The Final Four Page 6

  “Hey, Flying Sushi! Win the tournament!” somebody screamed at him from a passing car. “Go Troy! Woo-hoo!”

  Crispin hit his horn in response—beep, beep, beep.

  He usually had to explain to customers why a nearly seven-foot-tall white kid was delivering Chinese and Japanese food, instead of an Asian.

  “Why the hell not?” was his standard answer. “One of the chefs in our kitchen is short and Mexican.”

  Most people would howl at that response, thinking it was a joke.

  Only Crispin knew it was absolutely true.

  But at his first stop, the talk wasn’t about any of that.

  It was all about the NCAA Tournament and the Trojans’ winning streak.

  “Think we can keep winning, C-Rice?” asked the man who answered the door. “It’s like a dream come true for this city. My wife and I graduated from Troy almost ten years ago. But the team was never this good. That fiancée of yours, Hope of Troy, is our good luck charm. Give her a big kiss for me, will you?”

  Before Crispin left, he posed for a photo with the man’s wife and three kids, all holding up their fingers in the V sign for victory.

  Crispin loved every second of it, and his tip was twice what he’d expected.

  His second stop that afternoon was at a downtown apartment building, next to a leather boutique where Hope had once dragged him so she could shop for Italian boots.

  He chained his moped to a parking meter and climbed the stoop.

  “Flying Sushi,” Crispin said into the intercom, before the customer buzzed him inside.

  By the time he reached the third floor, the tiny elevator that took him upstairs smelled like a combination platter of beef and broccoli and spicy string beans in garlic sauce.

  The older woman who answered the door looked up at him with her eyes rolling higher and higher. But she didn’t seem to know anything about Troy basketball, so there wasn’t much conversation.

  As Crispin waited for the elevator back down, counting his tip, he heard a guy and girl laughing from inside another apartment.

  He stood there frozen for an instant, confused, like his body and mind were suddenly in two different places. Then he moved closer to that apartment door.

  The next time Crispin heard them—hee, hee, hee, hee—he was positive the girl’s high-pitched laugh belonged to Hope.

  “I don’t want to be the next Michael Jordan, I only want to be Kobe Bryant.”

  —Kobe Bryant, five-time NBA Champion who made the leap from high school to the pros before the NBA changed its drafting rules in 2005

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  MICHAEL JORDAN

  7:30 P.M. [CT]

  MJ fights for the rebound as Grizzly’s second free throw glances off the rim.

  The ball is rolling loose on the floor, and MJ dives after it into a pile of bodies. For an instant, he gets so tangled up in the arms and legs of other players that he can’t tell for sure which limbs are his.

  MJ comes out of the scrum empty-handed.

  It’s the Trojans who come away with possession of the ball, trailing 70–69 with just eighty-eight seconds remaining in OT.

  Regaining his legs, MJ digs in on defense. He turns from angle to angle, depending on where the ball is, fronting his man and denying him the rock. MJ is determined—if a Trojan scores, it won’t be the one that he’s guarding.

  But MJ is up so close on his man that he loses most of his peripheral vision. And Aaron Boyce takes advantage, setting a screen that MJ never sees coming.

  Neither Malcolm nor any other Spartan calls out “on your left” to give MJ a heads-up.

  As MJ gets bumped off his man, the Spartans are forced to switch around on defense, and MJ is left to guard Aaron.

  The bigger player, Aaron immediately calls for the ball, backing MJ down beneath the basket. MJ doesn’t have the size to block his shot. But his reflexes are much quicker, and when Aaron turns to shoot, MJ strips the ball away at his waist.

  The rock sticks in MJ’s hands, and a frustrated Aaron Boyce tries to rip it back, fouling MJ.

  Troy has committed enough fouls in the second half and overtime combined to put Michigan State in the double bonus. So MJ heads to the foul line for a pair of free throws.

  “You can put us up by three points in front of the whole basketball world,” Malcolm tells him. “This is your chance to live up to your name. I saw the real Michael Jordan in the stands before. Sink these free throws and even he’ll know who you are.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m going to bury this ball twice,” says MJ. “Just watch me.”

  Standing alone at the line, MJ’s entire body goes tight as the ref sends him the ball. He shakes his arms and shoulders loose, but that relaxed feeling doesn’t stay with him the same way Malcolm’s words do about everyone watching.

  MJ bounces the basketball three times in front of him, takes a deep breath, and then exhales. He brings it into his tense fingertips, and raises up with his left elbow.

  The second he lets the shot go, MJ senses that it’s short. But even he’s not prepared for it to hit absolutely nothing.

  “Air ball! Air ball!” The catcalls rain down from the immense crowd.

  MJ’s teammates alongside the foul line all slap hands with him in support.

  Then Malcolm steps in from behind, connects his fist to MJ’s left arm, and fumes, “What, you only show some fight when you think you’re standing up to me?”

  NOVEMBER, FOUR MONTHS AGO

  Even before he walked into his room in the athletes’ dorm, MJ could hear the loud grunting from inside. It was Malcolm, in his usual spot on the floor, knocking out crunches with both of his legs raised high up in the air.

  The pair hadn’t asked to be together. They were assigned by the athletic department. It just worked out that way, with Malcolm arriving on campus and MJ’s former roommate graduating.

  “Malc, do me a big favor,” said MJ, balancing a load of books in his arms as he closed the door behind him with his foot. “Take that workout down to the gym tonight. I’ve got a pair of exams to study for.”

  “I . . . don’t do . . . favors,” answered Malcolm, between deep breaths. “Big . . . or small . . . ninety-eight . . . ninety-nine . . . one hundred.”

  “It’s not really a favor, man,” said MJ, dropping the books on top of his desk. “That’s just a figure of speech. It’s more a common courtesy, something roommates and teammates do for each other.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yeah, and I might have said friends, too. But I haven’t seen you contribute a whole lot to that equation.”

  “Hey, you got your way to act and I got mine,” said Malcolm, popping up to his feet, before he wiped his bare chest with a towel and then pulled a tank top over his head. “I don’t let any of my crap cross over onto you.”

  “It did today,” countered MJ, as Malcolm began doing curls with a heavy weighted bar. “Ms. Helms called me. She was looking for you. Said you wouldn’t pick up your cell for her. That you got a D on an exam in black history.”

  “Ms. Helms?” Malcolm said it like he’d never heard the name before.

  “The academic advisor,” MJ said. “She wanted to know if you needed a tutor.”

  Malcolm shook his head while counting off reps.

  “I don’t like tutors. They’re too stuck up,” Malcolm interrupted himself. “Besides, D is still passing.”

  “That’s what I figured you’d say,” said MJ. “So I told her I’d coach you up on it. I passed that class with a B-plus, same professor.”

  “What’s the catch?” asked Malcolm, through the strain of the last few curls.

  “No catch. It’s for the team,” replied MJ.

  “That’s good by me,” said Malcolm.

  “So how come you can accept a favor from me, but not the other way around?” asked MJ. “Some magical Malcolm McBride rule I don’t know about yet?”

  Malcolm dropped the weighted bar across his unmade bed, with its shape mak
ing a deep impression into the mattress.

  “It’s not for me. It’s for the team, right? Anyway, it’s not a favor if it’s your idea. Only if I ask you. That’s the way it works,” explained Malcolm, who started shadowboxing with himself in the mirror, which hung on the wall between a TV and a mini-fridge. “Why didn’t you ever tell me you took that class?”

  “Are you kidding me? I didn’t even know you were in it,” answered MJ, with Malcolm turning away from the mirror towards him, continuing his jabs and crosses. “I’ve never seen you with that textbook or heard you talk about any of your professors. And how can you get a D in black history? That’s shameful.”

  “Nobody can grade me on that. I live black history every day. I’m even trying to change it by becoming another black millionaire, maybe a black billionaire,” answered Malcolm, feinting punches to MJ’s head and chest.

  “That’s not enough to pass a college class, to get credits,” said MJ, standing toe-to-toe with Malcolm.

  “Credits? I got street credits in black history. You know, that life experience stuff that can bury you if you don’t pass,” said Malcolm, bobbing and weaving with his head now, while still punching. “You wouldn’t know about that, growing up in those soft Dearborn suburbs where everybody’s got a front lawn with sunflowers.”

  “Well, I’m as black as you,” snapped MJ. “And I’m the upperclassman here, so take it down to the gym.”

  “Yeah, but I carry this team. That cancels out that upperclassman shit right there,” said Malcolm. “And you’re not nearly as black as me. Remember, I went to Martin Luther King High School, and I live in the Brewster-Douglass Houses. The Douglass part gets its name from Frederick Douglass. He escaped being a slave and got himself an education. That’s what I’m about to do when the NBA draft comes— escape being an NCAA basketball slave.”

  After one of Malcolm’s jabs got too close, MJ said, “Stop it. I told you before, I don’t like play fighting.”

  Teasing MJ, Malcolm popped him in the chest, with a force closer to a real punch than a tap.

  On instinct, MJ punched back, hitting Malcolm hard on the right biceps—his fist slamming the tattooed portrait of Trisha.

  “Hey, that’s my sister! You don’t touch her!” said Malcolm.

  “It’s not your sister. It’s just a tat,” MJ shot back. “You’re the one who wanted to play this shit. Get over it!”

  “Yo, just because you’re not man enough to get a tat of your dead dad, don’t lay your hands on my family,” said Malcolm, before throwing a shove.

  MJ tackled Malcolm on the spot. They went tumbling over MJ’s bed, and then they crashed up against the wooden door, punching and kicking at each other.

  LIVE RADIO BROADCAST OF THE GAME

  7:32 P.M. [CT]

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

  Play-by-Play Man: An air ball from the foul line! My goodness! You know this young man, Michael Jordan, must be feeling the immense pressure of the moment for that to happen.

  Color Commentator: That’s why it was so important that he stepped away from the line just then, to shake everything loose, to reset and collect himself. That slapping hands with his teammates really serves a purpose beyond emotional support. It gets you to readjust your whole body, to relax yourself and come to the line again. And whatever Malcolm McBride came in to say, I’m sure it will help him to focus.

  Play-by-Play Man: You’ve been to the Final Four and played nine seasons in the NBA. What’s your mental outlook after an air ball on a stage this big? It has to be damaging.

  Color Commentator: Personally, I haven’t done something like that since junior high school. And I never did it in my college or pro career, thankfully. I have seen it at this level, though. It’s tough to deal with. But I’m sure young MJ is no stranger to pressure.

  Play-by-Play Man: All right, Michael Jordan readies himself at the line. It sends chills through me just to say his name, like part of me is reliving the past. Here’s his second foul shot. It’s up. It’s perfect. Michigan State leads by two points.

  Color Commentator: Great job by young MJ in blocking out the negative and putting that air ball behind him.

  Play-by-Play Man: Roko Bacic bringing up the ball with sixty-eight seconds on the clock. The Spartans playing man-to-man defense. Bacic over the mid-court stripe. McBride in front of him. Bacic passes to Aaron Boyce. The last time Boyce was in the Superdome, he and his family were seeking shelter from Hurricane Katrina. But a different type of storm is brewing here tonight. Boyce passes down low to Crispin Rice. He puts the ball on the floor. Bacic cuts to the hoop. Shovel pass from Rice through heavy traffic. Bacic scores! He laid it in! Troy ties it up at seventy-one apiece.

  Color Commentator: Credit the cut. Credit the pass. Like my mother always said, the best soup is made at home by more than one chef. And then it’s shared at the table together. Terrific teamwork right there.

  Play-by-Play Man: The crowd on its feet. Forty-five seconds remaining, McBride into the frontcourt with the ball. The freshman sent us into overtime with a last-second shot, saving the Spartans’ season and extending his college career. Bacic cuts off McBride’s dribble. The pass left to Baby Bear Wilkins. Now the ball right back into the hands of McBride. Michigan State with twenty seconds left on the shot clock, thirty-six remaining on the game clock. McBride trying to break down Bacic one-on-one. The Croatian glued to his every move. McBride into the lane. He hesitates, steps back. He goes up. He hits! He hit it! McBride made the shot! Michigan State is back up by a bucket with twenty-two ticks left!

  Color Commentator: For all of his complaining about the state of college basketball, with that shot McBride says, “Put the NBA and all its riches on hold—I’m taking my team to the National Collegiate Championship Game.”

  Play-by-Play Man: Troy inbounds. Now they get it to Bacic. The Red Bull with a full head of steam. Seventeen seconds. McBride hounds him. He cuts right, McBride still with him. Now left. Bacic launches a jumper. It’s good! It’s good! We’re all knotted up at seventy-three. Time out Michigan State, their last.

  Color Commentator: Red Bull got the separation he was looking for. And without hesitation, he went straight up with the shot. That was beyond clutch. The only negative—he left twelve seconds on the clock, an eternity in this game. Now, can Michigan State and McBride answer back?

  Play-by-Play Man: Before this current run in the tournament, Troy was best known for scoring the most points in a collegiate game. Back in 1992, Troy defeated DeVry 258 to 141. When the score was called into the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, the sports editor there thought it was a prank. That Troy squad didn’t even make it to the tournament. Now here they are, two decades later, out of nowhere, threatening to win the whole thing.

  Color Commentator: From what we’ve witnessed tonight, no one should refer to Troy as a Cinderella team anymore. Maybe entering this game there were still some doubts as to whether Troy really belonged. Maybe even some doubts in the minds of their own players. But this has turned from what could have been a fairy-tale, we’re-just-glad-to-be-here scenario into a stone-cold war, the Trojan War. You can credit the man in the middle of the Troy huddle, coach Alvin Kennedy, with laying the foundation for that transformation. And everyone realizes that at the end of this tournament, the big-money offers will come flooding in from larger universities in need of a coach. We’ll see if Troy can hold on to Kennedy.

  Play-by-Play Man: So you think that in essence, this isn’t the same Troy team that began the tournament nearly three weeks ago?

  Color Commentator: That’s right. Michigan State would have blown that Troy team out of the Superdome. These Trojans are the same in size and weight on the outside. But inside, they’ve grown immensely. They’ve bonded. I’d call it team chemistry, but that would be understating the process. It’s been more like nuclear fusion.

  Play-by-Play Man: And how does that affect Michigan State, the team
with more raw talent?

  Color Commentator: The Spartans have got to find that ability to grow within themselves right now. They’ve got to become something more than they already are. Whether that means someone besides Malcolm McBride steps up or McBride himself becomes the catalyst for making the people around him even better.

  Play-by-Play Man: As the teams come back onto the court, let’s go to our sideline reporter, Rachel Adams. Rachel, what can you share with us?

  Rachel Adams: As everyone knows, Spartans coach Eddie Barker has been struggling with his voice this week. He had his team pulled in extra close around him as he feverishly diagramed a play. So it was hard for me to hear anything outside of that tight circle, especially over this crowd noise. But after the Spartans broke their huddle, Malcolm McBride looked at me and simply said, “Bank on it.”

  Play-by-Play Man: Here we go. Michigan State to inbound the ball. Bacic is all over McBride. The Spartans can’t get it to him. The pass comes in to Baby Bear Wilkins instead. Now the Trojans double-team McBride, and Wilkins can’t get it to him either. Nine seconds to go. Wilkins still holding the ball. Finally, he passes down low to Grizzly Bear Cousins, who’s confronted by Crispin Rice. He sends it back outside to Wilkins. McBride still smothered by the defense. Five seconds. Now Wilkins loses the ball! It’s rolling free. Three seconds. Two seconds. It’s picked up by Michael Jordan near half-court. He heaves up a forty-footer at the buzzer. It’s in! No, it’s out! It’s out! It rattled back out. Oh my! That shot was halfway down and it came back out!

  Color Commentator: That could have changed young MJ’s destiny. For a brief moment in time, he could have been more famous than the original Michael Jordan. But it wasn’t meant to be.

  Play-by-Play Man: Michael Jordan still sitting on the floor where he tumbled after that shot. Both of his palms pressed up against his temples, as if to ask, “How in the world did it ever come back out?” Here’s the replay on our monitors. A desperation shot that should have had no chance at all. First, it goes in, and then rims out. Heartbreak City, folks.