“Good job on your block, Kal. You do that at the game, and no one’s going to get by for any rebounds.” The teen grins wide at my praise.
“All right,” I say with a resounding clap, “let’s run it again.”
They reset their five on five with more bounce in their gait and play with increased energy for the next hour. But win or lose, I’ll be proud. I’m not one of those coaches—including many I’ve had—who cares about winning at all costs. Sure, victory’s sweet. But having fun, training hard, and pulling together as a team are the cornerstones I stress with the boys.
Twenty minutes after practice, I’m sitting at the end of a bleacher, marking notes in my playbook, when the metal door bangs open. My head jerks up. It’s not Dee.
Dwayde’s attire explains why he waited for the team to clear out. Black corduroys sit at his waist rather than the baggy jeans he usually wears a few inches below his waist. A gray argyle sweater covers a white button-down shirt. Even his ears are minus the studs. All that’s left of Dwayde’s hip-hop style are his cornrows.
I stand to greet him, and squeeze a bony shoulder. “Nice threads.”
“Yeah, right,” he says and snorts. “Isabelle made me wear this butt-ugly shit.”
“She’s just trying to make a good impression on the Franklins, so they know you’re being well cared for.”
“Whatever,” he says and the habitual shrug hitches under my palm.
“I appreciate you working hard during practice when this has got to be a scary day for you.”
“I ain’t scared.”
I’m not fooled by his bravado. “Nothing wrong with it if you are. It’s natural.”
He angles his head. “You don’t get scared.”
My celebrity image makes me appear bigger than life. But that’s all it is—an image. “Believe me, Dwayde, I have fears, and I haven’t been nearly as strong as you’ve been in facing mine. I admire you.”
He jabs a thumb into his chest and asks incredulously, “You admire me?”
“Yep.” I rest the toe of my Nike high-tops on the bench. “You’ve got what Papa T used to call grit.”
“What’s that?” he asks, searching my face.
“Grit is making the tough choices and standing up to them.”
“I didn’t have a choice though,” he grumbles.
“We always have a choice, Dwayde. And you made a brave one.”
“That’s what Ms. C said.”
“You call her Ms. C?”
“That’s what she said her clients call her.”
“Oh.”
He regards me curiously. “Is this, like, weird?”
“What?”
“You know, Ms. C being my lawyer?”
“Why would it be?” I hedge.
“’Cause you and Victor don’t like her.”
“What makes you think that?”
