And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
Coach B still faces the court, but his gaze flashes to me as he smiles. “That’s right. There’s a lot hanging on that one word, isn’t there? That ‘If.’ ” He clears his throat. “Almost every lesson you need in life can be learned out there on the hardwood. Grit, determination, teamwork, loyalty, both winning and losing graciously. How to pick yourself up after you fall. But for me, one of the greatest gifts is that, even during the war, the game was the game. Whatever burden you’re carrying, you can set it down for a time and just play. And yes, it’ll be there waiting for you when you’re done, but it might not seem so heavy.”
I let the words settle on my wounds as our team streams from the locker room, Jake leading the charge, and then they begin the same fluid layup drill. But now, as my teammates circle past, one by one, I see the faces and know the stories of each player, and it strikes me how much I want to win this. For each of them, maybe even Jake. But also how much we’ll have gained, even if we don’t win.
“I suppose I’ve always seen him as Sirius,” Coach B says as Jake lays the ball up and in, gently as the last snowflakes falling outside. “The brightest star in the sky.”
Something inside me wants to close off, but then he continues. “I’ve been watching all season, you know. Teams are good when they have a bright star to build on. Even better when they have a comet, like Kolt, who’s everywhere at once. And they’re champions when they have a Polaris, a true north to follow.” He turns and looks me right in the face, lays a hand on my shoulder. “This is a team of champions, regardless of the outcome tonight. And let me add, young man, that it has been a pleasure to watch you play all these years.” He gives me a crooked smile. “Now go get some dry socks on and join your teammates. They need their Polaris, and I’ve got to find myself some Dots.”
So I go to the locker room, and I leave my burden there along with my wet socks. Back on the court, I slide into warm-ups as the team welcomes me into the flow of it all, as natural as stepping into a river on a starry night.
Jake stands in the stall and looks at the pile of pills in his hand. Two now and one at halftime will still leave enough to do the job after the game is over, if he swallows them all. It might give away his secret, but the way Seth spat those words at him just now—You’re hopped up on painkillers. Aren’t you?—he’s afraid they all know anyway.
He counts out three, putting the rest of the pills back in the small ziplock and shoving it inside the lining of his bag. His fingers find the few stitches that have come loose on his warm-up jersey, just the right size to slide the oxy inside. The last two still lie in his palm, staring up at him like blank, barren eyes. He wonders how he ever thought they were his savior from anything: pain or sorrow or the monster of Not Enough.
You won, he tells them. You’ll always win.
It’s a new feeling to Jake, but he’s seen something like it in opponents’ faces often enough he thinks he recognizes it: the moment you know with absolute clarity that you’ll never win, and you make peace with it because you’re too weary to try anymore.
And he is so, so tired. The sounds of the arena are dulled by walls and distance and the fog forming in his head, but the pull of the game is as strong as ever. He has to go out there. Do this one more thing, he tells himself, and then you can be done.
Jake opens his mouth and slaps his palm to it, letting the twin circles sit there a moment, bitter spots that will turn sweet inside his belly, inside his blood. Out in the arena, a new song blares over the loudspeakers, deep and thrumming.
It’s time. Jake crunches the pills once between his jaws. He closes his eyes and swallows, then stuffs the bag in his locker. The bass seems to follow his footfalls as he runs through the tunnel and onto the court.
Maybe it’s the pills, or the relief at finally having made the decision, but as the team warms up, Jake’s worries fall away like a shed skin. The game becomes as pure and perfect as it was all those years ago, when they’d rush outside for every recess or gather in Kolt’s driveway on summer nights until it got too dark to see the hoop.
It’s right to spend his last hours here. Whether driveway or playground or ten-thousand-seat arena, the basketball court has always been the most sacred place in the world to Jake, even though he’s been to church nearly every Sunday all his life.
At church, he has learned that he should be perfect, even as his Savior was perfect, and it seemed like a worthy goal. Be perfect, and the aching emptiness inside you will go away. Be perfect, and be loved, unconditionally and forever, by a Father who is perfect too.
But all his life, every time he fell short—barked at his brother, ignored his mother, felt so angry at his father he threw something, broke something—Jake knew he became less worthy of God’s love. Of anybody’s love, really. Because to really be worthy, you’re supposed to be perfect.
He sometimes looks up at the picture of Jesus in the church foyer, eyes kind and hands stretched out, and he knows, just knows, that he doesn’t deserve that love.
“Ask of God,” the scriptures have told him, and Jake wishes he could. It’s fine for the others
