end of the third period. Myron started getting nervous. The lead was big enough for him to get in. He hadn’t really counted on that. Part of him silently cheered on the Celtics, hoping they could stage enough of a comeback to keep his butt on the aluminum chair. But it was a no-go. With four minutes remaining the Dragons led by twenty-eight points. Coach Walsh shot a glance down the bench. Nine of the twelve players had already gotten in. Walsh whispered something to the Kipper. The Kipper nodded and walked down the bench, stopping in front of Myron. Myron could feel his heart beating in his chest.
“Coach is going to clear the bench,” he said. “He wants to know if you want to go in.”
“Whatever he wants,” Myron replied, while sending out telepathic messages of no, no, no. But he couldn’t tell them that. It wasn’t in his nature. He had to play the good trooper, Mr. Team-First, Mr. Dive-On-The-Grenade-If- That’s-What-The-Coach-Wants. He didn’t know how else to do it.
A time-out was called. Walsh looked down the bench again. “Gordon! Reilly! You’re in for Collins and Johnson!”
Myron let loose a breath. Then he got mad at himself for feeling such relief. What kind of competitor are you? he asked himself. What kind of a man wants to stay on the bench? Then the truth rose up and smacked him hard in the face:
He was
What the hell was he thinking? He was here to find Greg Downing. This was just undercover work, that’s all. Like with the police. Just because a guy goes undercover and pretends he’s a drug dealer doesn’t make him a drug dealer. The same principle applied here. Just because Myron was pretending to be a basketball player didn’t make him one.
The thought was hardly comforting.
Thirty seconds later, it started. And it filled Myron’s chest with dread.
One voice triggered it. One beer-infested voice rising clearly above all others. One voice that was just deep enough, just different enough, to separate it from the usual cacophony of fandom. “Hey, Walsh,” the voice cried out. “Why don’t you put in Bolitar?”
Myron felt his stomach plummet. He knew what was coming next. He had seen it happen before, though never to him. He wanted to sink into the floor.
“Yeah!” another voice crowed. “Let’s see the new guy!”
More shouts of agreement.
It was happening. The crowd was getting behind the underdog, but not in a good way. Not in a positive way. In the most blatantly patronizing and mocking way possible. Be-Nice-To-The-Scrub time. We’ve won the game. We want a few laughs now.
A few more calls for Myron and then…the chant. It started low but built. And built. “We want Myron! We want Myron!” Myron tried not to slouch. He pretended not to hear it, feigning intense concentration on what was happening on the court, hoping his cheeks weren’t reddening. The chant grew louder and faster, eventually disintegrating into one word, repeated over and over, mixed with laughter:
“Myron! Myron! Myron!”
He had to defuse it. There was only one way. He checked the clock. Still three minutes to go. He had to go in. He knew that wouldn’t be the end of it, but it would at least quiet the crowd temporarily. He looked down the bench. The Kipper looked back. Myron nodded. The Kipper leaned over to Coach Walsh and whispered something. Walsh did not stand up. He simply shouted, “Bolitar. In for Cameron.”
Myron swallowed and rose to his feet. The crowd erupted in sarcasm. He headed for the scorer’s table, ripping off his sweats. His legs felt stiff and cramped. He pointed to the scorer, the scorer nodded and sounded the buzzer. Myron stepped on the court. He pointed at Cameron. Cameron jogged off. “Kraven,” he said. The name of the man Myron would defend.
“Now reporting for Bob Cameron,” the loudspeaker began. “Number 34. Myron Bolitar!”
The crowd went absolutely wild. Hoots, whistles, screams, laughs. Some might think they were wishing him well, but that was not really the case. They were wishing him well the same way you wish a circus clown well. They were looking for pratfalls and darn gone-it, Bolitar was their man!
Myron stepped on the court. This was, he suddenly realized, his NBA debut.
He touched the ball five times before the game ended. Each time it was met with cheer/jeers. He shot only once, from just inside the three point line. He almost didn’t want to, knowing the crowd would react no matter what happened, but some things are just too automatic. There was no conscious thought. The ball went in with a happy swish. By now there were only thirty seconds left and thankfully most everyone had had enough and were heading to their cars. The sarcastic applause was minimal. But for those brief seconds when Myron caught the ball, when his fingertips found the groove, when he bent his elbow and cradled the ball half an inch above both palm and forehead, when the arm smoothed into a straight line, when the wrist flowed into a front curl, when the fingertips danced along the ball’s surface and created the ideal backspin, Myron was alone. His eyes were focused on the rim, only the rim, never glancing at the ball as it arched its way toward the cylinder. For those few seconds there was only Myron and the rim and the basketball and it all felt very right.
The mood in the locker room was far more animated after the game. Myron managed to meet all of the players except TC and Greg’s roommate Leon White, the one man he wanted to get close to most. Figures. He couldn’t push it either; that would just backfire. Tomorrow maybe. He’d try again.
He stripped down. The knee began to tighten up, as though somebody had pulled all the tendons too taut. He slapped on an ice pack and fastened it with a stretch wrap. He limped to the showers, dried off, and was just finishing dressing when he realized TC was standing over him.
Myron looked up. TC had his various pierce-jewelry in place. Ear, of course. Three in one, four in the other. One in his nose. He wore black leather pants and a black cut-off mesh tank top, giving one an excellent view of the ring on his left nipple and the one in the belly button. Myron couldn’t make out what the tattoos were. They just looked like swirls. TC wore sunglasses now, the wraparound kind.
“Your jeweler must send you a hell of a Christmas card,” Myron said.
TC replied by sticking out his tongue and revealing another ring near the tip. Myron almost gagged. TC looked pleased by his reaction.
“You new, right?” TC said.
“Right.” Myron held out his hand. “Myron Bolitar.”
TC ignored the hand. “You gots to get thumped.”
“Excuse me?”
“Thumped. You the new guy. You gots to get thumped.”
Several other players started chuckling.
“Thumped?” Myron repeated.
“Yeah. You the new guy, right?”
“Right.”
“Then you gots to get thumped.”
More chuckling.
“Right,” Myron said. “Thumped.”
“There you go.” TC nodded, snapping his fingers, pointed at Myron, left.
Myron finished dressing. Thumped?
Jessica was waiting for him outside the locker-room door. She smiled as he approached, and he smiled back, feeling goofy. She hugged him and gave him a brief kiss. He smelled her hair. Ambrosia.
“Ah,” a voice said. “Now ain’t this just too sweet?”
It was Audrey Wilson.
“Don’t talk to her,” Myron said. “She’s the Antichrist.”
“Too late,” Audrey said. She put her hand through Jessica’s arm. “Jess and I are going out now to have a few drinks, talk over old times, that kind of thing.”
“God, you are shameless.” He turned to Jessica. “Don’t tell her anything.”
“I don’t know anything.”
“Good point,” Myron said. “So where are we going?”
“
