Page 37 of One on One
“Definitely not.” I look at the locker room door, willing it to open.
“Gotta get right back into it at practice tomorrow. Hey, let me tell you something Chuck once said to me.”
He shifts from foot to foot, watching me. Probably aware that I’m looking to escape. Now that I’ve met JJ a handful of times, I can see the eagerness for validation below the surface. “By Chuck, I mean Charles Barkley,” he clarifies.
I sigh. “What did Charles Barkley say?”
He relaxes and grins. “Earn it and learn it. Earn it. And. Learn it.” And then he’s gone, someone else catching his eye like a piece of glitter.
Practice back athome the next day is light. I’m not filming, but I watch the last fifteen minutes anyway, trying to discern the mood. It’s not great. Quincy is still in a funk and everyone else is feeling it. Coach Thomas is as composed as ever, but he must be frustrated.
Afterward, Quincy sits on the bench and pulls the hem of his shirt up over his head to cover his face. He should go back to his dorm room and play video games until he can’t see straight. I almost pull him aside to suggest it, but then Thomas sits down next to him, speaking in hushed, calm tones through the fabric of his shirt for a long time. Team captain Jamar Gregg-Edwards joins them, putting an arm around Quincy and guiding him toward the locker room.
That night I work on a hype video for next week. It needs to be good. We’re playing Blake, our conference rival, and a fourth loss in one month would be demoralizing.
We saw a modest increase in our social media following and engagement levels at the beginning of the season, when I started making videos. Same with ticket sales. Recently, though, everything has plateaued. So far, I have no tangible evidence that I’m making an impact. That I deserve to stick around. If our lackluster gameplay continues, I’m doomed. I need to find a way to drum up enthusiasm no matter how we’re playing. And now that I’ve gotten to know theseplayers, I’m convinced theydeservemore enthusiasm and support.
The irony ofthisbeing my job is not lost on me. That I, more than anyone else, am responsible for selling Ardwyn basketball to the world. But I’ve allowed myself to forget that. If I try to tell the story of this team, these individuals, it’s not so bad.
I start with a song they’ve been listening to a lot when they stretch at the beginning of practice. I pull clips from previous games against Blake, recent ones plus old fuzzy ones transferred from VHS tapes. The voice-over came in a few hours ago, from an Ardwyn alumnus who won a Tony a few years ago.
When I put a video together, I can physically feel when it’s good. Some part of me recognizes that what I’ve got on my computer matches what I’ve got in my head. My chest burns and my hands tingle. It’s addictive; it’s what I chase every time, the closest thing I’ve ever felt to a religious experience. It’s happening now.
I’m watching it all the way through again when someone taps my shoulder. I whip my head around and swivel in my chair.
It’s Quincy, standing above me in sweat-soaked practice clothes. “What are you doing here?” I ask, sliding off my headphones.
“A-Rad. A-Rad.” He laughs, and there’s beer on his breath. “I’m so glad you’re here. I need your help.”
“What’s wrong?” I humor him. If he’s too drunk to operate the DoorDash app on his own, I’m adding a side of fries to his order for my troubles.
He heads toward the free chair opposite my desk. No—hobbles toward it. “Ouch. Fuck.”
The air in my lungs ceases to exist. “You hurt yourself?”
He drops into the chair with anoofand rests his gym bag on the floor. “I don’t know what to do. I had a bad practice and needed to clear my head. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
I lean forward. Oh, shit. He’s sitting with one foot flat and the other sticking up, heel grazing the floor, trying to keep his weight off it. He makes a tentative attempt to flex it and winces. It’s the bad ankle, the one he tweaked last month, the one he injured in high school.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Nothing good,” he singsongs.
“Wow, okay.” I cross the room to grab the water bottle he always keeps in the outside pocket of his bag.
It’s then that I see the skateboard. A ringing sound fills my ears.
I uncap the bottle and hand it to him. “Drink. How did you hurt yourself?”
He rubs his mouth. “It’s a complicated story.”
“Always a great start.”
He lets out a heavy breath as he shifts in the chair, struggling to get comfortable. “I went to a party. I shouldn’t have, but I was in a bad mood, and I thought it would help. I drank a lot, and then I had this idea…When I want to get my mind off things, I imagine the shots I’d take in the NBA dunk contest for fun. Sometimes I need that reminder that this is a game, you know? When everyone online is telling me I suck. Did you see the comments on that video the other night?”
“Never read the comments,” I urge.
“I’m not amazing on a skateboard, but I’m all right. I thought I could skate to the basket, jump up, and dunk it. So I went to the gym.”
