“Three points!” shouted Coach.
“You fouled me twice,” the point guard said as he brought the ball back toward Frank.
“Call it, then.”
“No, man, I don’t need it,” the point guard said and spun past Frank and drove down the middle of the key. Frank was fooled, but he dove after the point guard, hit the ball from behind, and sent it skidding toward one of his teammates, a big guard, who raced down the court for an easy layup.
“What’s the score?” the point guard shouted out. He was angry now.
“Five to four, for Snake Church.”
“What are we playing to?” Frank asked. He struggled for oxygen. Lactic acid burned holes in his thighs.
“Eleven,” said the point guard.
Frank hoped he could make it that far.
“All right, all right, you can play ball for an old man,” the point guard said. “But you ain’t touching the rock again. It’s all over for you.”
He feinted left, feinted right, and Frank got his feet all twisted up and fell down again as the point guard raced by him and missed a ten-foot jumper. As his forward grabbed the rebound, Frank staggered to his feet and ran down the court on the slowest fast break in the history of basketball. He caught a pass just inside the half-court line and was too tired to dribble any farther, so he launched a thirty-five-foot set shot.
“Three!” shouted the coach, suddenly loving this sport more than he had ever loved it before. “That’s eight to four, another three and Frank wins.”
“I can’t believe this,” the point guard said. He’d been humiliated, and he sought revenge. He barreled into Frank, sending him staggering back, and pulled up for his own three-pointer. Good! Eight to seven!
“It’s comeback time, baby,” the point guard said as he shadowed Frank down the court. Frank could barely move. His arms and legs burned with pain. His back ached. He figured he’d torn a muscle near his spine. His lungs felt like two sacks of rocks. But he was happy! He was joyous! He caught a bounce pass from a teammate and faced the point guard.
“No, no, no, old man, you’re not winning this game on me.”
Smiling, Frank head-faked, dribbled right, planted for a jumper, and screamed in pain as his knee exploded. He’d never felt pain this terrible. He grabbed his leg and rolled on the floor.
Coach ran over and held him down. “Don’t move, don’t move,” he said.
“It hurts, it hurts,” Frank said.
“I know,” Coach said. “Just let me look at it.”
As the players circled around them, Coach examined Frank’s knee.
“Is it bad?” Frank asked. He wanted to scream from the pain.
“Really bad,” Coach said. “It’s over. It’s over for this.”
Frank rolled onto his face and screamed. He pounded the floor like a drum and sang: Mother, Father, way, ya, hi, yo, good-bye, good-bye. Mother, Father, way, ya, hi, yo, good-bye, good-bye. Mother, Father, way, ya, hi, yo, good-bye, good-bye. Mother, Father, way, ya, hi, yo, good-bye, good-bye. Mother, Father, way, ya, hi, yo, good-bye, good-bye.
Coach and the players stared at Frank. What could they say?
“Hey, old man,” the point guard said. “That was a good run.”
Yes, it was, Frank thought, and he wondered what he was going to do next. He wondered if this pain would ever subside. He wondered if he’d ever step onto a basketball court again.
“I’m going to call an ambulance,” Coach said. “Get him in the training room.”
As Coach ran toward his office, the point guard and the big guy picked up Frank and carried him across the gym.
“You’re going to be okay,” the point guard said. “You hear me, old man? You’re going to be fine.”
“I know it,” Frank said. “I know.”