Foul Trouble Page 2

  Tommasino looked to be about sixty. He had gray hair, a good-size paunch, and a ready smile. He shook hands with Danny and Terrell and then turned to the guy in the suit.

  “Coach, fellas…this is Paul Judson. He’s a vice president of Pro Styles, the management company that helps us market the camp and what we try to do to help youngsters. He just wanted to say hello to you guys.”

  Judson looked like a young politician to Danny. The suit was clearly expensive, and so was his haircut. He shook hands warmly with all three of them. “A real pleasure. Coach, I’ve really admired the way you’ve handled all the attention this past year. A lot of people in your position in the past haven’t always put their kids first. That’s clearly been your intent right from the beginning.”

  Danny wanted to ask Judson when “the beginning” had been, but his dad just smiled and said, “That’s kind of you to say.”

  Judson was on a roll. “Anything we can do to help out now or in the future, please let me know.” He whipped a card from his pocket. Instead of accepting it, though, Coach Wilcox jumped backward, as if the card was electrified.

  “Whoa there! Thanks but no thanks,” he said. “Honestly, I’m not sure I haven’t already violated some NCAA rule by letting you shake hands with these two kids, and I know opening up a dialogue with an agent is not a road I want to go down.”

  Judson was still smiling, the card hanging off his fingertips, but the dripping phony charm quickly went down a notch. “Coach, I know the rules,” he said. “I play by the rules. Check around. I’m not one of those agents who gets kids declared ineligible. The players I represent are the highest-quality young men. You are not a recruit. You have the right to deal with anyone you choose. Please don’t think I’d do anything to jeopardize Terrell. I’d just like to be helpful to you two in any way I can.”

  “But not me, huh?” Danny said. “Not quite a high-enough-quality young man for you?”

  Now Judson’s smile was gone. “I didn’t mean it that way,” he said. “What I meant was—”

  “We know how you meant it,” Coach Wilcox said, his voice icy, the way it got when he was really angry but didn’t want to shout. “We need to go register.” He shot a disgusted look at Tommasino, and the three of them continued their torturous trip to the registration table.

  “Danny, try not to antagonize everyone, okay?” Coach Wilcox grumbled under his breath.

  “But, Dad, what a sleaze—”

  “I know, but still. Let’s make our biggest impression on the court, shall we?”

  Danny and Terrell veered to the right, to the line marked “Player Check-in,” while Danny’s father headed for the coaches’ check-in line. A smiling young woman in a Brickley outfit greeted them cheerily. “Welcome, gentlemen,” she said. “Find your name on the list and sign in. We’ve got gifts for you.”

  A few moments later, now carrying massive red-and-blue Brickley bags that were stuffed with shirts and caps and sweatshirts and jackets and a brand-new pair of Brickley shoes—each player had sent in his shoe size with his application form for the camp—Danny and Terrell headed in the direction of the locker room.

  Danny’s dad had to go to a coaches’ meeting. He told Danny and Terrell to find the rest of their teammates and tell them that they were playing on court two at 2:00 and that they should meet there at 1:30 to warm up and have their pregame talk.

  Because there were twenty teams invited to the camp, with more than two hundred players, locker-room space was at a premium. Half the players were assigned to one locker room and half to the other. A lot of players would have to throw their clothes on benches or take them out to the court.

  As they walked across the gym to the locker room, Danny could see that the Rothman Center had been set up with three courts running east to west, between the bleachers. He assumed that when Fairleigh Dickinson played, a single court was laid out north to south, with bleachers at each end as well.

  There would be three sessions each day, and each session consisted of a total of six games, with three games being played simultaneously. In the morning session, there’d be three games at 9:00 and then another three at 10:30; in the afternoon session, the games would be played at 2:00 and 3:30; and the night session had games at 7:00 and 8:30. Each team would play seven games in four days—a lot of basketball. The top two teams in each of the four divisions in the camp would advance to the championship bracket on the weekend. Quarterfinals and semifinals would be played on Saturday, with the championship game and also the third-place game on Sunday. UBS’s sports cable network was planning to televise the championship game. The thought of it made Danny tingle with excitement and nerves.

  “Man, look at all these people,” Terrell said as they crossed the court. “Games don’t start for another hour, and this place is packed.”

  He was right. The bleachers were almost full. On one side of the court—opposite where the players who weren’t involved in a game would be seated—were all the college coaches. They were easy to recognize because of their school colors.

  Danny caught himself gaping at the sight of Roy Williams and Mike Krzyzewski, two of the sport’s archrivals, laughing as they talked.

  Terrell elbowed Danny and said, “Who’s the black coach with Pitino?”

  Danny smiled. There were advantages to having grown up with a basketball-obsessed father—he could pretty much identify any coach in the building. “That’s Anthony Grant,” he said to Terrell. “Coach at Alabama. Used to be at Virginia Commonwealth. He’s really good. And heading right for us is Frank Sullivan. He’s retired, but he used to coach Harvard.”

  Terrell shot him such a surprised look that Danny laughed. “I only know that one because he’s friends with my dad.”

  Sullivan had a huge smile on his face as he walked up to Danny.

  “Danny, I am so proud of you guys,” he said, wrapping Danny in a hug. “I know this guy”—he looked at Terrell—“has been great, but your game has come so far this past year.… ”

  “It’s a lot easier when you’re open all the time,” Danny said.

  Sullivan nodded. “I get it, I get it,” he said. He put his hand out to Terrell. “I’m Frank Sullivan,” he said. “I work for the America East Conference. More important, I’ve known Danny since he was about three years old.”

  “Nice to meet you, sir,” Terrell said.

  “Coach, what brings you here?” Danny asked.

  “Part of my job is to supervise the refs in our conference,” Sullivan said. “A lot of the guys who will be working your games are young guys trying to move up the ranks. I’m here to watch them more than you guys—although I’ll certainly be paying attention when you’re out there playing.”

  Typical Coach Sullivan, Danny thought. His dad had told him once that if he had a weakness as a coach, it was that he was too nice. He just wasn’t willing to do some of the cutthroat things a coach had to do to be a star on the college level—even in the Ivy League.

  Danny and Terrell shook hands with Coach Sullivan again and then made their way across the court, following a group of players. They walked into a locker room that could comfortably fit about twenty-five people and found about a hundred players milling about.

  “Don’t even bother looking for a locker,” said the guy at the door who was checking to make sure everyone who came in had a badge identifying him as a player. “Find an empty spot, change, and take your bag to the court with you. If you leave it here, I can’t promise it’ll be waiting when you come back.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to make sure nothing gets stolen?” Terrell said.

  “What do I look like, the FBI?” the guy said.

  Danny shrugged at Terrell. “We’re ten miles from the George Washington Bridge,” he said. “Lot of New York attitude around here.”

  “It’s called the real world, kid!” the attendant yelled at Danny’s back.

  They found an empty spot back near the shower room and began changing. Danny got a little chill when he
put on the dark gray jersey he’d been given when he checked in. On the front, in huge red letters, it said “Brickley Shoes.” Underneath, in smaller letters, it said “School Is Important—Camp 2012.” On the back was another Brickley logo and a number—132—so the college coaches could identify him easily, and, surprise, surprise, the words “Brickley Shoes” (again) at the bottom of the jersey. If you turned it inside out, you had the identical jersey—only in white. The Rebels were designated as the visitors for their opening game, which would be against a team from California called the Orange Crushes. When they were the home team, they would simply reverse the jerseys and play in white.

  “Pretty cool,” Terrell said, standing up and smoothing out his jersey. He had number 133, but Danny knew most coaches wouldn’t have to check their programs to identify him.

  “Yeah, it is,” Danny said, realizing again that he was about to play at a level he’d only dreamed about. He recognized a number of the players changing around them. There was little talk or banter. This was not your father’s summer camp. This was serious business.

  “Let’s go find the other Rebels,” Terrell said with a grin. “I am ready to play.”

  THREE

  The gym was even more crowded when they walked back in, and Danny could see that many of the teams that would play in the two o’clock games were already warming up.

  “Straight ahead to get to your court,” said a security guard in a yellow jacket.

  They walked to court two and found the rest of the Rebels warming up at the far end.

  “Danny, Terrell…about time,” called out a massive kid wearing the same kind of gray jersey. He waved at them as they approached. Alan Owens was by far the biggest of the Rebels. He was six foot ten and claimed to weigh 260 pounds, but Danny was convinced he weighed at least 280. He was grinning as they walked up, and the other players on the team, whom Danny and Terrell didn’t really know very well, came over to say hello. He remembered Jason Marks as being really fast in their few pre-camp practices. Mike Roth was another point guard, who, he thought (hoped), was not as good as he was. And Ken Medley had a sweet shot.

  “Coach Wilcox wants us to meet with him for a couple minutes,” Danny said as handshakes were exchanged. His dad was standing behind the basket talking to Frank Sullivan.

  “You mean your dad wants to meet with us,” said Jay Swanson, a six-foot four-inch shooting guard who happened to be the only other white kid on the team. He had made it clear to Danny during the tryouts for the team that he resented the fact that Danny pretty much had the team made regardless of how he played—at least that was Swanson’s view.

  “Same guy,” Danny said, figuring there’d be plenty of time later to let Swanson know he thought he was an idiot. He gestured at his dad, who was waving them all over.

  “Fellas, I want you all to meet Frank Sullivan,” Coach Wilcox said as they formed a semicircle around him. “He’s been a coach at Harvard, and he’s scouted at this camp and many others. Frank knows all those coaches you’re trying to impress and what they look for. So listen up, because he can help you.”

  They all turned to Sullivan, who smiled and said, “I know Harvard won’t impress most of you guys, but I do have a pretty good idea what every coach in this camp is looking for. First, more than anything: team players. Everyone knows all you guys can dunk with one hand.”

  Danny almost laughed out loud at that one. He could dunk with one hand—standing on a ladder.

  Sullivan seemed to read his mind, because he shot him a quick smile before continuing. “Most guys come to this camp thinking, ‘I’m going to show these coaches what I can do.’ If they’re looking at you, they already know what you can do as an athlete. They want to see what you can do as a basketball player. There’s a difference. A basketball player helps on defense, finds the open man, and sets good hard screens to get other guys open. An athlete goes one on three and makes a spectacular play but then turns it over the next three times he tries the same move. He hears the applause for the spectacular play, but believe me, the coaches see the turnovers.”

  He paused, started to say something else, and then looked around the semicircle. He was losing his audience. Some of the players were staring at the floor, and others were glancing around the gym. The one person who had his eyes locked on him was Terrell Jamerson.

  “Okay, guys, enough from the old coach’s textbook. Have fun out there,” Coach Sullivan said, wrapping up.

  When he was finished, Danny’s dad told them to go get warmed up. As soon as they got into layup lines, Jay Swanson grabbed one of the balls being fed to them by the little kids who were acting as ball boys, took two dribbles, and dunked with one hand. “Tell your father’s pal that coaches do notice a six-four white kid who can dunk with one hand,” he said as he ran past Danny.

  Already Danny knew one thing: Being Jay Swanson’s teammate for the next week wasn’t going to be much fun.

  The team they were playing was supposedly from Southern California, but they had apparently recruited a couple of ringers from Las Vegas. And their best player was Omar Whytlaw, from Chicago.

  When Terrell had noticed Whytlaw’s name on the Crushes’ roster, he had asked Coach Wilcox about it.

  “Highest bidder, I’d guess,” he said. “I’m new to this, Terrell, but a lot of the best guys you’ll face are playing for pay already.”

  “Don’t they worry about the NCAA catching them?” Terrell had asked.

  Coach Wilcox shook his head. “I’d be worried. But there are plenty of people who’ll tell you different.”

  Whytlaw was similar to Terrell—perhaps an inch shorter but with a reputation as a better shooter. While Terrell had yet to talk publicly about any college he might be interested in playing for, Whytlaw had already announced five finalists in what one of the ESPN recruiting gurus had dubbed “The War for Whytlaw.” They were, as you might expect, powerhouses: Kentucky, North Carolina, UCLA, Florida, and—the one surprise—East Texas, a school best known until recently for having a great fencing team.

  As the teams walked out for the tip-off, Danny noticed that the court was completely surrounded. It appeared that 80 percent of the people in the gym were watching court two. No doubt about it, the Jamerson-Whytlaw showdown on the very first day of the camp was the reason.

  The game didn’t start very well for the Rebels. Danny tried to throw a pass on the wing to Terrell on the opening possession, but Whytlaw stepped right into the passing lane and caught the ball. He roared down the court, with Danny angling to cut him off for a second before realizing it was futile. Whytlaw leaped in the air at about the foul line, hung there à la Michael Jordan, and dunked with his right hand, his arm seeming to come out of the ceiling as the ball went through the net.

  Danny heard the gym explode with noise. Maybe the coaches didn’t notice one-handed dunks, but everyone else certainly did. This one had been hard to miss.

  On the next possession, Terrell caught a pass in the post, spun on Whytlaw, and tried a five-foot bank shot. The problem was, the shot went about eight feet. One of the other Crushes grabbed the ball, and the Orange County kids hurtled down the court. Their point guard put his head down to go into the lane, and Danny tried to take a charge. He was lying on the floor when he heard another roar. The point guard had dropped the ball off to Whytlaw, who had gone in for another thunderous dunk.

  Danny sat up and saw one of the officials indicate a time-out—he was pointing at Danny’s dad, who had called it from the bench. The Crush point guard offered his hand to help him up. Over the din Danny heard him say, “You’re not playin’ in the suburbs anymore. This is real ball. Try to take another charge on me, and I’ll put you through the freakin’ floor.”

  Danny turned and jogged to his team’s huddle.

  “All of you, calm down!” his dad said, his palms down. “Stop worrying about what the coaches are thinking about you—just worry about playing a basketball game. You have to make these guys play defense. Terrell, that means
you don’t take the first shot available because you’re trying to show everyone you’re better than Whytlaw. And Danny, take care of the damn basketball!”

  Danny knew his dad was angry—he hardly ever swore. He looked at Terrell, who nodded at him as if to say, I’m okay now.

  Danny took a deep breath. Even though this was just a camp game, one in which the result meant little, he now understood that it was going to be as intense as anything he’d ever experienced. Well, he said to himself, that’s why you’re here—to find out if you can play with guys like this.

  The Crushes had switched to full-court pressure. Clearly, their intent was to blow out and humiliate the Rebels in the first five minutes of the game. As soon as Danny caught the inbounds pass, he was double-teamed. This time, though, he didn’t panic. He remembered what he’d been coached to do for years and years by his dad.

  He could almost hear his dad’s voice in his head talking him through it: “Don’t try to dribble through a double-team. Ball-fake. Use their emotion against them.” Danny pivoted as if to throw a crosscourt pass and put the ball behind his head as if to throw it. Both defenders leaped in that direction. That gave Danny a clear lane to look upcourt, where he saw Terrell streaking behind Whytlaw. Danny looped a pass in Terrell’s direction as if he was an NFL wide receiver coming open on a post pattern. Terrell caught the ball in stride at the head of the key, took one dribble, and flew—Danny thought he actually did fly—in the direction of the hoop before slamming the ball through with his right hand.

  The gym exploded with every bit as much glee as it had on Whytlaw’s two dunks. They wanted to see a show.

  Okay, Danny thought as he set himself in a defensive stance, we’ll give them one.

  What happened over the next seventy-five minutes was the kind of basketball game Danny had often fantasized about taking part in. There were no easy possessions at either end of the court. Every pass was contested, every shot, every rebound. The pace of the game was so fast, there was no need for a shot clock.