Page 24 of Sweet Girl
Chapter Eight
Van
I spent the last three weeks in a state of perpetual angst and sleepless nights. Our basketball pre-season is in full swing and we are playing every weekend in out-of-town tourneys. It’s utterly exhausting and my head and spirit aren’t fully in the game. Which is a source of frustration for my teammates.
So much so that Carver, our point guard and team captain, has been in my face the last two games because my rebounding and shooting ability has diminished significantly. Oh, and I’ve fouled out the last three games because I’m playing too aggressively under the basket.
In my power forward position, it’s my job in both offensive and defensive play, to be the guy under the basket who ‘posts up’ to block and rebound in the man-to-man zone defense. And to put up the ball when I do end up rebounding. While being aggressive in play is rewarded by increasing team effectiveness and shot advantage, it doesn’t help when I’m fueled by anger, versus competition, and don’t temper my playing techniques.
Like tonight, for example. I was down in the paint, my back toward the basket. I was posted up to protect the ball as Scott Wagner, our small forward, was setting up for a three pointer. He missed, and both me and Eli Blanchard from Marquette, went up to rebound. He picked it off the rim, his elbows out as he guarded it against me. I had other plans, though, as I reached in to the pocket he’d created and grabbed hold of the ball, working to pull it free from his grip. The ball came loose and we both dove for it before it went out of bounds.
At that point, I’m not sure what happened. All I know was Eli was about to grab for the ball, and suddenly he’s on his back and about to pass it to one of his team players. I jumped to my feet, and was about to run back down the court when I hear him mutter a comment...I couldn’t even tell you what he said, but it was lewd and it was a snipe at me. So instead of running toward the ball in play, I stomped on his stomach with my foot, using him as a human launch pad.
It wasn’t an accident and it was very apparent that it was on purpose. So when the ref’s whistle blew and I was charged with a foul, effectively booting me out of the game, I tried to defend myself by getting in the ref’s face. I lied to cover my butt, arguing that it was an accident. I tried to play it off like I just lost my balance and Eli just happened to be in my way. You know, it’s basketball. Accidents happen.
Unfortunately, I’m a terrible liar and didn’t convince anyone of my innocence.
So I got my last foul and had to sit the bench the remainder of the game. Luckily, the second half clock was already winding down. But it still didn’t prevent Carver from getting in my face after the game.
Now I’m sitting on the bench in the locker room, waiting for everyone to come back in so we can hear from the coach. We did end up winning the game, barely squeaking out with a five-point lead. It was touch and go for most of the final half.
My head is lowered, my elbows on my knees, as I watch the sweat drip down onto the tiled floor. It’s then that I see a pair of size twelve shoes planted in front of me. I raise my head to see a very pissed off Carver glaring down on me, his brow furrowed and his lips in a tight line.
It takes a lot to ruffle Carver. He has a pretty even-keeled personality. On the court, he’s a force to be reckoned with and the boss in three-pointers. Off-the-court, he’s just as amiable.
But right now, he looks like he wants to take a swing at me. Hard.
“You want to tell me what the fuck is going on with you, bro? Why is your head in your ass? I’ve never seen you play this shitty. And never have I seen you do something like you just did to Eli. You pulled a fucking Laettner, you twat.”
He’s referring to Christian Laettner, a former Duke University power forward/center who is one of the most hated basketball players of all time. Great player, but questionable ethics. Mainly because he stomped on the chest of a Kentucky player during a 1992 regional final. Personally, I always revered Laettner because he was one hell of a ball player. The clutch shots he took and the number of titles he had under his belt were impressive.
Sadly, he’ll always be remembered for two career-defining moments. One was the clutch shot, turn-around jumper, buzzer-beater and the other is the bullying chest-stomp.
I shake my head that’s still in my hands, disgusted with myself. “I know...I know.”
Even though I keep my eyes averted, I can feel Carver’s eyes boring into my head. When I do finally lift my head, he wears a scowl that would make most people run in fear. He’s a mother-fucking badass, his tats covering the majority of his right arm, and biceps that could (and probably have) lifted tractors.
“Dude, just get over her. You got a future here and plenty of other chicks who you can fuck to get her out of your head. Women aren’t worth it. They’ll fucking ruin ya.”
If that’s supposed to be a pep talk, it’s the worst one in the history of all pep talks. Seriously. Why the hell would I take relationship advice from Carver, who to my knowledge, has never had a serious girlfriend and doesn’t know shit about love.
I scoff and stand up, towering over his six-foot-three frame. By most standards, he’s tall. But not in this locker room, where the average height is six-five or more.
Out of respect for Carver, I don’t shove him like I want to. A fight would feel really good right now, but I’m not stupid enough to throw a punch at my team captain. That would be one sure way to get myself suspended indefinitely. So I move around him and grab a towel from the bench, heading toward the showers.
Before I turn the corner, I glance back over my shoulder to where he’s still standing, hands on his hips, lips pursed like he still has something to say.
“I respect you, C...but you don’t know shit about what’s going on. So lay the fuck off.”
Carver and I aren’t extremely close, but we respect each other as team mates. I have never spoken so bluntly to him, and I’m a little worried by the look in his eye that he might clock me for speaking out of turn. And when he comes barreling toward me, I barely have time for my hand to instinctively cover my balls, as he slams me into the locker, his forearm pressed right up against my throat.
My eyes bug out wide, but I hold my ground. I’m not about to fight him, but I won’t back down like a fucking pussy.
“Don’t tell me what I do or don’t know, because you’re the one who doesn’t know shit. I get it, man. It sucks what she did to you. But it’s motherfucking life. You’re not human if you haven’t lived through a broken heart. But my advice to you, bro, is that you need to man up and pull your shit together before you spiral out of control.” He releases me and steps back, allowing me room to breathe, my fingers massaging at my neck where he had me pinned.
My eyes take in the room around me, where the guys are milling about, trying to look inconspicuous and uninterested in what’s happening between us, even though I know they want to know. It’s probably all over the interwebs by now.
“Just take it from me, man,” he continues, running a hand over his sweaty mop of hair and down the back of his neck. “If you don’t get control of things, the girl wins by default.”
