I look at each other. “I think we're both a little confused,” I volunteer. “I mean, why aren't you playing the guys from your team. We can't be the best you could find.”

“I was supposed to play with two other guys from the team. But their intensity was for shit,” Mike says, picking up our foam ball from the floor tossing it up and down in one hand. “All I was saying was we should be practicing every night leading up to the tournament. And all they can talk about is how basketball season's over, and they were done with practices. Can you believe that? What's the point in playing in a tournament if you aren't in it to win?”

“So they wouldn't play in the tournament?” Dave asks.

“Hardly. The assholes dropped me from their team. Then they laughed at me when I said I could find two guys off the street and win the tournament.”

Dave reclines in his chair. “And you think the three of us can beat three guys from the team?”

“You guys aren't so bad,” Mike says. “Practice with me this week, and I'll get you in shape.”

“The tournament is for a good cause,” Emma says, looking at the flyer. “Proceeds go toward cancer research.”

April 18, 2006

As Dave and I began to discuss the logistics of playing on a team with Mike, we could see where his original teammates had second guessed suiting up with him. Dave saved me the trouble, and explained that he wouldn't be getting up for six a.m. practice. I did have to explain that my job at The Window wasn't something I could skip out on for the week.

Nonetheless, we did work out a schedule, and I am skirting out on my newspaper responsibilities for the night, with the understanding that I won't be practicing with the guys at all tomorrow. I have Carl at the Student Center polls, covering the Student Association presidential election—a story I ordinarily would have picked up for myself. Mike runs us through a couple drills, rebounding, shooting, following one another with lay-ups.

“All right,” Mike says, “Let's shoot around a little bit.” He fires a chest pass to me just inside the three point line, and I fire off a jump shot, which caroms off the back iron. “Let's try it again,” he says, rifling another pass to me. “This time, get your feet squared up to the basket and bring the elbows in.”

I look at him, a little unsure, but follow his directions. I miss again, this time off of the front of the rim.

“Better,” Mike says. “Try it again.”

I make the next one. Mike throws it back and I hit again. I miss the third and he throws it to me again, never seeming to take his eyes from the ball. At one point, it rolls off the rim to Dave, who tosses it to me underhand. I catch and line up to shoot when Mike calls out, “Stop!”

Mike walks toward Dave. The two of us are already sweating lightly, but Mike's muscle shirt is spotless, and he's not winded in the least. “ Preston , pass it back to Dave.”

I send a bounce pass back to him, but Mike cuts between us, and taking the ball and dribbling so we're standing in a triangle. “That's exactly what's going to happen in a game. These weak passes are gonna get picked off half the time you throw them—and that's against the everyday guys. When we're in the finals, my teammates are going to steal that every time.” Mike squares up to Dave and throws a chest pass to him. “Give it back to me.” Dave throws a chest pass back. “That's good.” Mike passes to me, and I throw it back to me. “There you go,” Mike says as we continue. “You have to commit to your pass, or not throw it at all. But we'll come back to that.” He throws it back to me. “Keep shooting.”

April 19, 2006

“It's not like it's a surprise,” Sam says, stretching his arms out at his desk. “It's just like politics at the national level. People are going to vote for the establishment, not some start up with a bunch of ideas about changing things.”

“Not to mention the fact that he's actually qualified for the position,” Carrie says, not looking up from her reads.

It's the beginnings of the same argument housed in the office since the rival campaigns for Student Association president began. This may be the last time it starts up, though, with the election behind us. Tucker Williams, the former Business Director won 70 percent of the votes yesterday to defeat Sal Rodriguez yesterday.

Meanwhile, I'm laying out a supplemental story on lower voter turner out. It came in late from a new writer, who volunteered the piece. It's probably a part of his own political agenda—I can see him as a ‘get out the vote' activist. It's a noble enough cause, but the transparency of his message throughout the article means it's going to need its share of editing. Sitting at my desk my body aches from the hours upon hours of basketball the day before.

Teri, the Student Life Editor, breezes into the office. “You get my reads done Sam?”

“They're on your desk.”

“Gracias,” she says, and pats my shoulder en route to her desk. “And thank you, Preston , for the lead on the a cappella story. I think people are going to like how it turned out.”

“Did you have your writer talk to Veronica?” I ask, trying not to sound too interested.

“Yeah, but she couldn't pull a quote out of her to save her life.”

“What do you mean?”

Teri turns to me, flicking her chin length brown hair to one side as she waits for her layout file to open up. “All she would give were one word answers. Sounded like she was pretty disappointed with the way things turned out this weekend.”

“Yeah, I guess things didn't go quite how they planned.”

“It's all right, though. This other girl,” Teri pauses, looking at her edited page. “Claire—she had a lot to say. Made for some decent print.”

“Glad to hear—”

April 20, 2006

“All right, let's move the ball, move the ball, let's go, no travel, pass it off!” Mike calls as we run up court. The name of the game is to run up court in a line together, no dribbling, no traveling. Mike's in the middle, and we're passing it to him. Sometimes it comes back to us, sometimes to the other man, keeping us getting. When we reach the end, Mike lays it in or one of us takes the jumper, and then we're running back the other way.

“Come on, let's take a breather,” Dave says as we reach the end.

“No time for a breather, keep it moving,” Mike says, sending a chest pass to Dave. Dave sends it back struggling along, coughing. In a single motion, Mike fakes the pass to me, then wings it back to Dave behind his back. Dave fumbles it, but recovers and passes back. Mike sends it to me

In the end, Mike sends it to Dave, who misses a jump shot. “All right, water break.” Dave says, walking off the court this time, before Mike can reject the idea.

Reluctantly, Mike pulls up and bounces the ball, standing still. “All right, make it quick. You're not gonna get water breaks in the game.” Mike knocks down a jumper.

“Yeah, but in the game we're playing half court, and there will be times when we're playing defense,” Dave finishes with a coughing fit.

“And this is why you've gotta quit smoking,” Mike says.

“Don't preach to me.”

“I've been saying the same thing all year,” I throw in.

“Don't you help him.”

“Bottom line,” Mike goes on. “I can't have you tanking on me in the finals. If you can stick with a guy that's gonna make all the difference in getting a stop. And if you can keep moving on offense you can tire them out.”

“Yeah, I'm gonna tire out your teammates in the finals,” Dave says.

“All I'm asking is that you hang with them. You do that, I'll win this thing.”

“Maybe you should quit smoking through Saturday,” I say.

“Yeah, that'll help my conditioning.”

“Na, it'll piss you off, and I think that'll make you play better.”

“Couldn't hurt,” Mike nods along.

April 21, 2006

I sit on Mike's desk chair, while Dave sits at the edge of his bed. Mike's poised at his desk drawing on an oversized whiteboard that I wouldn't doubt he keeps for the specific purpose of mapping out plays, as he's doing tonight.

“So Preston sets the high screen here,” Mike says, biting from a slice of pepperoni pizza as he draws an X where I will set the pick. “And I drive to the basket, and either take it all the way in, or kick it out to Preston for the jumper. They're not going to be looking for me to kick it back out. And you've got that shot now.”

Over these past few days, Mike has worn us out physically. By virtue of the practices he's structured for us, we've each had more exercise in a week than we had all last semester. The wildest thing about it is that I get the sense it just might have worked.

Mike has faith in my abilities as a shooter. He's been drilling me everyday like he did on the first, having me take shot after shot until I make them over and over again. In each of these instances, it was though I learned how to make the shot, and each one was easier. For Dave, Mike has started to zone in defense—noticing he has an eye for breaking up plays. Mike alone makes us a threat to win a tournament at this school. He's molding us into a viable supporting cast.

Mike erases the Xs and Os of the most recent play and grabs another slice and sits down on his desk. “And guys, I just got word my girlfriend's going to be in town for the tournament tomorrow so losing isn't an option.”

Dave picks up the framed photo of Mike's girlfriend from his nightstand. “Ah, Pepper Harris herself in attendance. You know, she's a good looking girl, Weaver.”

Mike stands, snatching the photo away. “Best keep your mitts off, buddy.”

“I'm just saying she's good looking.”

“I know, man.” Mike shakes his head, looking at the picture. “It's just wild. Feels like I hardly ever get to see her anymore.”

“She was up a few times last semester, right?” I ask. “I think I remember seeing her.”

Mike nods. “Yeah. She caught a couple of my games when we were near her, and I stayed with her for a few days over spring break. Aside from that, though, she's always too busy, or I'm too busy. And she's graduating early, this May.”

“So she should be more free then, right?” I ask.

“Hardly. She's just waiting to hear back from med schools now.” Mike smiles and shakes his head at himself. “Anyway, I want us to have something to celebrate after this tournament is over, if you hear me.”

“I hear ya,” Dave says. “Fine looking woman like that, I can't blame you.”

“Mitts off, Dave. Mitts off,” Mike finishes, picking up the whiteboard marker again as he diagrams another play.

April 22, 2006

“This here is my girlfriend Pepper,” Mike says as we wait for things to get started in the gym. “And girls, these are my teammates Dave and Preston and this Preston 's girlfriend Emma. And this is—I'm sorry, help me out here Preston —”

“My name is Veronica,” she breaks in reaching out to shake hands with Mike's friends. I didn't expect to see her here, in her Eskimos hoodie and jeans. Emma said Veronica called to see what she was up to, and so Emma ended up inviting her along.

I'm surprised how much of a crowd there is a for relatively informal tournament. From the chatter I heard coming in, word spread pretty quickly about Mike playing against his teammates, and the rivalry at hand. The teammates aren't too hard to spot, standing head and shoulders about just about anyone else on the court.

The way things are set up, there will be two games gong on at a time, right up until the finals. There are 16 teams playing, and it's a single elimination tournament. First team to 21 wins, and must win by two. The girls find a seat in the bleachers by the side of the court where we'll be playing first as we join a few other teams in shooting around.

*

Our first game doesn't look like much of a challenge. We're playing against three guys, the tallest of whom is my height. They aren't bad, but they're playing at about my level. Mike puts us at a 6-0 lead off of lay-ups.

The other team scores off a jumper and Mike fakes the drive, then tosses in a jumper from around the free throw line. Dave steals the next possession off of a lazy bounce pass, and passes it to Mike, who drives, then passes off to me just inside the three point arc, where I nail the jump shot, just like we had practiced.

Mike dominates the game, making two foul shots to finish the game, 21-6. After he makes the second, I dare to look to the stands for the first time, where Emma gives us a standing ovation. Veronica meets eyes with me and smiles.

*

By the end of our third game, Dave is sucking wind. Mike has to split his attention to help him on defense, and our opponents capitalize, making smart passes to score. I do my best to stay in the game, running all around to get open, but these guys are better than the teams we played in the first two rounds.

Mike holds up three fingers, and I get in position, setting a pick on his man. The guy who was guarding me picks him up, and does a decent enough job of it, sticking with him as he drives to the hoop. They get their wires crossed though, and soon both defenders are following him in. Without so much as a look behind him, Mike flings the ball back out to me, where I make the open jump shot.

The other team answers back with a jump shot. Mike responds with a three pointer, pushing the score to 17-10, for our biggest lead of the game. Mike blocks their next shot and I get the rebound, taking a jump shot, which falls short. Springing back in to action, Dave catches the ball as it falls and puts it back in.

The other team hits a three pointer over me on their next possession, but it's too little too late. Mike fakes the shot, then drives to the basket to throw down a one handed dunk, and send us to the finals.

*

“Has TJ been hitting the jumper?” Mike asks Pepper on the sidelines, while drinks from a bottle of water.

“Not early on, but he was heating up at the end of the game,” Pepper replies. Mike sent her to scout out his teammates during our last game. “But there games are going the same way yours have. They've just been tossing it inside and making the lay-ups.”

“Yeah, all right,” Mike says, drinking more water and looking across the court where our pending opponents are talking.

Emma leans up to kiss my cheek, leaning in so she doesn't touch the rest of her body to my sweaty form. Veronica subtly puckers his lips as they head back to the stands, where Pepper is saving their seats. The other side of the gym is emptying out as everyone heads this way to catch the finals.

“All right,” Mike says, as the other team heads toward us, all clad in blue. There's TJ, who backs up Mike as the shooting guard from The Eskimos. There's Perry, the starting point guard—the shortest man who will be on the court, but from what Mike says, also the fastest. The last, standing 6'10” Cal , the starting center for the varsity team. “We're playing zone on this one.”

“I thought you hated zone,” Dave says.

“I do. But the only way we're gonna win this is if I can cover all three of them in the paint.”

So we set it up, Mike taking ball, then switching off with one of us as the ball gets in motion, so he can play beneath the basket. When they go on defense, they play man to man, throwing Dave and I off our game when we rush back to our spots to cover in the zone. We start off the game down 6-0 in a hurry.

Dave misses a shot and Cal gets the rebound, dishing it off to Perry. Perry crosses over five times before I can get my feet set, and blows past me toward the hole.

Mike is ready though, and picks him up as he nears the basket. Unfazed, Perry dishes off to Cal, who goes up to lay ball in.

Mike isn't giving up so easily this time, and blocks him from behind. He proceeds to grab the loose ball out to me where I spot up for three—and miss. Before I know it, Perry has the ball back and swings it to TJ to knock down a three-pointer of his own.

“Come on guys, this is embarrassing,” Mike says, walking back to take the ball at the top of the key.

“Do we have some kind of mercy rule here?” Perry asks following after to guard him. “What do you say, 10 point shut out and we call it a game?”

“Ain't gonna happen, ass,” Mike says, checking the ball.

“Oh yeah? Then why don't you show me something,” Perry's head bobs as he speaks.

“I'm gonna take you inside right now.”

“I'm gonna take the ball, then I'm gonna take you on a tour of rarefied air.”

“Rarefied air?” Mike asks, dribbling along the perimeter as Dave and I struggle for position, Dave coughing again.

“That's what we call it up there. Places you've never been.”

“Oh, are you asking me to take you to flight school?”

“You don't even know the way.”

With that, Mike takes it inside. He fakes a pass to me that Perry and I each bite on, before slashing forward to lay the ball in off the glass.

“All right,” Perry says, checking the ball to Mike. “You got the point, but that ain't what I call flight.”

“Oh no?”

“I'm gonna take you on the redeye this time.”

As Perry makes his move, Mike knocks the ball away, and is back on the offensive. He starts to work his way in, and Perry moves in for a steal of his own. Mike sees it in time and picks up his dribble. With Perry stooped over, he pulls up and drains the jump shot.

We work our way back into the game. Cal controls the rebounds, to keep us down, but Dave manages a steal and Mike converts it to a lay-up to bring us to just three down, 18-15. From there, Mike manages to steal a rebound from Cal and pass it to me outside. I fake the shot, then throw it inside to Dave for a lay-up. TJ hits a mid-range jump shot, and Mike answers back with a three.

“Game point,” Perry says, taking it out once again. “One last possession.”

“Na, it's win by two.”

“And the score is going to be 22-20—23-20 if you want me to get mean on you.”

“I don't see it, Per. We're gonna stop you now, then drop three in the hole.”

“Stop this.” Perry bounces the ball right between Mike's legs, toward Cal , and for a second, I think it's over.

Out of no where, Dave gets a hand in the way. He takes the ball and flips it to Mike, who takes it inside. Cal fouls him on his way up, sending Mike to the line. I know the next two points are ours.

Mike nudges me as he approaches the line. “Remember how I missed those free throws?”

“What?”

“When I miss the second, get to your spot.”

Mike takes his time at the line, in part, I think, to give me time to figure things out. He drains the first shot, tying the score at 20. He makes eye contact with me, for a fraction of a second as he lines up his shot, just as Perry is barking at him not to choke.

Mike misses, bouncing the ball hard off of the back rim. He's right on top of it. He knows where the ball is headed every second and beats everyone to the rebound, while I float to my spot, just inside the three point line. The ball meets me there, and like clockwork, I knock down the biggest shot of the day, to win the tournament.

*

“And in first place, the team of Dave Starks, Preston Burns and Mike Weaver!”

The respectable crowd applauds as we move to center court to claim our four-feet tall, gold colored trophy. The game over, our final round opponents are suddenly chummy again, messing up my hair and slapping Mike five. The girls join us there. Emma hugs and kisses me, and Veronica gives me five.

“Hey boys,” Perry says. “TJ and I are having a little get together at our place tonight. Was supposed to be our victory celebration, but I guess we'd might as well still have it for you guys.”

“Sounds like a good time,” Mike says. “You guys in?”

“Definitely,” Dave pats Mike's shoulder.

“I'll party if you guys I want to,” I say, eyes moving to Emma, then Veronica.

“I'm down,” Veronica says.

“Why not?” Emma agrees, kissing my cheek.