The Final Four Page 14

  It let them off in front of the cemetery’s big iron gates, and just outside, Malcolm’s father bought a small wreath of flowers to take to Trisha.

  There was hardly any wind. The snow fell straight down in big soft flakes that settled on their heads and shoulders.

  “It’s this way, past that pair of oak trees,” said Malcolm, veering to the left, off of the paved path, and heading up a small hill.

  Malcolm remembered from the last time he’d been there, with his parents about a month ago.

  “I know where she is,” said his father, trailing a step or two behind. “I could find her grave in my sleep if I had to.”

  But within a few moments, Malcolm and his father had walked nearly twenty yards too far, searching for the small gray headstone with Trisha’s name cut into it.

  They both stopped in their tracks at the same time, looking at each other, and then at the headstones around them.

  Malcolm’s father said, “Must be this frosting on the ground that’s got us confused. I can’t—”

  “No, Pop, look there,” interrupted Malcolm, with his brown eyes opened as wide as they could be.

  Trisha’s simple stone had been replaced by the biggest, most impressive one Malcolm and his father could see anywhere around them.

  “Beloved daughter. Beloved sister,” Malcolm read out loud as the two of them moved closer to it.

  There were two angels on top, blowing horns, and a girl playing the snare drum carved into the granite monument.

  “Did you and Mom do this?” asked Malcolm. But as soon as he asked, he knew it didn’t make any sense. His parents had barely had enough money to pay for Trisha’s funeral and the original headstone.

  “You’d have been the first to know,” his father said, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “Where do you think it came from, then?” asked Malcolm, pulling his gloves off to feel the polished stone with his bare fingers.

  “I have no idea in this world,” answered his father, who brushed away the snow from the base of the headstone to lay the flowered wreath there.

  “So somebody just took the old one away without telling us?” said Malcolm. “That’s crazy. Stuff like that just doesn’t happen, does it, Pop?”

  “Not without somebody paying for it. And this headstone looks like it cost a bundle.”

  Malcolm thought about what Coach Barker had said, about people wanting to buy things for him.

  “You think it’s about basketball, about me going pro soon? Maybe somebody wants something in return?”

  “I wouldn’t say that out loud again for no reason, son.”

  “So you think it is?” Malcolm asked.

  The coach had specifically told him not to take anything from anyone. But how could he return a headstone?

  Malcolm’s father didn’t answer. He just brushed the now rapidly falling snow from his shoulders.

  “What are we going to do?” Malcolm asked.

  “I don’t truthfully know. But with God as my witness, if there’s one thing I’d hate more than seeing my baby’s grave disturbed, it would be seeing it done twice. So I’m not going to ask to have it removed. And I want to put one thing into your mind, son.”

  “What’s that, Pop?”

  “No matter who did it, this couldn’t be a gift to you. It’s to your sister. And she’s gone to heaven now.”

  Malcolm nodded his head.

  “There has to be an explanation. But it’s not on us to track down what it is. I don’t want to find out your sister’s memory is being manipulated. I don’t think your mama could live with the rage it would cause her. So let me be the one to tell her about this. We’ll put our faith in God for now, that this was done for the right reasons. We’ll keep it quiet and respectful.”

  “I’m solid with you on all of that, Pop,” said Malcolm, taking his fingertips from the stone. “I won’t talk about it to nobody. I promise.”

  “For a long time, I operated under the Chinese proverb that there are four kinds of leaders: those who you laugh at, those who you hate, those who you love, and those who you don’t even know that they’re leaders.”

  —Bill Bradley, a Rhodes Scholar and two-time NBA Champion who was later elected to the U.S. Senate

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  ROKO BACIC

  7:59 P.M. [CT]

  With the game clock having run down inside of two minutes and the Trojans trailing by four points, Roko tugs at the back of Coach Kennedy’s suit jacket from his seat on the bench.

  “Get me back into the game, Coach. I’m fine now,” pleads Roko.

  Kennedy pulls away from him and paces the sideline.

  “Prove it to me, Bull. Prove your head’s clear,” says Kennedy. “Give me a four.”

  “Four. Rocky IV, with the Russian boxer. Shrek Forever After,” says Roko. “Live Free or Die Hard. Star Wars: Episode IV—A New Hope.”

  “A three,” says Kennedy, turning to look directly into Roko’s eyes.

  “Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines. The Matrix Revolutions. The Bourne Ultimatum. Spider-Man 3, with the Sandman and black-costumed web-slinger.”

  “A two,” says Kennedy, bringing his face closer to Roko’s.

  “The Mummy Returns. Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Hellboy II: The Golden Army. 2 Fast 2 Furious. Tomb Raider: The Cradle of Life.”

  “Is it completely out of the question?” Kennedy asks the trainer, who’s sitting next to Roko.

  “I’m satisfied he’s thinking straighter,” responds the trainer. “It’s your call, Coach.”

  “All right. Get—”

  Roko springs off the bench before Kennedy can finish his words.

  The crowd roars and the players on the court take notice.

  “Get back on the point and run the show for us,” says Kennedy, following Roko to the scorer’s table. “Give us that surge we need.”

  “I’ll give you everything I’ve got, Coach,” says Roko, kneeling in front of the scorer’s table, ready to check in.

  And as he prepares himself mentally to reenter the game, out of the corner of his eye, Roko glimpses Hope kicking her legs up high, cheering the Trojans on.

  February 24 (five weeks ago)

  Tonight, I believe that Hope came on to me. I am almost totally convinced. We were at a crowded party in an apartment just a block off campus. It was before Crispin got there, while he was still finishing his deliveries. I had this strange feeling in my bones that Hope was smiling too much at me. At first, I thought it might all be my imagination. But then she came up to me and said close to my ear, “You know, I’ve always liked red hair. I think it’s really cute on a guy.”

  “Thank you,” I told her. Then I excused myself to the bathroom. That was probably best, because I had no other response, except maybe to say, “I’m a playa hater. Not a playa.”

  I know she had at least two beers, so maybe it was the Budweiser talking. Then, shortly after Crispin arrived, I left.

  As I walked home, I was completely torn between two different things—between friendship for Crispin and the idea of minding my own business. I understand that sometimes girls like to play stupid games to make their boyfriends jealous. And it’s probably worse with a fiancée. I was also worried that telling Crispin could put a huge obstacle between us, hurting our chemistry on the court. And if I was wrong about her flirting, I would have looked like a total idiot—“Jackass 3D.”

  Then the idea came to me to call Coach Kennedy for advice. I used his emergency cell number and got him at home. I explained the whole messy situation, and he told me that I did the correct thing. “I’m glad you called me with this,” said Coach. “Put the entire incident out of your mind, like it never happened. And don’t approach Crispin with any details. I’ve noticed how uptight he’s been lately. When the time is right, I’ll speak to him myself about the pressures of being engaged.”

  So that’s where I’ve left the problem for now, with Coach Kennedy, hoping for the best solution.

/>   LIVE RADIO BROADCAST OF THE GAME

  7:59 P.M. [CT]

  There are three broadcasters: a play-by-play man, a color commentator, and sideline reporter Rachel Adams.

  Play-by-Play Man: Listen to this Superdome crowd roar as the Red Bull, Roko Bacic, pops up off the Trojans’ bench.

  Color Commentator: The kid from Croatia is all heart. He gives so much of himself. That’s why he’s so popular. But above all, this is a war and you need your warriors, your leaders. He’d have to be unconscious not to finish this contest.

  Play-by-Play Man: And on the court, a smart play by Troy’s Aaron Boyce to send the ball out of bounds off a Spartan’s leg. That stops the clock with a minute forty-two remaining and allows Bacic to enter the game.

  Color Commentator: That’s a high basketball IQ right there with Boyce.

  Play-by-Play Man: Let’s get a report from Rachel Adams.

  Rachel Adams: I could tell two things from behind the Trojans’ bench: that Roko Bacic wanted back into this game badly, and that coach Alvin Kennedy agonized over the decision to return his shaken point guard to action. But after a short conversation in which Kennedy seemed to be quizzing Bacic, trying to assess whether the cobwebs in his head had indeed cleared, the Red Bull is once again at the Trojans’ helm.

  Play-by-Play Man: Bacic with the ball in his hands immediately. He’s on the dribble. A beautiful crossover move. And just like that he takes the ball at Malcolm McBride and scores on a driving layup. The Michigan State lead is cut to two points with ninety seconds left on the clock.

  Color Commentator: McBride, with four fouls, played him soft, and the Bull took full advantage. That hasn’t been the case with Troy’s Crispin Rice, who despite his four fouls hasn’t backed off on defense.

  Play-by-Play Man: McBride with the ball for the Spartans. Bacic right in front of him, all the way. It will be interesting to see how Red Bull negotiates those physical Michigan State screens, the type that put him out of action for several minutes. Here’s one of those screens now. Grizzly Bear Cousins sets it high. McBride cuts around, shaking free of Bacic. A pair of Trojans converges on McBride. He shovels the ball to Cousins, who’s fouled on the drive to the basket. Was that foul on Crispin Rice? If it is, he’s finished for the night.

  Color Commentator: There was a trio of Trojans surrounding Cousins on that drive—Boyce, Bacic, and Rice. And both Boyce and Bacic are raising their hands toward the scorer’s table to say the foul was on them, trying to protect their teammate.

  Play-by-Play Man: And after a short consultation, the referees point towards Aaron Boyce. They’re saying the foul’s on him. Coach Eddie Barker is furious on the Michigan State sideline. He’s pointing towards Rice, slapping a hand down on his opposite wrist to say that’s what he did, that’s who fouled my player.

  Color Commentator: If Barker had his voice and the refs could hear him, he might have picked up a technical right there. That foul is also Boyce’s fourth of the game. One more and he’s gone.

  Play-by-Play Man: Here’s the first foul shot by Grizzly Bear Cousins. It’s short.

  Color Commentator: These players are exhausted. There was very little from the legs on that free throw attempt. I’d venture to say that only McBride and the Red Bull have any explosiveness left.

  Play-by-Play Man: The second shot. This one’s too strong, long off the iron. The Trojans control the rebound.

  Color Commentator: He overcompensated for the first shot being short. Just as Michigan State looked like they were going to pull away, they can’t seal the deal.

  Play-by-Play Man: Bacic with the ball. The crowd on their feet, a minute twelve to go. The Trojans trailing by two. And Red Bull eludes McBride. Michael Jordan has him now on the defensive switch. It’s Bacic and Jordan. Jordan all over him. Bacic passes to Boyce. Boyce down low to Rice, who kicks it back out to Boyce. It’s the smaller McBride on Boyce now. Boyce shoots over McBride and drains it from fifteen feet away. We’re tied up at eighty-six. What a show! What a show!

  Color Commentator: I’ll tell you now—there’s ice water in that young man’s veins. He sent us into triple overtime with a bomb at the buzzer, and now he’s tied this game up again.

  Play-by-Play Man: There’s fifty-six seconds on the game clock. Michigan State with the ball. If you’re Eddie Barker, do you call time-out to regroup after losing a four-point lead?

  Color Commentator: No, the momentum is clearly with Troy. Calling a time-out would let them feel it more. Plus the volatile freshman McBride is your go-to guy. You don’t want him thinking on the sidelines or interacting with his teammates. You just want him to react on the court.

  Play-by-Play Man: McBride over half-court with the ball. He jukes back and forth, trying to play matador with Red Bull. Now forty-six seconds on the game clock, twenty-five on the shot clock. A screen set by Baby Bear Wilkins—again the entire defense flows towards McBride. He kicks the ball off to Jordan. Jordan is open from twenty feet. He doesn’t take the shot. Jordan back to McBride. Shot clock is down to twelve. McBride, in the face of two defenders, lets it fly. It’s no good. They battle for the rebound. Crispin Rice pulls it away from Grizzly Bear Cousins. Troy has the ball. They can have the last shot if they want it. The shot clock is turned off with twenty-nine seconds to go. This could be an upset for the ages!

  Color Commentator: Jordan should have pulled the trigger on that shot. Instead, he deferred to McBride. That’s what happens when a team doesn’t develop chemistry over the long haul.

  Play-by-Play Man: Bacic on the dribble, letting the time run down.

  Color Commentator: They want to start their assault on the basket with about ten seconds to go. That gives them enough time to put in a loose rebound.

  Play-by-Play Man: The ball goes to Rice, now back to Bacic. We’re at eleven seconds now, the crowd at a fever pitch. Red Bull finds Boyce in the corner. He puts the ball on the floor, heading towards the basket. Michael Jordan takes away his lane. Boyce to Bacic. Three seconds. Rice is open beneath the rim, waving his arms. Now Bacic spots him. The pass. It’s off Rice’s fingertips (buzzer sounds) and time expires.

  Color Commentator: That was the game if he catches that pass. Crispin Rice was left alone on the mad scramble. He’s looking up at the basket now, staring at his hands. The Red Bull knew someone was left open, because a sea of green was converging on him.

  Play-by-Play Man: It didn’t appear to be a bad pass. It was just an inch or so beyond Rice’s reach.

  Color Commentator: Rice could have ended this game and run into the arms of his fiancée on the biggest stage imaginable. But it wasn’t meant to be. So we don’t end triple overtime with a bang. But there are no whimpers here either. Just some tired legs on both sides and a big whew on the part of the Spartans, who survived what could have been a game-ending miscommunication on defense.

  “Don’t give up. Don’t ever give up.”

  —Jim Valvano, who coached North Carolina State University to perhaps the greatest upset in college basketball history, defeating heavily favored Houston at the buzzer in the 1983 NCAA Championship Game. He spoke these words less than two months before he died of cancer at the age of forty-seven.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CRISPIN RICE

  8:01 P.M. [CT]

  Crispin walks towards Roko, shaking his head.

  “I blew it. I had it right on my fingers,” says Crispin, gazing at his outstretched hand. “I anchored my feet to the floor and I couldn’t move. So I had to reach for the ball.”

  “That was all on me, C-Rice. I screwed that up,” replies Roko, standing directly in front of him and putting both hands on his shoulders. “I saw you there alone and I nearly jumped out of my skin trying to make that pass. I should have taken an extra breath, but I knew that time was running out.”

  “It was so close,” says Crispin, hanging his head.

  “Hey, we didn’t lose anything yet,” answers Roko with a burst of new energy. “We’ve got five more minutes to make this
right, to show these Spartans who we really are. Now get your head up and let’s go do this thing.”

  Troy’s cheerleaders are performing out on the court now.

  Crispin and Roko are forced to zigzag their way through them back to the Trojans’ bench. Crispin’s eyes are glued to the floor, trying to avoid eye contact with Hope. But the red-trimmed sneakers and bare ankles of the cheerleaders look nearly identical to him. And in his mind, Crispin has to make his way around a dozen Hopes, instead of facing her green eyes one-on-one.

  MARCH, TWO AND A HALF WEEKS AGO

  Crispin had arrived at practice nearly ninety minutes early. He was shooting alone at a side basket, trying to work the kinks out of his shot, when Coach Kennedy walked onto the court.

  “Concentrate on keeping your right elbow tucked in. Every now and then, I see it flying out. I think it’s really started to affect your consistency,” said Kennedy as he moved towards him. “Your wrist and elbow always form a straight line. It doesn’t matter what direction the rest of your body is falling. You can be leaning like the Tower of Pisa and still make shots. Everything hinges on the base beneath the ball being upright. It’s the foundation that has to be strong.”

  “I’ll watch out for it, Coach,” said Crispin, with both hands resting on his knees, leaving him exactly at eye level with Kennedy.

  “The other thing is that you look exhausted. You’re sweating up a storm out here. This is supposed to be about touch, about feeling,” said Kennedy, picking the rock up from the floor and letting it roll off his fingertips as a model. “I think you’ve become too tight, too mechanical. You’re working against yourself. There’s an old Chinese proverb: ‘Don’t try hard, try easy.’ Maybe you’ve come across it making those food deliveries, inside of a fortune cookie or something.”

  “No, I don’t read them,” said Crispin through half a smile. “I just hand them out to customers who order from the Chinese side of the menu.”