Page 11 of On Merit Alone
As the clip rolled on, I tried to imagine how the calm man who had spoken to me first, not once but twice, fit into this high-pressure, high-performing team. Both times he’d spoken to me, he seemed so laid-back, so calm and collected and unbothered.
As a certifiedvery botheredindividual, I found it unnerving. I couldn’t imagine how that attitude translated into such successful results. Where was his urgency?
It wasn’t until the clip played out its last seconds, showcasing the Defenders fighting back from a ten point deficit and King sinking a basket at the last possible second of the game, that I saw it. We all did.
Some things in life you want so bad you’re willing to do almost anything for them. You work hard, you do the right things. You get some small wins and win some you knew you would accomplish.And then there are those times where something amazing happens. You have no idea what will ensue, you have no idea what the plan God has laid out for you might be—but you know what you want, and you work like crazy to get it. You let muscle memory take control. You don’t think, you just do. You enter a zone.
And then you win.
Ira was in his zone. Jump shot, layup, hook shot. One after the other after the other until… bam. Three pointer at the buzzer. And you know what he did? He erupted.
It was more than just a celebration of victory—fists clenched tight to his sides as he let out a bellow of triumph and relief. It was a culmination of hard work and struggle and ups and downs and wins and losses and the want of something so bad, you’d maybe shave off a couple years of your life just to have it. It was a battle cry, a victory chant, a declaration of war. It was a microscope into his mind—his heart. Despite his even-keel demeanor, he was raging inside.Just like I was.
Bend weird… favor one side… rhythm off.
I bitmy lip, contemplating his words in a new light. I’d just lost three games in a row, and he’d just won three. There was a chance that he could know what he was talking about.
Usually, when I got stuck, I tried to listen to Grandpa’s voice in my head. But lately, I haven't been able to hear it like usual. I’m not sure if it was because of time or if the loneliness of only hearing my own thoughts was catching up to me, but the spot where he used to be was vacant more often than not.
Other than my own thoughts and the phantom whispers of Grandpa in my head, Ira’s voice was the first one to stick with me in a long time. It wasn’t like his advice was to change up my entire style of play. It was small, minuscule even. If things were tight, I could just try it.
Moments passed. Not everyone was silent, and no one person reacted the same, but one thing was abundantly clear. I didn’t needto say anything to pump us up. We didn’t need words to convince us to go play our hearts out.
Because Ira King had just shown us how.
I refused to admit that his advice worked.
I refused to admit it toward the end of the second quarter when I made sure to pace myself so as not to gas out.
I refused to admit it when I took extra time to focus on my knees before a free throw… and I made it.
I refused to admit it when we took the lead early in the third and ran away with it in the fourth, leading us to a relatively easy road to our first victory of the season.
I refused to admit it.
I refused.
But as I sat on my couch at the end of the night, showered and snuggled under my favorite blanket. The TV on, but muted. The Denver Defenders’ game highlights were what played. This was probably the third time since I’d been home that Ira King was filling my screen.
And even though my mind was strong enough to deny him, my subconscious was not. Because here I was on my phone looking at the same highlight saga I’d been watching on repeat all day in article form.
I scrolled through the words, skimming the recap as I scoured for details I hadn’t already seen.
There were none.
There wassomething,though. At the bottom of the article was a photo album. Most of the shots were of the Defenders during their game. A lot of them were of Ira and his right-hand man, number twelve, Rogers. But two of them specifically caught my eye.
One was ofthatmoment. The one we’d all seen before our owngame, of Ira losing himself to the competition and screaming out in triumph as he clenched his fists in celebration. And the other was an image that once again gave me a chilling sense of motivation.
Ira—half-shaded as he headed into the tunnel after the game but half-visible in the bright lights of the arena—had his fist raised high in the air. Steady, like a flag post. Victory evident but not boisterous as he herded his team out with a win.
I downloaded both.
Chapter Five
Ira
The last thingI should have been doing on the morning of a game day, especially a game as big as this one, was heading up to the office to talk to my GM.
