Page 16 of One on One
The team huddles up at the entrance to the tunnel. “Everyone in!” someone shouts. One of the seniors grabs every staff member in the vicinity, each person stretching a hand into the center of the circle. He beckons me, and every cell in my body screamsno.I wave him off.
“Come on, A-Rad!” he says.
The camera is my shield. I point to it. “I have to film.”
Coach Thomas says a few words, which I can’t hear. When they break from the huddle, Eric heads my way. He stops in front of me, eyeing my outfit. A fuzzy cream sweater and leather A-line skirt.
“Biker sheep,” he says. “All good?”
“What am I doing here? Coming back was a terrible idea.”
“It was an excellent idea, and the person who suggested it must be an incredibly handsome genius.”
“I don’t belong here anymore.”
He takes me by the shoulders and spins me around to face the tunnel. “Okay, you can quit tomorrow, but don’t you at least want to get up there and see how they like it?”
Holy crap, the preseason hype video. I’ve been so focused on getting shots for my next video I forgot about the one I already made.
My video is kicking off the event. It introduces every player to the fans and sets the tone for the entire season. Tomorrow it will be posted online, but tonight it’s just for Ardwyn.
This is my best opportunity to showcase the effect my work can have.
The perfect hype video is a couple minutes long. It splices game highlights with behind-the-scenes footage from the sidelines, the locker room, the team bus, the weight room. The players look like rock stars. Someone well-known, usually a former player or notable alumnus, narrates the video, reading some soaring dramatic copy. And the whole thing is set to an absolute banger of a song.
Speaking of which, I hear the opening notes of the music I selected and jerk my head toward the tunnel. The video starts with an extravagantly beautiful rendition of the intro to Kurtis Blow’s “Basketball,” played by the first-chair violinist from the university orchestra, before dropping into a heavily censored Lil Baby song. I spent days poring overplaylists the athletes sent me, paying attention to what they listen to while lifting weights, before making a choice. Yes, the audience for the video is the fans in the stands. But the team can hear it too. And if it injects them with a bit of extra adrenaline, it’s a success.
I scurry through the line of people, weaving around them until I reach the end, at the corner of the court. Creeping out farther, I look up at the crowd in the section closest to me. I already have every frame memorized. I don’t need to see the video. I need to see their faces.
It’s not like I ask for much. It just needs to leave people breathless, begging for more, hearts thumping, fingertips electrified, screaming their heads off when it stops and the players run onto the court.
In the video, each player does a bit that shows his personality, mixed with highlights from last year. Team captain and super-genius Jamar Gregg-Edwards solves a complicated equation on a whiteboard while dribbling with his free hand. Ever-stoic Luis Rosario walks along the path to the gym and rescues a cat stuck on a tree branch without breaking stride. It’s playful, because basketball is supposed to befun,but the clips from last season’s most exciting moments keep the energy high. The voiceover is simple, a few lines about the team working hard and getting ready.
My heart is pounding and my chest is vibrating from the bass of the music. The arena is dark except for the illumination of the video. The fans are slack-jawed, their eyes glued to the screen.
Finally the last beat of the song rings out and the narrator, senior guard Anthony Gallimore, speaks the final line: “And so it begins.” A spotlight hits the corner of the court a fewfeet away from me, where the real Anthony Gallimore stands holding a basketball.
The screen goes black. The crowd roars much louder than I expected based on all the empty seats. Nobody in the arena can possibly hear a thing except the sound of their love for this team.
I knew the video was good. I hoped I’d get a reaction that would stick it to Ben and Coach Williams. But what I forgot, and what almost knocks me over, was how the fans’ reactions would make me feel. Giddy. Moved. Like I’m part of something big. Better yet, like I have the power to remind all these people they’re part of something big too. I swallow hard. I’ve gone a long time without this feeling.
There’s a young woman crying in the third row. She’s clinging to her friend, jumping up and down. “I fucking love this school!”
I smile. She’s probably drunk, but it still counts.
The team jogs onto the court, following Gallimore, shot through with an extra streak of swagger. A rangy teenager with a high-top fade reaches out to me for a high five as he runs by. Quincy Roberts, freshman phenom.
Quincy is one reason everyone is optimistic this season. He’s barely eighteen years old but projected to be a first-round draft pick. This may be his only season of college basketball.
I’ve known Quincy since he was fourteen. He played for Dad, like Eric did. He was Ken Radford’s last superstar. Of all the years to be at Ardwyn, I’m glad I’m here for this one, with him.
His section of the video was all his idea. I just made it happen. In it he’s playing a video game, and when the camerapans over to show the screen, he’s also in the video game, shooting a three-pointer.
“Hell, yes, A-Rad!” he yells as he passes me, a flash of crisp home whites and warm brown skin. “That was fire.” The team is doing a lap around the court, but Quincy doubles back to add: “Your dad would’ve loved this.”
“My dad would’ve hated this,” I reply, and Quincy throws his head back, laughing, as he sprints off to catch up with everyone else. We’re both right. Dad only cared about the game, not any of the fuss that surrounds it. But I’ve always liked both, and the fuss is my job, so Dad would’ve loved this moment for me.
The crowd is still on their feet. My smile grows and I touch my cheeks with trembling hands, like somebody receiving a marriage proposal. I allow myself to bask in it for a minute before attempting to organize my face into a more stoic expression and heading for the bench with my camera.
