“Lord,” he started, “we ask that you would allow these young men to honor you by playing to the best of their abilities — abilities with which you have so richly blessed them. Let us play this game with grace… and ferocity. Let us stay true to our principles… even as we attempt to destroy our opponent. Keep us humble … even as we crush our opponents’ pride. Let these young men soar… even as you keep them grounded in the knowledge of who they really play for: God. Family. Community. Team.
“Please watch over us and the team we’re about to compete against. And finally Lord, we ask that you watch over our brother J’Quarius with extra care tonight and keep him safe throughout the game. We give all the glory to you. Amen.
“OK, guys. This is it. One more game to perfection. ‘Team’ on three,” the coach said, as the boys rose to a stand. “One, two, three…”
“TEAM!”
As the circle dispersed, a few of the boys bounced up and down on the balls of their feet, loosening up their legs. Others rolled their necks side to side, simultaneously shaking nervous energy out through their dangling arms, as they inched toward the door of the locker room. The second best player on the team breathed in long deep breaths and then blew out slowly through pursed lips, his eyes closed, meditating to the rhythm of the music blasting from his headphones. J’Quarius hadn’t moved from his spot in the middle of the locker room and was back on one knee with his head bowed.
Assistant Coach Hansford Washington gently laid his hand on his son’s shoulder. “You ok?”
“I don’t know,” J’Quarius answered.
“What’s going on? Is something hurting you?” Hansford asked empathetically.
“No. Nothing hurts. I just still don’t feel right.” He paused for several seconds with his head down before looking back up at his dad. “I guess I’m scared.”
“Do you want to sit this one out?” Hansford asked, expecting a quick and emphatic “no,” but getting only silence in return, as his son hung his head back down. “Look,” he said softly. “J’Quarius, look at me. If you don’t want to play, you don’t have to.”
“Alright guys, let’s go!” The head coach said, throwing the locker room’s double doors open, allowing the din of the arena to flood in from the tunnel.
“I’ll see how it goes in the shootaround,” J’Quarius said. He couldn’t resist the urge to give his dad a hug before he hardened up his expression and joined his team at the threshold to the tunnel, ultimately unwilling to let his dad, his coaches or his team down.
A blast of black and red confetti at the mouth of the visitor’s tunnel announced the arrival of the Chicago AAU team, as they confidently jogged through to an explosive reception from the crowd. J’Quarius didn’t play road games. No matter where he played, he was the one everyone had paid to see.
In one corner of the arena, a group of four Russian tourists decked out in CSKA Moscow regalia danced in front of a TV camera, frantically waving a homemade poster that read, “The Dawning of the Age of J’Quarius.” In the club level a fan wore an Ohio State Buckeye jersey with the name J Jones printed on the back, holding a sign that pleaded, “It’s not too late.”
At midcourt a pair of ESPN broadcasters debated where J’Quarius’s high school career would rank historically now that it was coming to a close. The press boxes were packed with local, national and international media, while executives from all the major shoe companies cheered as enthusiastically and conspicuously as they could from their various courtside locales.
Unfazed by this type of reception, J’Quarius jaunted over to the ball cart, picked up a ball, took a hop-step back and drained a three-pointer. Ten paces behind him, over on the sideline, his dad whispered in the head coach’s ear to try to play J’Quarius as sparingly as possible.
Outside the arena, Ryan was milling around without a ticket amongst a few hundred late arrivers, a handful of increasingly desperate scalpers and a few media members, vigilantly keeping his eyes peeled for anyone either he or his parents might know. He’d already had a near miss, passing within a few yards of Skylar McGhee, one of his classmates who would have relished the opportunity to rat him out. But he was pretty sure he hadn’t been seen.
Just before the game was scheduled to tip, he spotted what he’d been looking for — a local sportscaster setting up a live shoot just outside the main entrance of the arena. He casually slid Jasper’s phone out of his pocket, activated the camera, and positioned himself as close as he could to the news crew without distracting them.
Placing the phone on top of a railing to keep it as still as possible, he zoomed in as far as he could toward the reporter’s chest where a press pass flipped randomly in the breeze and snapped as many shots as the frustratingly slow shutter speed would allow while the reporter was facing his cameraman.
At the conclusion of his 25-second puff piece, the reporter called it a wrap, and Ryan retreated to the sidewalk to begin analyzing the dozen or so shots he’d been able to get off, hoping at least one would be adequate.
“Hey, kid,” the sportscaster called out, his ego inflated by Ryan’s taking pictures of the broadcast, thinking this would be a wonderful opportunity to use his celebrity to make some kid’s day.
Ryan was immersed in reviewing the pictures he’d taken, his expression meeting each one with a disapproving grimace. Too far away! Even though the reporter had been standing still, the press pass was constantly flapping in the wind.
“Hey, kid,” the reporter repeated from close range, startling Ryan, who looked up with a guilty half-smile. “I saw you taking pictures over there. How would you like for my real-life TV cameraman to take a picture of the two of us on your phone for your scrapbook?”
Scrapbook? Ryan could almost feel his eyes rolling into the back of his head, but he quickly recognized this as an opportunity. “Would I!” he gushed, handing over his phone.
Ryan forced a smile for the photo, leaning in toward the sportscaster, as the cameraman melodramatically “nailed the shot.”
“Have you ever thought about being on the news when you grow up?” the reporter asked.
“That would be a dream come true. I’m down here covering this event for my school paper,” he said without batting an eye. “Hey, do you think I could get a shot of your press pass, so I can show everybody at school what a real one looks like?”
“Sure,” the reporter said, bloated with pride, handing over his credential. “Now, you stay in school and work hard, and you just might end up on TV one day too.”
Ryan centered the press pass in the frame of the phone’s display and finally got the perfect shot. “Thanks,” he beamed, this time with genuine glee.
“Any time,” the self-important local TV man answered, as he headed back to the van.
Ryan walked back toward the arena and sat down with his back against the wall to try to figure out how to upload the picture. Within five minutes he’d done it, leaving himself about twenty minutes to kill before he was scheduled to meet Dillon.
Back in Ryan’s bedroom, his digital frame awakened from sleep mode to display its newest picture just as Sara walked in to put away some clean laundry. She studied the picture quizzically — the local Fox station’s field reporter’s press pass for a basketball game, which would have been starting right around that time at the pro basketball arena. Ryan would have called her if he’d changed plans. This didn’t make sense.
She walked over to the closest home phone and dialed Ryan’s number.
Surprised by her call, Ryan jumped up and sprinted as far as he could from the sounds of the crowds and city streets, and answered the phone on the third ring, trying not to sound out of breath.