Chapter 11
The tension in the arena is thick as hell.
It’s the second half with ten minutes and fifteen seconds remaining.
I just brought the ball up the court, dribbling just over the mid-court line.
We lead sixty-five to sixty-three and that’s slim as fuck, too slim.
My eyes are focused on the clock and my team.
As I dribble, I eye Kove and Mav. With nods and hand motions, I set them up, even though Ruston’s lanky ass is trying to pressure.
He’s too fucking tight though, with his sweaty ass hand in my face.
I pivot on his ass and move to my left to create some space but this nigga stays with me, talking mad shit.
This nigga has been talking reckless all fucking night and I’m over him and his shit.
Coach already benched me for the first five minutes of the game for missing curfew.
Then, Quay arrived at the game alone. Apparently, my bitch-ass father is sick and my moms had to stay home and take care of his ass.
I know that nigga ain’t sick. Hell, Quay knows he ain’t sick; the only person who doesn’t know is my moms. When I dribble to the right, I quickly glance at Quay and the empty seat.
“Try again, muthafucka,” Ruston taunts.
“Don’t worry, bitch; I will,” I assure him as I glance at the clock. The shot clock is winding down and there’s ten minutes and five seconds remaining in the half. I switch hands, dribbling and pivoting again but the nigga is still on me.
“The only bitch is your momma,” he says like a simp ass bitch.
“For my momma, nigga,” I grit as I push off him, throw my elbow back as hard as I fucking can, and drive toward the top of the key.
When I quickly look over my shoulder, I see Ruston on the floor and smirk.
Who momma, bitch! As soon as I pass the ball to Kove, the official blows the whistle and signals an intentional foul. “Fuck!”
The play and the clock are stopped. Coach calls us over to him.
As the officials convene at the table to review the monitor, Coach is on my ass.
He’s yelling and gripping his beard like he always does when he’s pissed but I ignore him.
Shit, I’m ignoring every-fuckin’-body: the upset crowd, my teammates, hell, even my bruh, Kove.
I’ve zoned the fuck out and can’t concentrate on shit but that damn empty seat.
Besides, this game has been bullshit from the start and I’m over it. All of this shit!
The announcers say some shit then the next thing I know, the lead official walks out, signals a Flagrant 2 for excessive and unnecessary contact.
His short stubby fingers point toward me and he makes the ejection motion, signaling for me to immediately get off the court.
The Lions fans in the arena and my teammates erupt in anger.
Before Coach can say shit, I just shake my head and walk off, heading to the locker room for the rest of the fucking game.
As soon as I’m inside, the magnitude of what the fuck just happened hits me like a fucking freight train. I just got ejected from the championship game. Paxton and Mick were out there! Shit! I fucked up…bad. The game. The championship. The draft.
In pure anger, rage, and disappointment, I grab a ball from the rack by the door and throw it across the fucking locker room. “Fuck!” I yell.
Although the BU Falcons were awarded two free throws and got possession of the ball after I was ejected, we still won with a score of seventy-five to seventy-three.
The CFU Lions are the NCAA Championships.
I wasn’t part of the post-game celebration.
I didn’t hear “One Shining Moment” played and I didn’t participate in the cutting down of the nets.
“But you’re going to that damn homecoming rally,” Mick grits.
Paxton and Mick are two very different agents. Both good at their jobs but very different in their demeanor and delivery. Paxton is a cool brother; laid back and never seems bothered or stressed. Mick, this nigga, on some complete opposite shit, is a beast.
Jase McCormick is a former All-American and NBA player.
He retired twelve years ago and transitioned to a sports agent.
He is the founder and CEO of Crescent Sports Affiliates, CSA.
He’s a Shaq Diesel nigga, big and tall as fuck, almost seven feet, and he doesn’t go anywhere unless he’s in a fucking suit.
Not only does he represent some of my favorite NBA players like Jabari Hicks, but Mick dominates across all sports.
He isn’t quiet about leveraging his on-court experience, networks, and understanding of the game to negotiate some lucrative ass contracts.
We are in his corner office in the tall building downtown.
Pinnacle PR is also in this building and Mick has them on my team as well.
We just spent the last two hours on post-championship recon, his words not mine.
He included Paxton in the first hour to make sure my sponsorships were cool; they are.
But this last hour has been him on my ass; we’re cool too but I do need to keep my shit clean until the draft.
According to Mick, that means attending all championship events and celebrations.
“I was kicked out of the game,” I rebut, regret filling my tone. I’ve had twelve hours to process last night and I can’t lie; I’m disappointed at how I acted. I let my anger and disappointment at my moms missing my game fuck with me too heavy.
“Yeah you fucked up but that was a small, albeit ugly ,stain on your college career. We are moving past that shit and focusing on the draft,” he says, then walks behind his massive desk.
He picks up his iPad, swipes a few times and starts spitting off stats.
“Fourteen points before you were ejected. 14.6 points per game, 5.6 rebounds per game, 1.9 assists per game, and 1.8 steals per game on 52.8 field goal shooting. That’s what took the Lions to the championship.
Or do you need to hear your total five hundred forty-one points, or your eighty 3-point field goals, or eighty-two free throws?
They got that damn title because of you and you are going to be celebrated.
Redmond Park. Today. At three,” he says with finality. He glares at me for confirmation.
“Man, I’ll be there,” I agree.
“And deal with what fucked you up before you get there. Find your girl or a few girls? Talk some shit out? Fuck. I don’t care; just do what the fuck you need to do to make sure yo’ ass is there, front and center, and celebrating,” he stresses as he extends his hand.
He begins and ends all meetings with a handshake.
After standing and shaking his hand, I assure him, “I’ll be there.”
When I leave Mick’s office, I head down to my ride.
It’s a little after one. For a moment, I contemplate hitting my moms and talking to her about missing my game.
After some thought, I pause that. For one, we need to talk in person, and two, there’s no way I can make that ninety-minute ride to D-Ville and be back in time for the celebration at three.
So I decide to hit up this soul food joint I like, Redmond’s.
When I can’t have my mom’s home cooking, they come through in the clutch.
On the Munchies app, I place a pick-up order for spaghetti, two fried catfish fillets, cornbread, and two large lemonades. Them shits be bussing. I hit Tee next before driving to grab my order.
Me: What’s up, sexy lady?
When she doesn’t answer after a few minutes, I hit her line.
There’s no answer, so I hit her again, but still no answer.
That’s weird. If she isn’t at the hospital, she usually hits me back.
Plus, when I dipped this morning, she said that she was going to spend the day sleeping in then cleaning up.
She swore she wasn’t going anywhere. So I send another text.
Me: You good?
She doesn’t answer my second text either. So I send one more.
Me: Hit me when you’re free.
After placing my cell in the middle console, I start my ride and head to grab my food. I’m going to take it back to the crib and enjoy it in peace ’cause once I’m at the parade, I’ll be surrounded by people. A few moments to chill the fuck out is needed.
Back at my crib, I smash my food and kill both of my lemonades then just chill for a minute. Instead of watching TV and risk seeing myself being ejected from the game, I decide to play 2k until I leave for the celebration.
I arrive at the national championship celebration right before three.
As I got closer to the park, traffic was a beast and took me a minute to get through.
The line to get into the main parking outside of the park was worse than traffic, but thankfully, there’s designated parking for all team members.
All of my worry and apprehension about being here with my team after I crashed out and was ejected fades as soon as we link up.
Mick was right. I was a big part in us making it to the finals and winning the championship and my team members all acknowledge it.
When the band starts to play, we walk on that stage together, as national champions.
Between the speeches from coaches, former CFU players in the league, like Jabari Hicks, or playing overseas, like Braveon Jackson, and retired players, like the legendary Deondre Redmond, the celebration lasts for almost three hours.
I had a blast too because I finally met Jabari and Deondre.
I admire both of their hoop skills, especially Deondre.
He took the Royals to three NBA Championships and still holds the record for the most three pointers in a championship game.
His reputation and his family are huge in Crescent Falls.
He no longer lives here—he moved to Crescent Keys—but he’s home a lot.
His cousin owns the soul food spot I ordered from earlier.