<><>Gonna Take On The World Some Day: John Li<><>

[lids4]

Many Years From Now

NCAA Championship Game, 2033

It’s the saddest moment of his life. His massive body slumps, his hands on his hips, his shoulders loose, his chest bent slightly forward. His huge Afro draws my eye as he tilts his face up, gazing at the scoreboard as if he can’t believe what he sees. Then he casts his face down at the hardwood and just stands there, breathing in, breathing out.

I know what this means to him and somehow, I focus on him. I know what I’ve got to do. Normally, the players would form lines to slap hands and say, “good game.” But already the court is swamped with reporters and fans and more keep pouring in.

I push my way through the crowd, turning sideways so my shoulders won’t crash into anyone. He still hasn’t seen me. He hasn’t looked up yet. A cameraman notices me moving against the crowd and starts tracking me, following in my wake as I slide past one of their assistant coaches, the last person between me and him.

His deep brown skin is shiny with sweat. He’s a couple of inches taller than me—6 foot 3 on the roster, 6 foot 1 in real life—and positively jacked, yet somehow he looks small for the first time tonight. I reach out and touch him on the “8” on his “98” jersey. He straightens up, turns around and looks at me, his nemesis for the last 40 minutes.

I extend my arm, and after just a second he takes it, his massive paw gripping my hand and pulling me in. We exchange the famous “man-hug,” our free hands wrapping around to rest behind the other man’s shoulder blades. As the cameramen converge on us, we start to separate and lock eyes for just a moment.

“Be seeing you.”

“Count on it.”

And he lets go, turns on his heel and heads for the locker room, the last bit of black and green disappearing into the tunnel as the court is awash in purple and white. I smile and turn my head; one of our walk-ons has climbed up a ladder and started cutting down the net. He climbs down as I stroll over, offering the scissors to me as he reaches the bottom. I take them, climb up top and clip the net. But I can’t help but look across the court, across the crowd, at the tunnel.

He’s gone. But somehow I know this is just the beginning.

 

[lids4]

Here are the rules:

- This is a CL, not a Chise. It is not based on any games of College Hoops or NBA 2K.
- Expect daily updates if followed, each with a major plot point or two
- It is written as a memoir, so the amount of time an update covers will vary
- John Li was born in 2013 and is a college senior in the above update

 

[platchat]

No offence but, weak start. Don't mean its not going to be good. Couple spelling mistakes, other then that, interesting..

 

[lids4]

Where It All Began

I guess I should explain how I got to this point. My name is John Christopher Li, born and raised in San Francisco. I skipped the second grade so from that point onward, I was always the youngest kid in my class and usually the shortest. Growing up I tried all kinds of things. By high school, I was taking my sixth year of piano lessons and playing three sports: football, basketball, and tennis. Basketball was my favorite.

Over the summer before high school, I played for the San Francisco Stars of the AAU. I didn’t start. LaMarcus Cole, who would be a freshman at cross-town Callahan High, was the starting point guard for the eighth-grade team and played 38 minutes per game. He led us in assists and scoring. I’m sure the fact that he was 6-1 and I was 5-7 didn’t help my cause any.

My first day at John J. Sheridan High School wasn’t my best. I tripped and fell flat on my face stepping out of the school bus. Over the rest of the day, I did all the usual dumbass freshman, chicken-with-its-head-cut off things, got lost six times, and walked into a girls’ bathroom.

But as I packed up my bookbag and headed for the exit, I spotted a flyer in the stairwell.

FOOTBALL TRYOUTS
Friday after school

I spent the next week almost quivering in anticipation, ready to throw myself into football. I was still short for my age, but my weight training had really started to pay off and I was 170 pounds of solid muscle. I figured maybe it was time to change focus; my body type was better suited to football than basketball.

I knew at my height I couldn’t play quarterback anymore, and like most basketball players, my first thought was to play wide receiver. The transition wasn’t really that difficult; I already understood the passing game and I was pleasantly surprised to learn I had good hands, probably from catching so many passes in basketball. When the rosters were posted, I found that I had made the freshman team: not the B-squad or varsity spot I was hoping for, but it meant I would play.

Over the next month I settled into a routine. Class, weight training, football practice, and basketball lessons with my uncle Nick every day, plus piano and voice lessons once a week. Not to mention homework. Basically, I was doing something strenuous from 7AM to 10PM. It was exhausting, and I kept wondering if I’d spread myself too thin.

Finally, the football season ended and suddenly I had more time on my hands than I knew what to do with. The freshman teams didn’t play a postseason, and we didn’t dress or travel for varsity games. My peace was to be short-lived, however. Two weeks later, I saw a flyer outside the school gym:

BASKETBALL TRYOUTS
Wednesday after school

I couldn't wait.

Wednesday began like any other day. My alarm went off at 6 in the morning, and I awoke, cursing as usual. I killed the alarm, rolled out of bed, and staggered downstairs to the kitchen, where I poured myself a bowl of cereal and consumed it, still not completely awake.

When I’d finished eating, I grabbed my bookbag and gym bag, which I’d packed the night before, knowing I’d be too groggy to remember that morning. I made sure to include my basketball practice gear from AAU in the bag, as well as my lifting clothes; tryouts were today!

Around 7, my mom dropped me off at school on her way to work, and I made my way into the locker room and changed into my gym clothes. This was my routine three days a week. On days when I’d lift, the ride to school and changing gave me enough time to wake up before I hit the weights. Today, I was a little more awake than usual after I saw the basketball flyer on the gym door.

I was, as usual, one of just a handful of guys in the gym at that hour. The other guys were upperclassmen, standouts on the varsity football team. I’d gotten to know them a little bit from our morning lifts and they’d accepted me as much as any popular upperclassmen could accept a freshman. With their regular season finished, I knew at least two of them had Division I scholarship offers. I wondered why we didn’t see more of our players in the gym, even though lifts weren’t mandatory. I remembered what Nick once said about suburban players—that we weren’t as motivated as players from poor neighborhoods, for whom a scholarship was a necessity, not a luxury.

Tryouts were actually not as stressful as I expected. The other freshman guards weren’t nearly as good as the guys I’d played against in the AAU. The varsity guys were better, although they were older, bigger, and more experienced, so that wasn’t too surprising. I was clearly the best freshman there, but when I went against the returning lettermen, it wasn’t pretty. I crossed over, spun and pulled out all my moves, and got a step on them pretty often, but just when I’d start to put up my shot, a long arm would fly in and mess everything up. Either I’d get blocked, or I’d have to adjust and miss my shot. I just couldn’t compensate for the height difference; I was 5-7 and the varsity guards were between 6-2 and 6-4. It wasn’t as bad as going against Cole, who was quicker than me, but similar.

At the end of the day, I found I’d been assigned to the B-squad with eleven sophomores. I was satisfied—I’d skipped the freshman team—and I understood why I wasn’t varsity material. It reinforced my belief that football should be my main sport. I just didn’t have the height to be an effective basketball player.

I was determined to do my best for my team, though, since on the third day of practice Coach Miller told me I would start at shooting guard for the B-squad. He’d seen my difficulty with the taller varsity players, and after practice he told me he’d thought of a solution.

“You’re going to grow, but nobody knows how much. You might always be the shortest player on the court. So you’ll have to learn to compensate. Let’s try a few things.”

Coach was 6-6 and had played forward for Cal as a walk-on years earlier. Now he acted as a practice dummy as he gave me tips, making me shoot over him. Nick had solidified my fundamentals, but I’d been strictly a straight-up shooter. Coach Miller got me working on fadeaways, learning to pivot and explode backward into the jump. By the time we were done, my quads were on fire.

“You’re a natural,” Coach said. “Your footwork is amazing. What other sports do you play?”

“Football. And I used to play tennis.”

“Tennis. Well, that explains it. Quick feet, good balance, great hand-eye coordination. Definitely good to have. And you’re strong enough; just one more drill and we’ll call it a day.”

Coach called this the leaner. Instead of jumping backward into a fadeaway, I had to release a jump shot drifting forward, as if I had to avoid a defender chasing me.

“Better to avoid that, obviously,” Coach said. “The motion makes you adjust your shot. We’ll work on some fakes tomorrow.” As Coach turned and walked out of the gym, he tossed me the ball. Just on a whim, I took one last shot.

I pivoted around on my left leg, pulling the ball up from my waist as I spun, and pushed off with my pivot leg, feeling the burn in my quad as I pushed off and my right leg came up for balance. As I faced the basket and began to drift back, I finished the pullup, drawing the ball back to my forehead and exploding the shot forward, careful to brush the ball with my middle three fingers to get the right spin, just like Nick taught me. I quickly realized I’d faded further than I should have, since I couldn’t regain my balance and landed hard on my ass. But I heard a “whoosh!” as the ball dropped through the basket.

I had a new shot. I grinned.

 

[lids4]

B-Squad, A-Game

My season on the B-squad flew by. I'd been a point guard on the AAU Stars, but playing the 2-spot was a very liberating experience. I didn’t have to worry about setting up the play, reading the whole floor, or making something out of nothing. Because I was the best shooter, most of the plays were designed for me to score coming off a screen, or with me as the kickout for a post player. So I just concentrated on scoring, trusting my instincts on whether to fake, shoot, drive, or pass.

I could feel my whole game becoming smoother and more natural. Watching the game tape, I saw my motions becoming almost seamless. At the start of the season, I could break down every step of my game: the shot fake, the escape dribble, the exact step where I decided to pull up. By the end of the season, the motion was all of a piece. Fake, drive, and shot were almost like one action, unbroken by hesitation. As Coach Miller said, “You stopped overthinking. Now you just play basketball.”

I was so consumed by my own season that I’d forgotten all about LaMarcus Cole. All that changed when he led Harold Callahan High School to our home court to play the Sheridan varsity. All the freshman and B-squad players had to attend varsity games. I sat in the bleachers in street clothes as Cole, starting at the point for Callahan, took our varsity players to school on a little yellow bus. Cole got to the hoop at will, pulling out sick crossovers and spins, hesitations and shot fakes, baiting his defenders into leaping out of position, leaving him a clear lane to drive. He ended up with 47 points, though surprisingly only four assists. After that game, all of the Sheridan players looked at me differently. They knew I’d gone against Cole in practice every day over the summer.

Without a postseason, I’d mentally moved on to tennis not long after our last game. At 5-7, I knew there wasn’t much chance I’d make the varsity next year, although another season with the B-squad would be a wonderful experience. I also knew that, as good as I was at tennis, college players were at a skill level I wasn’t likely to reach in three years. Football was my best chance at playing Division I, so that’s where I focused.

The spring was absolute mayhem: lifting at 7, class all day, tennis practice (I made the varsity), music stuff at night, coaching with Nick, and of course homework. Now that I was a shooting guard, I started taking 600 shots a day instead of 400. Nick also got me working on some low post moves, hoping that I could use my stocky frame to score on weaker guards, even if they were taller. We also worked on extending my layup release back a few feet, so I could get the “tear drop” off while driving to the basket, making it harder for taller players to block my shot. I was able to get the right-handed tear drop consistently, but the left-hander was still far from useable.

But at least when I went back to AAU tryouts, I'd have a few surprises in store for Cole.

 

[Madden_Tourneys]

Great writing man. Keep up the good work, the story lines are amazing so far.

 

[lids4]

Great writing man. Keep up the good work, the story lines are amazing so far.

Thank you. Update tomorrow.

 

[GMSFootballa54]

Great man, I love your story. Definite follower.

 

[B_Reezy318]

this is like reading a book

 

[lids4]

Melinda

By the time summer rolled around, I was exhausted. Basically, I’d barely had a moment to myself between 6AM and 10PM five days a week for nine months. I took the first couple of weeks after school to decompress before AAU play began. My mom was attending a conference in Honolulu, and we went as a family to keep her company.

On our first day in Honolulu, my family got up late, leaving just enough time to get to the complimentary breakfast in the lodge before they stopped serving. I threw on my tacky orange Hawaiian shirt, board shorts, and sneakers, not even bothering to check my hair. Just a few minutes later, I’d sorely wish I had. As my family walked through the lobby, we passed another family checking in at the desk.

And that’s when I saw her. It was almost by accident, really. I happened to glance over at the desk, and a second later she absently looked behind her and locked eyes with me. Her eyes were green, and with her black hair and olive skin gave her an exotic beauty unlike any I’d seen before. She was taller than me, probably a little older, with legs that seemed to go on for days. My jaw hit the floor. I was mesmerized. I'd seen pretty girls before, obviously, but nobody like this. She was bewitching.

I said, “Dad, I’ll catch up with you,” and strolled over to the desk. My legs got heavier with every step I took, my heart kept rising until it felt like it was pounding in my throat. My mind went blank. I had nothing to say; I didn’t know where to begin. I must have been doing something right, though: as I walked over, she smiled.

I’d run out of steps. I had to say something. My heart was pounding in my ears. Thud. Thud. Thud. I could barely hear myself say:

“Hi.”

“Hi,” she said.

Uhhh… “I’m John.”

“Melinda.”

“Melinda,” I repeated. “Nice to meet you.” Crap, what now?

“Where are you from?” she asked.

“San Francisco. You?”

“Arizona. Sort of close. Well, not really.”

“Closer than Hawaii.”

And then I saw her mom sign the last of their papers for the concierge. The porter took their bags, and I knew it was truth time.

“Look, I’ve got to catch up with my family. But do you want to go swimming later?”

“Sure. That’d be great.”

And like that, I was on autopilot. My phone was open, in my hand, facing her, pointed at her sternum. My dad taught me this move, but it was the first time I’d done it in a live-fire situation. And it worked; Melinda put her number in my phone, and I returned the courtesy by calling her so she’d have mine.

When I found my family in the lodge, the breakfast buffet was empty. I’d missed it by just a minute. I was so giddy, I didn’t care. I doubt I could have eaten much anyway with my stomach doing cartwheels.

“Want my raspberry Danish?” my mom asked?

“No thanks.”

“I’m not going to eat it.”

“That’s okay. Just some orange juice.”

“So,” my dad asked, pouring me a glass of juice from the table’s pitcher, “what’s her name?”

“You saw?”

“Kind of hard not to.”

“Melinda.”

“Ooooooooooooooh,” my sisters giggled. “Johnny’s got a girlfriend!”

“Oh, shut up,” I groaned.

My fingers were shaking that evening when I called Melinda. My heart skipped a beat when I heard her voice. I was a nervous wreck waiting for her to meet me downstairs on the deck. I had to pace myself. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

But she came. We swam. We walked. We laid out in a hammock as the sun set. We talked about our homes, our friends, and our dreams. Somewhere along the line, I stopped being nervous. With her body alongside mine; her soft, warm length pressed against me; we could feel each others’ breaths and heartbeats. I was in heaven—more comfortable than I’d ever been. Maybe I realized, she likes you, you aren’t going to screw up. Being with her was like magic. I couldn’t help but smile.

My family were quite good sports about the whole thing. Melinda was an only child, and her parents were happy to have time to themselves. On the other hand, perhaps because she was an only child, they were a little more protective than mine. We arranged for our parents to meet each other over dinner our third night in Honolulu. Melinda and I were not present; we were dancing at a luau outside.

“They’re nice,” my mom said afterwards. “Turns out they know a friend of mine from college.”

“Small world,” my dad said. He says that a lot, by the way.

My week in Honolulu was heaven, but as someone once wrote, all good things must come to an end. It didn’t hit me until the night before we left, when my mom reminded me that I needed to pack for the flight home the next morning. It must have been all over my face, because my mom took my face in her hands and gave me a sad smile.

“Go and see her,” she said. “While you can.”

I did. We stood out on her balcony while her parents were away. The sunset, which was so beautiful a week before, was hateful to me. The sun was going down on the last day I would spend with Melinda. Finally, when it had set almost below the horizon, I knew it was time to leave. We’d talked about all the ways we would stay in touch, how we might see each other again, how, as my dad says, it’s a small world. But we knew it wouldn’t happen. I knew I wasn’t her first boyfriend, and I think that her slight wisdom made it easier for both of us.

And because I knew I’d never get another chance, I kissed her. I’d never kissed a girl before, so I kept things simple: a tender kiss on the lips, my hand gently touching her shoulder. She placed her hands on my arms, pulling me in, where I could feel her warmth.

Then it was over.

“I love you,” I said.

“I believe you,” she replied, with the same sad smile my mother gave me.

I couldn’t say goodbye. I just couldn’t. So I turned around and walked out of her room I heard the door shut behind me as my eyes began to sting. I stepped back into my family’s room with tears streaming down my face. I didn’t say a word the rest of the night. I just packed up my bags, took a shower, and set my alarm. I went to my bed like it was a grave. My life as I knew it was over.

As I pulled the covers over my head, I couldn't wait for AAU tryouts. I needed something to live for. If it couldn't be Melinda, it might as well be basketball.

 

[GMSFootballa54]

Bros before Hoes.

 

[AK47_BLAZE]

Excellent.

 

[lids4]

Benched

Three days after I returned from Honolulu, I reported for the San Francisco Stars returning player tryouts. I threw myself into the game with new intensity. Michael Eaddy described it best: “John, you’re playing like your hair’s on fire.”

Michael is Nick's son. I should mention that my uncle Nick isn't really my uncle, but he and my dad go way back. I took after my dad--short, stocky, and pasty pale. Michael took after his dad--tall, skinny, and dark. I think Michael was born with a basketball in his crib and Nick tutored him longer than he taught me, plus he had the prototypical basketball player's body. Word was Callahan High couldn't wait to get him next year. Although we were the same age, I had skipped a grade so Michael was a year behind me in school, and therefore would not be trying out for the same AAU team.

LaMarcus Cole would start at point for San Francisco's tenth-grade team. His freshman year at Callahan High had been well spent. In tryouts he abused the other guards with a whole array of dribbling moves, many of which I’d seen him use against the Sheridan varsity team several months earlier. I also recognized the triple threat when he used it, since I’d seen it in a lot of the old Michael Jordan and LeBron James game film Nick showed me.

Maybe it was because I’d practiced against him the summer before, maybe it was because I’d watched game film of every trick he used, but I did better defensively against Cole than any of the other guards at tryouts. I recognized that although his jump shot was better than most guards’ shots at our age, it was far from automatic, and if I contested it at all he was likely to miss. So I sagged off him, giving myself an extra step to react when he tried to drive. I was so strong now that when all 6-4, 150 pounds of Cole ran into me, he didn’t just stop, he bounced off.

So in our one-on-one game, Cole was only able to dribble around me three times. He finished each of those with a dunk. The rest of the time, I forced him to settle for jumpers or tear drops. Because I was so concerned with denying dribble penetration, I often didn’t contest his shots in time, which got disapproving looks from the coaching staff as they scribbled notes on their clipboards. Finally, on the game point possession, I dribbled down to the right block, put my back to the basket, and backed Cole down a couple of feet. Then I picked up my dribble, faked a pivot to my left, then spun around to my right, planted on my right foot, and launched into a fadeaway like I’d practiced so many times on the B-squad. Cole had bit on my fake and was out of position. He couldn’t contest it. The shot sailed over Cole’s head and banked in off the backboard. I won, 11-10.

Although I was the only player who beat Cole one-on-one that day, he would still end up starting for San Francisco. Not only that, but because I’d played shooting guard the year before, the coaches considered me a “combo guard,” and at 5-7 they thought of me as a Nate Robinson type, someone who could provide energy and excitement, but not a 36-minute guy. I ended up third in the point guard rotation behind Cole and the 6-1 point guard from Bishop Cook High. That meant on average two minutes per game.

Hate is a strong word, but I grew to hate Cole that summer. I generally had a low opinion of shoot-first point guards, but that was only the beginning. I resented his cocky, “I’m Jordan times ten and y’all ain’t shit” attitude. He had a particular contempt for me, saying several times to other players that I didn't belong on the Stars. I envied his physical gifts, especially his height. I could have all the skills in the world and at 5-7 I would never be taken seriously. There’s only room for one Spud Webb, Muggsy Bogues or Earl Boykins in each generation.

SI wrote an article about Cole, claiming he would be the next can't-miss high school phenom, and reading it I came to realize that Cole’s treatment of me wasn’t personal. Cole, like many great athletes, came from a poor single-parent family in a high-crime neighborhood. Streetball was how boys became men, and about the only chance they saw of escaping to a better life. It was like Nick told me: with these kids, the game is life and death. They know it doesn’t mean to rich kids what it means to them. Rich kids play for fun, ghetto kids play for keeps. They know we don’t work as hard, because we don’t have to. I was simply a convenient target, because I was the only player from Sheridan playing for the Stars—the only one who even tried out—and the other fourteen guys on our team came from backgrounds similar to Cole’s.

All I could do was compete every day in practice, which I did. I had to play with more energy and intensity than Cole, which I did. I knew I would never move up in the rotation; I knew the coaches had written me off. But I had to show Cole, to show them all, that I had more fire than they did. That was my summer. That, and lifting and eating right, which bulked me up to 180 pounds. After all, football season was fast approaching, and football was really my sport.

 

[lids4]

Jacked Up

School resumed, and I found that not much had changed despite the three-month recess. I settled into my routine of morning workouts, classes, and football practice quite quickly. Melinda and I had a couple of holo-phone conversations, but it just didn’t feel right. I had to embrace my new life, and that meant letting go of my old one, mainly her. Somehow, talking to her now wasn’t the same as it was. The magic was gone, and awkwardness replaced it. Not surprising, I guess. “Yeah, I was in love with you and now I’m never going to see you again…but I still want to talk to you all the time.” So we talked once a week, then once a month, and finally by September we hadn’t spoken in six weeks. Up through Christmas, I kept telling myself I would call her, but I never did, and she never called me.

I made the football B-squad this time, which meant I would dress for varsity games but probably not play. During the B-squad games I embarrassed my defenders, mainly because I made such crisp cuts in my routes that the cornerbacks couldn’t keep up. The starting varsity receivers were about as fast as me and 6-2 and 6-3 respectively, however, and once again I found myself cursing my genes.

During our opening game against Berkeley High, we fell behind 17-0 early, and started using a lot of three wideout sets and passing more. I was the slot receiver, so I got to play quite a bit and caught five passes. After that game, they yanked me from the B-squad and made me varsity fulltime. That meant I played less than I would have on the B-squad, though, since I wasn’t starting and our team liked to grind it out with the run whenever possible.

In the fifth game of the regular season, we faced School of the Arts, which I’d considered attending for piano a couple of years earlier. The Blues were atrocious, and we had them in a 40-0 hole at halftime. That’s when we started dumping in our bench, including me. I played the flanker position, where I’d taken few reps in practice.

It was a routine play, the first pass of the drive. We’d been merciful, choosing just to run the ball and eat up clock, but with 3rd and 9, realistically we needed to pass. I was the second option, running a post route. At the snap, I sprinted fifteen yards down the field, gaining about four feet on my cornerback, then cut in toward the goalpost. The other receiver had tripped, so the quarterback lofted the ball to me. As I caught it, I saw the Blues safety coming in to tackle me. I planted on my left foot and spun to evade him, and at that moment the cornerback—who must have caught up as I adjusted to the ball—slammed into me at knee level from behind. A split second later, the safety pounded into my shins and I went down.

I instantly knew something was wrong when I stood up and instantly fell down again. Fiery pain shot through my left leg as soon as I put weight on it. The officials whistled a timeout and my team’s trainers sprinted out to attend me. I was able to leave the field slung over two linemen’s shoulders. At the hospital, I got the diagnosis: a sprained PCL. I was out at least for the regular season, although if we made a deep playoff run, I might be able to return by the state semifinals.

I got used to crutches pretty quickly. Rehab wasn’t too difficult—at least it was less time-consuming than practice and basketball with Nick. I had a clear and achievable goal: be 100% in time for basketball tryouts. Finally, a week after the Sheridan football team was eliminated from the playoffs, my doctors gave me a clean bill of health.

When I met Nick and Michael to practice, Nick didn’t start with his usual warm-ups. Instead, playing with a basketball, he just talked to us.

“Mike, this affects you too, but John’s in the middle of it now. The doc says you’re a hundred percent. We’ll see if that’s true. It probably is. But you’re reaching a point now where you’re going to have to limit your exposure. You’re going to have to choose your major sport. Because football is just too dangerous and demanding on your body. The risk of injury is too high. If you really want to play basketball, I don’t think you should go back for another football season.”

“And if football is my sport?”

“There’s always the risk you’ll get hurt playing basketball, too. At least you’d have almost nine months to recover, but sometimes an athlete is never the same after getting injured.

“This isn’t a decision you have to make now, but you should make it by next summer. Either way, you can keep playing tennis. There’s some risk of ground-based injuries, but it improves your foot speed, quickness, and hand-eye coordination so much that it’ll be really helpful whichever sport you choose.

“Now, let’s play.”

 

[lids4]

Swimming With The Big Fish

Even though I’d never played a minute of varsity ball, at basketball tryouts I felt like a grizzled veteran. I’d had two summers practicing against the best sophomore guard in the country (according to every major recruiting publication) and started every game for the B-squad last year, leading them in scoring. I had also grown an inch, to 5-8, which made me 5-10 on the roster.

Much to my surprise, I made the varsity, although I was not a starter. I was the only sophomore on the varsity squad, although they pulled up two freshmen to play as the “bigs,” since at 6-6 and 6-9 they were the tallest players we had. 6-2 senior Craig Phillips would be our starting point guard.

Meanwhile, across town, LaMarcus Cole was gearing up for his second season at point for Callahan, and this time he had a very dangerous new weapon: a 6-4 small forward named Michael Eaddy. Michael knew he couldn’t divulge any trade secrets, but he did call me and tell me that on the first day of practice he could tell I was a better shooter and passer than Cole.

Our opener that season was a non-conference game against South San Francisco, at their house. Although I’d played my share of road games the previous year, something in the air was different from when I travelled with the B-squad. This felt like the big leagues. In the grimy visitors’ locker room, Coach Dyer reviewed the gameplan we’d prepared for two weeks: dump the ball down low and avoid the Warriors’ shifty 5-8 guard duo, who would steal the ball any time we exposed it.

The equipment manager opened our bags and distributed our gear in the lockers as Coach Dyer made his speech. Coach left to talk to the officials, and told us to dress and be on the court for warm-ups in ten minutes. I stood up and turned around, and there it was: my uniform, hung up cockeyed on a rusty hangar. The jersey seemed to sparkle compared to the grimy locker around it: #17. I put on my uniform with reverence, laced up my sneakers, and had a look in the mirror. There was me in the Sheridan colors: black, gold, red and blue. Unlike our B-squad hand-me-downs, the primary color was black. It made me feel invincible.

I took my seat on the bench as the game tipped off and watched mayhem ensue. Dyer had warned us about the ball-hawking guards, and his worst fears were soon realized, as the short, speedy little point guard poked the ball out Craig’s hands, grabbed the loose ball, and finished the break with an uncontested layup because our players were too slow to catch him. On the next trip down the court, the Warriors’ shooting guard did the same thing to Brian, our shooting guard. Dyer had to call a timeout three minutes in.

After the timeout, we used keepaway passing to advance the ball, but once in the halfcourt offense we basically beat ourselves. Coach had wanted to feel the ball into the post, taking advantage of the Warriors’ 6-5 center and power forward. Unfortunately, our young big men weren’t as skilled as Coach thought. Every time either one would try a backdown, he’d lose control of the ball and a Warriors player would recover it. Just about the only way we got points was when our guards shot jumpers over the top of the shorter Warriors players.

Coach threw me in at the point as the second quarter began. I took the inbound pass and brought the ball up court. Here my height was actually an advantage; the Warriors’ point guard couldn’t just reach in for my dribble at eye level. As I crossed halfcourt, I surveyed the defense and tried to figure out my next move.

Dyer’s instructions were to protect the ball and get high-percentage shots. In my mind that ruled out the big men; they couldn’t maintain control during a backdown, and even if I fed them the ball right under the basket, they blew dunks and layups in practice too often for me to feel good about that option. That left the perimeter players, but because our bigs had no jump shot, the lane was going to be clogged. If the guards would be shooting jumpers, we’d need uncontested looks. Otherwise, the Warriors would beat us on field goal percentage alone.

At the top of the arc, I held up the hand signal for a quick play: pick-and-roll. Tyner, our center, ambled up to the right of my defender and set the pick. I darted around him, losing my defender. I knew in the back of my mind that the Warriors center would be a step slow, but he would try to pick me up. Meanwhile, the Warriors power forward left his man to pick me up. Once he took the first step, I pulled up for a leaner. The Warriors’ bigs stuck out their long arms to contest, but were both a bit too far away to be a factor. I knew from the moment I released the shot that it was going in. It banked off the backboard down into the net, and the PA announcer mumbled, “basket by John Li.”

By similar means, I ended up scoring 18 points in the South San Francisco game, leading my team, but I failed to do much else. I made just 3 assists and we lost, 70-52. Part of the problem was that even when I’d find my teammates, they’d hesitate before shooting, giving the defense time to react. But I think the main issue was that because I was the best shooter and the only one getting shots to fall that night, I’d become a scorer first and foremost, and nobody else was making plays. South San Francisco was not a great team, but they wouldn't let one guy beat them. I tried to do it all myself, and failed.

 

[AllhailTony32]

Hmmm interesting much but im not much of a reading guy.

 

[lids4]

Grace Under Pressure

Over the next three games, I failed to replicate my explosive performance from the South San Francisco game. I played a few minutes off the bench at the point each game, nothing too spectacular.

Then in the last non-conference game, at Palo Alto, we were down a point with seven seconds left. Coach Dyer called a timeout and put in our starting five, calling up a shooting guard backdoor play. The play worked to perfection as the power forward, Keller, hit the Brian running along the baseline with momentum. He went up and attacked the basket. Naturally, both of the Palo Alto big men went up for a hard contest. Brian got hit in the chest as he released the layup and came crashing down to the court, head first.

The Palo Alto center had hit Brian with a shoulder. The officials called him for a flagrant and ejected him, but the damage was done. Brian was unconscious and had to be carted off the court. Looking back, I do believe it was a clean hit; definitely a hard foul, but nothing malicious. It wasn’t as if Palo Alto was trying to injure our players. They just wanted to make us earn our points from the line instead of giving us easy shots.

Once Brian had been taken off, with a touch for good luck from the players on both teams, Dyer chose me to shoot his free throws. It made sense; I was the best form shooter on our team. I also realized that there were 4.2 seconds left in the game. Palo Alto was sure to call a timeout and run one last play for a high-percentage shot.

As I walked to the line, I pushed that thought from my mind. I couldn’t think ahead. I just had to hit these free throws. I’d worry about defense later. Every player was in position, and the home crowd rose to their feet. The PA announcer drolled, “shooting two, John Li” and they all started screaming. They must have looked at their programs and realized I was a sophomore reserve. Indeed, I’d never taken a game-winning shot or ever had this kind of pressure on me, even when I played on the B-squad.

You’ve taken this shot before. You’ve taken thousands of free throws before. You’re good at them. These are just like any others. The motion’s the same. The release is the same. You’re going to make them.

The official tossed me the ball for my first shot. The roar of the crowd was deafening; I couldn’t even hear the ball bounce as I dribbled twice for rhythm. I bent my knees, inhaled, and threw up the shot, repeating the form I’d practiced over and over again. The ball banked off the backboard and in, and the crowd quieted. The score was tied.

One more to go. Once the official passed me the ball again, the crowd exploded. I could see one of the Palo Alto players talking to me; his mouth was moving but I couldn’t hear him. Probably just talking trash anyway. I dribbled twice, pulled up, and released the shot. Once again, it banked in. We had a one-point lead. Palo Alto called timeout.

Coach Dyer called a 2-3 zone defense, emphasizing that we were to prevent penetration into the painted area at all costs. Palo Alto inbounded and tried to run a pick-and-roll, anticipating man-to-man defense. Nobody got hit with the screen, and their point guard had to take a 17-foot jump shot with two of our players right in his face. He missed.

As I put my street clothes back on in the locker room, I felt my body begin to crash as the adrenaline wore off. I’d been tuned up to the max in that last handful of seconds of game time. But now I was shaking and my knees felt like jelly.

Craig slapped a paw on my back as we walked out to the bus. “John, you won this game.”

“We won this game.”

“Yeah, well. Your free throws clinched it. You’re ice cold. We all feel that way. We’re just too tired to express it now. Just so you know, you da man.”

 

[xvyoung10x10]

to much reading for me

 

[lids4]

NOTE: As some have expressed concerns with the amount of reading, I shall endeavor to make my updates a bit shorter from now on.

Rivals

Brian had a mild concussion and was out indefinitely pending further tests. That meant I would start at shooting guard in his place, although I was the shortest varsity player. As it turned out, I made six starts before Brian returned from his injury, and two more while he eased back in by coming off the bench. I was a bit disappointed when Brian regained his starting position, because I didn’t understand why he was better than me. He was taller and more experienced, but I was a better shooter, passer, and ball handler. As usual, I thought height was the deciding factor.

I was once again a reserve in our first game against Callahan. This year the first game would be on their court; they would pay us a visit two weeks later. LaMarcus Cole, who was all-city as a freshman the previous year, was again their point guard, but Coach Dyer told us that Michael Eaddy was the really serious threat.

“Cole’s gonna dribble around you all day. As long as we play zone and rotate on time, he’ll be contained. He thinks he’s a better jump shooter than he is, so if we deny him the lane he’ll throw up bad shots all game long.

“Eaddy’s a nightmare, though. He won’t settle for a contested jumper. He’s a much better shooter than Cole, knows how to create his own shot out of the triple threat, and will cut inside without the ball against our zone. And even if you’re a big man, he can and will dunk on you.”

Coach was exactly right. Callahan beat us 80-61. Our zone rotation was too slow, and Cole drove to the lane, split our big men, and dunked too many times to count. He ended with 38 points and four assists. Michael was more conservative, but he still challenged our bigs when he got the chance, and—just like Coach said—embarrassed them by dunking on them with his head above the rim. He got 36 points.

By the time Callahan was ready to come to our house three weeks later, we had a losing record and were fighting for our playoff lives. Coach pulled me aside after the last practice before the game.

“You went against Cole every day in practice during AAU play last summer.”

“Every practice the last two summers, actually.”

“Obviously you can’t stop him. Nobody can stop him. But can you slow him down?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so. But you have to believe it or it won’t work. I’ve already told Brian. You’re going to start at the ‘two’ against Callahan.”

 

[lids4]

LaMarcus Cole and the Infamous Towel-Throwing Incident

“Starting at forward, a 6-6 freshman, Norm Keller! At center, a 6-9 freshman, Jay Tyner! At guard, a 5-10 sophomore, John Li! At the other guard, a 6-2 senior, Craig Phillips! At forward, a 6-4 senior, Justin Nelson! The coach, Demetrius Dyer.”

The gameplan was simple. On defense, the guards would switch, so Phillips would defend Callahan’s worthless shooting guard and I would defend Cole. We would play man-to-man all day. Offensively, whichever of us Cole guarded was to isolate and go at him as much as possible, trying to get him in foul trouble.

As we got set for the tipoff, Cole kept glancing at me, as if he couldn’t believe I was actually playing. Callahan won the tip, and Cole brought the ball to the top of the arc to begin the play. He was obviously stunned to see me waiting for him—he’d probably expected Phillips to defend him since we usually played straight position-to-position matchups. I sagged off him, down in my defensive stance with a wide base, knowing he could crossover and drive either way whenever he wanted. Standing just outside the arc, Cole didn’t even bother to call a play; he just pulled up and fired a jump shot over me. I couldn’t get my arm up high enough to contest it, but he still missed. My satisfaction was short lived, however, as none other than Michael Eaddy darted in, grabbed the offensive rebound before our big men, and threw in a rim-rocking dunk.

“Basket by Michael Eaddy.” The score was 2-0 Callahan.

And so the game went. Perhaps because he’d grown sick of me from AAU summer leagues, Cole was determined to beat me with the ball in his hands on every possession. I played far enough off to react to his drives, making him take jump shots, which he usually missed. When Callahan was on defense, Phillips would often call a pick-and-pop or give-and-go, trying to get himself isolated on Cole close to the basket. It usually worked, but the officials gave Cole the star treatment. He got away with fouling Phillips on almost every shot.

After the half, with the score tied 42-42, Coach Dyer decided to give Cole a taste of his own medicine. Our first play was guard pick-and-roll, with me setting a pick on the wing, which Phillips dribbled around. Cole smacked right into my stocky 180-pound frame and fell to the floor. My defender couldn’t decide what to do, and Phillips cut into the lane for an easy layup.

Cole was pissed off after that and called isolations for himself every time down the court. I kept bothering him, faceguarding him during jump shots, bodying up when he tried to go inside for a layup, and offensively letting him crash into me on more guard pick-and-rolls. The Callahan coach called a timeout, trailing 55-48. He couldn’t bring himself to bench what SI called “the best guard prospect in the nation in fifty years” but he did change the playcalling, using Eaddy to bring the ball upcourt as the point forward and often not allowing Cole a touch in the half-court offense.

This actually let Callahan come back by working for good shots, though, to the point where Coach Dyer was forced to take a timeout. Cole exploded. I couldn’t understand what he was saying, but I and everyone else in the arena could hear him lambaste Callahan’s coach. Cole finally threw his towel into the stands and marched off into the locker room, chased by the ringing boos of our home crowd.

After that point, Brian played most of the game in my place. For once that was just fine with me. I was absolutely dog tired from defending Cole for almost three quarters without a break, and battered and bruised from setting so many screens and driving inside between their big men. Despite a heroic 40 point, 12 rebound, 11 assist effort by Eaddy, the Sheridan High Rangers won the game, 81-70. As we returned to the locker room, Coach Dyer patted me on the head.

“Nice job, Li. You did what we needed. I think Cole’s going to have nightmares about this one.” He paused. “Brian’s going to start again.”

I nodded and followed him into the locker room.

 

[platchat]

highlight Yea,, is was to much writing.

 

[bayne.]

Dude I am in love with this.

LONGER UPDATES ARE BETTER DUDE.

BTW, as if the coach won't start you

keep going man, this is amazing.

 

[JeffoBalla13]

bro this is the best writing chise i have ever seen.


make them longer!!!!!!!

 

[lids4]

Since I can't please everyone, I'll please those who follow. Updates will be as long as they need to be, roughly in the range you've seen already. And I promise the Chise will continue at least until John finishes college. After all, I have to show you how he ended up in the NCAA Championship Game in the original post, and who #98 is.

Update tomorrow.

 

[letsallbeawitness23]

Nice job I didn't read all of the words in your updates so I just read the pieces that I needed to know what was going on. Keep up the good work you should be an author

 

[lids4]

Decision Time

The sports section in the San Francisco Examiner the next day carried the headline, “Cole walks out on Callahan-Sheridan game,” and featured a full color photo of Cole throwing his towel. The article mentioned “the defensive efforts of undersized Sheridan reserve Jon Lee” were instrumental in fueling Cole’s anger.

Our upset ended up dropping Callahan to the #2 seed in the postseason, which was little consolation as Sheridan didn’t even make the playoffs. Obviously I was disappointed, but I’d mentally moved on to tennis season. I knew that unless I grew at least another two inches, there was no way I’d play basketball in college, and I’d accepted that. My goal was to earn a starting spot on the football team the next season, and get at least one football scholarship offer as a senior.

As tennis season came to a close, I joined Michael and Nick at the park to resume my training. Michael had definitely grown since I last saw him; he was probably an honest 6-4.

“You playing AAU ball this summer?” Nick asked.

“I was planning to,” I replied.

“So you chose basketball. OK.”

“Hmm.” I had to think about it. Playing AAU ball could get me injured and jeopardize my football season. I couldn’t afford that, not with my senior year and potential college scholarships on the line. “Maybe I shouldn’t.”

“It’s up to you. Think it over. In the meantime, let’s play.”

 

[lids4]

Free Time

I did not play in the AAU that summer. I attended football captain’s practices once a week, intensified my weight training, and took a speed-agility-quickness course at the local gym. The latter was incredibly intense. After an hour of drills and wind sprints, I was more tired than I’d ever been and my legs felt like lead weights. Still, I knew this was what college football conditioning would be like, so I might as well get used to it. I still did some light shooting and dribbling practice, but not as systematically or as regularly as before. It was more for my own vanity, just so I wouldn’t lose my game in case someone ever challenged me.

Even with all that, I found that I had more free time on my hands than I’d had in ten years. Without AAU eating up my days, I didn’t quite know what to do with myself. I really didn’t have any friends except Michael, who was busy playing for the Stars. I took a job at the mall bookstore just to pass the time. Sheridan High kids would come through now and then, look around, and sometimes buy something. They’ d usually say hello or give me a nod of acknowledgement.

On a Friday in July, I was coming to the last hour of my shift, I was putting some new inventory into the science fiction/fantasy section. A kid I recognized from school came in and had a look at the graphic novels and RPGs in the neighboring shelf. We exchanged nods as he passed, and I went back to what I was doing. After a few minutes, he tapped me on the shoulder. I stood up.

“Do you have Iceheart?” he asked.

“Iceheart?”

“It’s the most recent Eon Sword expansion. It came out last week. I wondered if it was in.”

“Hmm.” I surveyed the RPG shelf, found several Eon Sword books, but no Iceheart. “Let me look it up.”

I led him over to the counter, where I fired up the inventory database and searched for Iceheart. Several books came up.

“Here it is,” I said. “Just got it in today’s shipment, hasn’t been shelved yet.”

“I’ll take it.”

I ducked into the storeroom to track it down. As I rang him up, I started to place him. He and several other awkward-looking kids always sat at one of the outlying tables in the Sheridan cafeteria, the one nearest the fire door. I had the feeling he was the de facto leader of their clique, since he was always the most animated, although they were all very quiet by jock standards.
When I bagged the book and handed it to him, he looked like I’d just delivered his firstborn child. He took one step to leave, thought of something, and turned back.

“Your name’s John, right? You go to Sheridan.”

“That’s me.”

“I’m Tim.” He offered his hand; I shook it. “I know you’re a big sports guy, and this is maybe not up your alley, but a bunch of us have an Eon Storm game every week. This week’s game is at my house tomorrow night. We’re all kind of dorky, I know, but since you found me the book, I just thought I’d offer.”

I mulled it over for a second. With Michael off on an AAU road trip, it wasn’t as though I had anything else to do, or anyone else to spend time with. “Sure. I’ll be there.”

 

[GMSFootballa54]

Nice job man. Still following.

 

[lids4]

Nerds, Part 1

I was still a month away from my fifteenth birthday, so I couldn’t drive myself anywhere. I either had to get one of my parents to drive me or bike when I wanted to go somewhere. I’d never really noticed the inconvenience before; I spent so much time at school between lifts, class, and practices that I almost never had time to waste, and Nick and my dad alternated driving to basketball drills. Now that I actually had some free time, I started thinking about driver’s ed and a learner’s permit.

Fortunately, Tim’s house wasn’t too far away, so I rode my bike. I got there just as the sun was going down, set my bike on his porch, and rang the doorbell. Tim answered, ushering me into his living room. It was a mess. The nerds were hard at it; empty Coke cans and beers littered every surface but the coffee table, which was spread out with some large glossy books like the one I’d sold Tim, and several sheaves of paper.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said. “I got a little lost around Sinclair Park.”

“That’s OK. The game’s been going on for weeks so you’d be jumping in the middle anyway. Everyone, this is John.”

“John Li? The basketball player?” asked the skinny Asian guy on my right.

“Football player,” I corrected.

“Nah, man, you dropped like thirty points on Burton.”

“Yeah, well. I gave it up.”

Tim introduced me around. The skinny guy was Gerald. The fat Asian kid next to him was Andy. Two girls shared a couch and a bag of Cheetos, which I think are disgusting, by the way. The tall, skinny redhead with the perpetual goofy smile was named April. She sprung up to offer me a handshake when Tim called her name.

“I’ve seen every game you played this year.”

“Really?”

“I’m in the band. Trombone.”

“I’ll look for you, then.”

The girl who’d been sitting next to April had long brown hair that was draped over half her face.

“John, this is Caroline,” Tim said. She didn’t move.

“Hi,” I offered.

“Hi.” she whispered.

“Okay, that’s everyone. Who wants to help John make a character?” Tim thundered.

“I’ll do it,” April said.

April grabbed a character sheet and a book and explained to me what all the statistics meant, why race mattered, the difference between blunt and block, and such things. I ended up as a Norseman named Hrothgar, good with an axe and shield and slow as molasses in January.

Tim was the narrator. He constructed a scenario in which the other characters encountered me in a tavern in the course of their quest for something called the Rune of Clouds, brawled with me, then convinced me to join them. It felt silly at first, but once I had to make some choices it was actually interesting. Do I accept the wizard’s apology? Do I throw the first punch? Do I want another tankard of ale? (Yes, of course!)

After the game broke up, I gave Tim my number to invite me to the next one, got on my bike, and headed home. After a few minutes, I noticed another cyclist behind me, periodically dropping out of my sight, but taking all the same turns. Curious, I slowed down, waiting for other cyclist to catch up...

 

[bayne.]

QUIT FOOTBALL AND TENNIS YOU SLEAZE.

jokes

keep it up man, can't wait to read the next oen.

 

[lids4]

Nerds, Part 2

It was April.

“You realize how creepy it looks, you following me home?” I asked. “I thought you were a mugger.”

“Where do you live?”

“Jordan Park.”

“I live on California Street. So you’re going my way.”

“Huh.”

I mounted up again and we rode together.

“Did you have fun tonight?” she asked.

“I did. What’s with Caroline, though?”

“She’s just shy around people she doesn’t know. I think she has a tough time making new friends. She’s really cool once you get to know her, though.”

“I think Andy likes you.”

She laughed. “All the nerd guys have either dated me or tried to. What, you’re surprised?”

“I haven’t met all the nerds, have I? I guess I don’t know what the field looks like. But I believe it.”

“It’s not like they can get at the cheerleaders and popular girls like you can. They pretty much have to stay within the clique.”

“I think it’s like that for everyone. High school’s so damn cliquey. I hate it. It’s like everyone’s allowed to have their six to ten friends that they talk to and that’s it.”

“So it’s not just us.”

“The popular girls aren’t really popular. They can no more open someone new than you can. They’re just as trapped. The only difference is they have the illusion of popularity.”

“And they’re hot so all the boys want them.”

“Weeeeeeeeeeell, without the makeup and the fancy clothes, I wonder.”

“You haven’t asked any of them out? The big popular jock?”

I snorted. “I’m not a star on any of my teams. And no. I haven’t asked anybody.”

“Ever?”

“I don’t have time. And there’s nobody I like well enough.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Of course, I guess I’ve never really had friends.” I started thinking that having just one sport would be a relief. I’d basically poured all my time, effort, and energy into sports since I was twelve. I’d been trying to play football and basketball up to a college level and train my body to match. And riding with April, I realized everything I’d missed out on that whole time.

“Hmph. Well, you’re not a nerd, so you can’t join the clique, but I guess you can be my friend.”

“You’re a nerd, you’re not a jock, and you’re not a guy, but I’d like you to be my friend.”

Before we split up to ride to each of our homes, we traded numbers and agreed to meet for lunch the following day. I wondered what Michael would say now that I was hanging out with nerds and liking it.

 

[JT.keller]

Off topic

/lock

 

[bayne.]

NOOOO NOT THE NERD CHICK.



so sick man, i love this. (but play bball soon)

 

[platchat]

To much writing.

 

[lids4]

Back to the Field

Michael had little to say, as it turned out. He was still doing exactly what I’d been doing—training his ass off year-round. Track was his second sport; he was expected to go to state in the high jump. As soon as the AAU season was over, he started conditioning and practicing for the Callahan basketball season. Even though I was working out for football, I was seeing a lot more of the nerds than I was of Michael—especially April.

Football practices started two weeks before school. I’d grown an inch to 5-9, honest, but was still the shortest upperclassman. All the work I’d put in training in the offseason paid off, though. On our first day we finished with wind sprints. We had a lot of fast guys so I was in a dead heat with a dozen guys initially, but by the last couple of suicides I was by far the leader of the pack. On the second day we started more intense position drills, and I found myself gliding through my routes. I felt light on my feet, like each plant and cut was just a feather touch. And when it came time for contact, I was ready. I was up to 200 pounds, and I took pride in abusing the poor cornerbacks on rushing plays when I blocked them. The linebackers didn’t have any fun tackling me in the open field, either—they were taller than me, which meant I got my pads down low and trucked into them. They brought me down, but it hurt them. The only time I got the worse end was when I had to stretch out into the air to make a catch. That was unavoidable, though—just part of a receiver’s job description.

I earned a starting spot at flanker, which meant I would usually line up on the right side. Our quarterback, junior Tom Garrett, was right-handed so I could expect some passes to come my way. Sheridan’s run-heavy offense meant that catches would be hard to come by, though, and I’d spend most of my time run blocking. That was fine with me; the game tape would show my skill to college scouts regardless of my statistics.

As school started, I found myself swamped again: morning lifts, evening practice, homework, and music lessons twice a week. I had to quit my job, which didn’t bother me too much. The Eon Storm game finished up with our quest fulfilled, and I was too busy to make it when the nerds started up the next game. I stole time to spend with April here and there, but it hardly felt like enough. I missed having a life.

It was all worth it, though, when I suited up for our opener against Lincoln. It was a home game, and both teams were supposed to be state title contenders. I’d worn this uniform before and played on this field before, but it would be my first varsity start...

 

[GMSFootballa54]

Good updates.

 

[bayne.]

nice update.

 

[lids4]

Grind It Out

As the kickoff sailed away, I stood on the sideline next to Garrett, with adrenaline shooting through my veins. Our return man was tackled at our 35-yard line, and I charged onto the field with our offense, taking my place in the huddle.

“Base 22 on one, base 22 on one,” Garrett barked. “Ready, break!” That meant our base set—an I formation—and the 2 back (fullback) getting the ball off the center’s right side on the first “hut!”. I ran out to the right, lining up against the Lincoln cornerback, a skinny black guy about an inch taller than me. On the game tape, I’d seen him slow to react to cuts; he would be an easy mark. On this play, all I had to do was block him, and that’s exactly what I did. I fired off the snap, streaking forward towards him. He must have thought I was running a streak route, because he kept backpedaling. I caught up with him and slammed into his chest, exploding my arms into his numbers. It was a textbook “decleater”, and I knocked him flat on his back.

That set the tone for our matchup the rest of the game. We went through three quarters tied 0-0, both teams grinding it out with the run. I continued to physically abuse the Lincoln cornerback, who must have weighed a good 30 pounds less than me. I did burn him on routes three times, and twice caught short passes from Garrett. But as the game went on with no score, we all started feeling more and more desperate. Most likely, whoever scored first would win the game.

With three minutes left, we got the ball and kept grinding it out, going with a three-man rotation at halfback because the guys had been running a marathon all day. We finally got Lincoln pinned against their goal line, 1st-and-goal on the 1.

Garrett got the play from coach and relayed it to us. “Fake 31 crossup on two, fake 31 crossup on two. Ready, break!”

It was a classic Madden playaction pass. Garrett would fake the handoff, then roll out to his right. Meanwhile, the split end would run a crossing route from the left side, giving Garrett a moving target and an easy throw to his right. From my spot on the right sideline, I would run a drag, just a couple of yards downfield. The play wasn’t designed for me; I would be a short option on Garrett’s blind side.

At the snap, I took two steps forward and cut to my left, sprinting behind the defensive linemen and shooting out into the left flat. My cornerback had completely lost track of me. To my amazement, Garrett saw me and dumped me the ball, a soft lob pass. I pulled it in, tucked it, and turned upfield. I darted the half yard into the end zone without any defenders near me.

The Lincoln defenders looked up at the scoreboard with jaws slack and hands on hips, as if they couldn’t believe what we’d just done. After we kicked the extra point and stopped their kick return at their 25 yard line, their offense looked just as shell-shocked as the defense. They had no choice but to come out passing, and three incompletions later, the game was over. My first varsity start was a 7-0 Sheridan victory.

 

[bayne.]

nice win bro.

 

[lids4]

Garrett's Turn

We won our first five games, including two conference games. We were better than expected, and I had to give Garrett a lot of the credit. Watching college quarterbacks on Saturdays, I thought there was nothing they could do that Garrett couldn’t. And he was one of those who worked out with me early in the mornings, molding himself into the best athlete he could be. And he was our general. When we lined up with him under center, we felt like anything was possible.

Apparently the scouts had taken notice as well, because as Garrett and I walked out of the locker room after beating Washington High, a big middle-aged guy in a baseball cap and hoody was waiting.

“Tom Garrett?”

“That’s me.”

“Bill Mann. I’m the quarterbacks coach for San Jose State. Give me a call.”

Mann handed over a business card and walked away. Garrett and I stared at the card, and the blue and yellow Spartan logo on it.

“Well, damn,” I said finally. “Guess you won’t need your college fund after all.”

“Maybe. Got another year. I really want to go to a good school.” Garrett must have noticed the look at my face—I was still staring at the card. “You’ll get yours, John. Don’t worry.”

“You’re right. Gotta keep my mind on Central.”

“Yeah, we got two tough road games coming up, but after that…homecoming!”

“Ach, big deal.”

“It’s Callahan. You hate Callahan.”

“I hate LaMarcus Cole, and Cole doesn’t play football. I doubt he’ll even be at the game.”

“Oh, well. You’re going to the dance, though, right?”

“Nah.”

“Why not?”

“I dunno. Not my thing.”

“C’mon, just ask someone. Then you can come to dinner with me and Megan.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Better not think too long. The hot girls started getting asked last week.”

“I’ll think about it.”

 

[GMSFootballa54]

Good update man. Yeah, betta gt the hot chicks shile they last.

 

[lids4]

You Can't Always Get What You Want

[image=http://i727.photobucket.com/albums/ww276/chises2k9/John%20Li/_129455_BestEyeCandyCOM.jpg]

I thought about it. And when I thought about it, I realized there was only one person I’d really enjoy spending my evening with. And so on Monday, after finishing up my lunch with some of my teammates, I strode over to the nerds’ table and sat down across from April, kitty-corner to Tim.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” she said. “Good game on Friday.”

“Thanks. Sorry I haven’t hung out with you much. Practice makes things a little nuts.”

“I understand. You can make it up to me later.”

“Mmhm. Well, actually I was going to ask something about that. Will you be my date for the homecoming dance?”

Silence. I felt the other guys’ eyes on me. Gerald and Andy didn’t turn their heads but peered out of the corner of their eyes. Tim just stared. Caroline looked down and away.

“Ummmm… Thanks so much for asking, John. But I’m already going with someone.”

“Right.” They kept staring. My palms began to sweat. I needed to get away. “Have a nice day.”

I stood up and walked back to the jocks’ table.

“Did you just ask that geeky girl?” Garrett asked.

“Yeah.”

“What’d she say?”

“She said no.”

“Awwwww,” Garrett comforted, jabbing me in the shoulder. “Poor thing. Want my M&M cookie?”

“Sure.”

 

[lids4]

Low Points

I didn’t go to the dance. I kept away from the nerds the rest of the season, which wasn’t hard between practice and homework. On the strength of Garrett’s arm, we cruised through the rest of our schedule without a loss. LaMarcus Cole was indeed not in attendance at the Callahan game. Just as well; I didn’t need the distraction.

By season’s end, Garrett had picked up offers from Stanford and Oregon State to join his San Jose State offer. I, on the other hand, had none. So when we took the field against Richmond, I had something to prove. If scouts were going to look anywhere for good players on good teams, it was the playoffs.

Unfortunately, as a wide receiver there was nothing I could do if Garrett didn’t pass me the ball. He couldn’t do that buried under Richmond defenders, which he usually was. I had to give the Richmond coach credit; he alternated his corner matchups so I couldn’t get used to one defender, and left single coverage on me and our other receivers. Meanwhile, he blitzed one or two linebackers out of his 4-3 set on every snap, and they got through. As the half ended, Garrett had been sacked four times, and I had no catches. The score was 20-0 Richmond.

Our entire squad was shell-shocked in the locker room. I could see coach’s lips moving but whatever he was saying went in one ear and out the other. Most of what he had to say was directed at the offensive line, and none of it was pleasant.

We got the ball to start the second half. The return man got us as far as our 35; coach had already called the first play so the offense raced onto the field and up to the line without a huddle. We were running a wide receiver screen for me. Garrett took the snap and unsurprisingly had four Richmond defenders bearing down on him. This time, it was because three of our linemen and the tight end were racing out to the right, getting ready to block for me. Garrett waited just a moment too long to throw the ball—a Richmond lineman tipped it just as he released it.

By similar means, Richmond ended the game with eight sacks, ten hurries, and a 30-0 win. I had not touched the ball once. As the Richmond players hooted and hollered, my Sheridan squad morosely marched back to our bus. I took a seat next to Garrett, who just put his head down on the seat back in front of him and closed his eyes.

How could this happen? I thought. Was this the first real team we played all year? Are they that good or do we just suck?

Naw, man, you just suck, Cole’s voice rang in my head. Ain’t no thang, just the way it is.

 

[lids4]

To Ball Or Not To Ball?

With the season over, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I’d given up basketball, and talking to the nerds had gotten awkward ever since the April/homecoming incident. Turned out Tim was her date. Rumor had it that since then they’d become an item.

Garrett didn’t play a winter sport, so he and I ended up hanging out quite a bit over the next couple of weeks. When the basketball tryouts were posted, Garrett tore down one of the signs and taped it to my locker.

“Football’s my sport now.”

“Mine too. I still play baseball. First love, you know.”

“Yeah, well. I can’t risk twisting an ankle or something. Next year is when it all counts.”

“Do you love the game?”

“Yes.”

“Look, John, I don’t know why I’m getting offers and you’re not. But you know what I really want? A baseball scholarship. But I’m not going to get one. 6-1 guys who throw a 90 fastball are a dime a dozen. And even if I’m good enough to walk on, my football coach would never let me. So I’m going to play now, because I can.”

“Touching. But until I get a scholarship, I can’t—“

“You may not get a scholarship. If you don’t, you deprived yourself for nothing. And if you do, basketball is still over. Take my advice. Play while you can. Love every minute.” Garrett smirked. “And when you see Cole, give him a charge for me.”

I looked at the poster. It was what I wanted—and Garrett was right. I was busting my ass and had nothing to show for it. I had no reason to believe the scouts cared.

“What the hell. OK.”

 

[woy1509]

STFU platchat, the more writing, the better. Does anyone even like you?
This is amazing man, keep it up.

 

[lids4]

And You Give It All You’ve Got

We started tryouts with a shootaround. The first thing I noticed was that I’d lost my touch; shots that would have sunk with nothing but net a year ago spun in and out of the hoop. Fortunately, my handles came back a lot more quickly, and when we went to one-on-ones I torched the other guards, finishing with soft layups. When it was my turn to play defense, it was almost like I’d never left. The poor freshmen never stood a chance; I blocked their shots left and right. Once we started three-on-three, I found that passing came right back as well. I was able to place the ball right where I wanted.

Coach Dyer normally ended his tryouts after some three-on-three, but as we finished up the scrimmage he lined us all up and had us run wind sprints. During the last section—suicides—five guys had to run to the trash can to throw up. Not just freshmen, either. I was about to lose it myself, my legs feeling like lead, thinking I couldn’t possibly get any more tired, when Dyer finally blew the whistle and called “bring it in.”

Dyer wouldn’t post the roster until the next morning before school. I was too exhausted to be nervous as mom drove me home, but I knew what was at stake. Thanks to six months of barely practicing, I’d played sloppy basketball. About the only good news was that I was clearly in the best physical condition of anyone who tried out. Since I was a junior, I was no longer eligible to play on the B-squad. It was varsity or bust.

 

[bayne.]

 

[lids4]

New And Improved

In the morning, the roster was on the locker room door when I arrived to lift at seven. I was on it. Our first practice was that evening—just a light shootaround; Coach took mercy after the drubbing he gave us at tryouts.

“John, I didn’t say anything last year because you were a deadeye I didn’t want to mess anything up, but you’re rimming out so much that now I don’t mind. We need to work on your shot.”

“I know.”

“I mean, we need to change your shot. Rebuild parts of it. If it works, you’ll be better than you ever were before.”

Dyer assigned Coach Billing, the history teacher and assistant coach, to work with me. Billing had played college basketball at Northwestern as a walk-on, and he actually earned a little playing time as a senior since he could make it rain.

“First thing: you’re shooting with your middle three fingers. Your follow-through is good, I like that you keep your middle finger pointed at the rim after the shot. But you’d be better off shooting with the thumb, index and middle fingers, and pointing with the index finger. Let’s try it.”

We did, starting just seven feet from the basket. And to my amazement, I started hitting a few more shots than before.

“Your forearm is straight up, perpendicular to the floor as you shoot. That’s good. But can you move your arm out just a couple of inches? Right now you’re covering your right eye with the ball as you shoot. If you can look at the rim with both eyes, your depth perception will come into play.”

I tried it. Billing had to adjust my elbow to get my arm straight again, but once I got into the rhythm of it the shot felt great—and again, I hit more of my shots. We started moving back, and as practice time wound down, Billing set up five racks of five balls each and had me shoot threes from different positions, just like the NBA three-point contest. I ended up draining eighteen shots. The best I’d ever done before was fifteen.

The next day’s practice mostly involved reviewing the offensive system—or learning it afresh for new varsity players. I spent the first half of the day at shooting guard, getting a lot of catch-and-shoots, moving off screens by Tyner and Keller. During our break, Coach Dyer said, “John, do you want to know something?”

“What’s that, Coach?”

“If I were making an instructional video, I’d put your jump shot in it. You’ve got a textbook shot.”

“Coach Billing knows his stuff.”

“And you applied it. Stick with it, don’t let the form get sloppy. I’m going to need a lot of offense from you this year.”

The second half of the practice, Dyer put me at the point, and by the end of the day, when Dyer listed the starters, I was the point guard. As the players filed towards the locker room to change, Dyer put a hand on my shoulder, stopping me.

“You’re the general, John. The team is in your hands. Make me proud.”

 

[lids4]

Shoot First, Ask Questions Later

“Starting at center, a 6-10 sophomore, Jay Tyner! Starting at forward, a 6-7 sophomore, Norm Keller! Starting at guard, a 5-11 junior, John Li! At the other guard, a 6-3 senior, Ian Laugherty! At the other forward, a 6-5 senior, Larry Snead! The coach, Demetrius Dyer.”

We opened our season at home against Richmond, whose football team had knocked us out of the playoffs just a month earlier. It was during this game that I realized what Dyer meant when he said he’d need a lot of offense from me. Laugherty and Snead played on the wings in our system, but neither of them had a reliable jump shot. Neither did the big men, although that was OK because they played close to the hoop. The good news was that none of Richmond’s players had much shooting ability either. The bad news was that they were much faster and more athletic than us, and had unbelievable handles.

I was able to keep the Richmond point guard from driving. Unfortunately, Laugherty and Snead got their ankles broken time after time. Meanwhile, Tyner and Keller were entering their third year starting, but had yet to develop a feel for timing shot blocks. They picked up three fouls apiece going into the half. We trailed 39-35.

In the locker room, Dyer didn’t have much to say. “Keep it simple, slow it down,” was his advice. “If you don’t have a good shot, pass. Bricks feed their break, and they’re faster than us.”

Sheridan would get the ball to open the second half. Dyer took me by the arm before I went in. “Isolate. If their bigs step out, drive. Don’t hesitate, just drive. I know you want to distribute, but you’re the best scorer we’ve got and I need points.”

As I brought the ball up the court, I noticed that the Richmond point guard—#14, LaShawn or LaVaughn or something like that—was playing almost four feet off me. I didn’t bother calling a play; I squared up and launched a three-point shot, just like Billing taught me. 14 tried to contest it, but I was releasing the shot by the time he got his hand up. It dropped, nothing but net.

Just like Dyer wanted, each time I’d get the ball I’d call an isolation or pick-and-roll. In the fourth quarter, they finally started double-teaming me. That left Laugherty or Snead open, and I’d pass the ball as soon as their defender committed to me. They missed too much for my liking, but hit often enough. Sheridan won the game, 79-73. I logged twenty-eight points and eight assists.

“You did good tonight,” Dyer said as we headed to the locker room. “That’s just what we need. Make the right decision with the ball. You just gotta realize that, more often than you’d like, the right decision is to take it yourself.”

 

[blazers_for_life]

[blockquote]

Dude I am in love with this.
keep going man, this is amazing.

[/blockquote]