Samuel bounced on his toes, fidgeted nervously, fist-pumped his teammates, waited for the ball, and couldn’t help but take in the surroundings: the beautiful and modern gym of a wealthy small college, the scouts lounging in the seats at midcourt, the three cocky refs, the atmosphere of big-time basketball in America. But where were all those cute cheerleaders they always showed on television?
He was the point guard for C Squad, up first and raring to go. Ecko huddled the entire team for a few fiery words. He said he wanted mayhem on the court and nonstop racket from the bench.
Koosh Koosh was six feet ten, two inches taller than Awino Leyano, but he came nowhere near the tip-off. Awino slammed it back to Samuel who sprinted past everyone, drove hard to the rim, and missed an easy layup. On offense, the Croatians took their time and screened hard. With four seconds on the shot clock, Koosh Koosh got the ball behind the arc and nailed a beautiful 30-footer.
A 2-3 zone awaited Samuel when he crossed midcourt. Ecko had predicted this. His players were known for their soaring dunks, alley-oops, and easy put-backs, but not for their long-range bombing. They could expect tight zones that dared them to shoot long. Samuel missed his first, and badly. Koosh Koosh hit his second three. Evidently, he was immune from the jitters.
Three minutes in, the first foul was called, a shooting violation on a Croatian forward, and Riak Kuol went to the line. The pause was needed, and Samuel stopped near the bench and looked at Ecko who said, “You gotta relax, man. Run the offense, take your time. These guys are a bunch of douchebags.”
Samuel, breathing heavily, repeated, “Douchebags, Coach?”
“Sorry. Cocky, overrated. Just settle down.”
Riak missed the first, made the second, and they were on the board, but behind 12–1. At five minutes, Croatia sent in three subs, but Ecko had no plans to substitute. At six minutes, and trailing 16–1, he called his only time-out of the period. He sat down the five starters, smiled at them though they did not return the smiles, and said, “I assume you guys plan to snag a field goal or two here in the first period.”
All five looked at their Reeboks.
* * *
·?·?·
The tournament was about winning and losing, and national pride, and bragging rights, and all that. It was about the folks back home, watching, when able, the games on a large-screen television hung outside a town hall and yelling at the sight of a player they knew. It would be a notch in Ecko’s belt, were he to win or place, something to add to his résumé as he dreamed of a head coaching job. But it wasn’t called a showcase for nothing. It was more about the players and the scouts there to watch them, and boys’ dreams of playing in America.
Ecko wanted to win as badly as any coach, but beyond that he wanted his kids to have more opportunities. So, he encouraged them to take chances, to shine. He loathed selfish players and promised to bench anyone for taking a terrible shot, but he wanted every kid to look good.
* * *
·?·?·
Awino Leyano put back a miss, stuffed it hard, and there was the first field goal. Riak Kuol blocked a shot at the stripe, swatted the ball to Samuel, who sprinted downcourt but pulled up. When the defense relaxed he was wide open and nailed a 25-foot jumper. It was gorgeous, and Ecko glanced at Frankie. From way behind the arc, Samuel jumped high, though unguarded, and released the ball with near perfect form.
After ten minutes of frantic play, the buzzer sounded—the first period was over. Croatia led 21–15. C Squad was drained, drenched, ready to sit for a few minutes. They watched B Squad struggle with the same jitters and fall behind by 12.
Samuel enjoyed the break, the cold water, the role of a temporary spectator. He had scored two buckets, had a steal and only one turnover. Not a bad first outing. He caught his breath and looked at the scouts sitting across the way behind the scorer’s table. Half were white, half were black, most were young, under forty, all dressed casually, not a single necktie or suit anywhere. Most wore polo shirts with school colors and logos, and from across the court Samuel could spot assistant coaches from UNC, Syracuse, Kansas, and Oregon. They laughed and talked and had only a casual interest in the game. They all seemed to know each other. Behind them was a row of video cameras, and Ecko had explained that all games are filmed and any coach can get all the tape he wanted.
What would it take to make an impression? That was the question every player was asking himself. For Samuel, it was speed, quickness, his extraordinary vertical leap, and the fact that he was growing like a wild weed.