Free True Legend by Mike Lupica Page B

and who did work for Nike now.
    Drew wondered what Stu Jarvis would think if he knew that Mr. Gilbert liked to refer to Nike as “the mob” when it was just him and Drew talking. Telling Drew that once the time came, there’d be no choice, he’d have to wear Nike shoes.
    â€œBasketball version of being a made man,” he’d say.
    Mr. Gilbert walked Drew right over to Stu Jarvis now.
    â€œNow, this is a social event, Nike man,” he said to his old friend. “So no business talk tonight—I mean it. There’s plenty of time down the road for you two to get to know each other a
lot
better.”
    Stu Jarvis did the same kind of lean-in King had done with Drew before the game. Though in his case it was more like a lean-
down,
because Stu went six six, at least. Mr. Gilbert had said he’d played three years in the league for Golden State, before the anterior cruciate ligament in his right knee, his ACL, had ripped like a raggedy shoelace.
    â€œTough one tonight,” Stu Jarvis said. “That shot at the end should have fallen. Where I sat, I thought you had it as soon as the ball left your hand.”
    Drew knew he couldn’t possibly mean that. Couldn’t possibly be sincere.
Maybe it figures that he works for a sneaker company,
Drew thought.
Because the man’s acting like somebody trying to sell me a pair of shoes.
    â€œShould have been able to get a better look,” Drew said. “
I’m
better than that.”
    Stu Jarvis put his arm around Drew the way Mr. Gilbert had, laughed. “Yeah,” he said, “you are.”
    Just a little edge to him, behind the smile, giving him a little jab the way Mr. Gilbert had.
    â€œBut twenty-two, sixteen, eight still isn’t a bad night,” Stu Jarvis went on, reciting Drew’s stats. “Most guys would kill to have numbers like that, and here you are acting as if you stunk the joint out. And you still had the confidence to take the last shot.”
    â€œWell, thanks, Mr. Jarvis,” he said, trying to sound modest. Hearing Lee’s voice inside his head, one of Lee’s favorite lines about him, the one about how nobody faked sincerity better than True Robinson.
    â€œThe other kid tonight, all he does is shoot,” Stu Jarvis said. “You, son, are a
playa.
”
    â€œThank you,” Drew said again.
    â€œI’m sure you get asked this all the time,” Stu said. “But I gotta ask something, just ’cause I got so many coaches on scholarship who are gonna be begging me for some skinny on you tomorrow, knowing I was with you tonight.”
    â€œAsk away.”
    â€œAny of their schools might be starting to get your attention yet?”
    â€œI’ll let you in on a secret,” Drew said, lowering his voice.
    â€œHit me.”
    â€œThe only school I’m worried about tonight is Park Prep. And how they ended up with more points than we did.”
    Drew couldn’t help but think,
I’m as phony as this guy is.
    Stu Jarvis laughed and said, “Well, there
is
a reason why they keep score in sports,” and then walked off, heading in the direction of another one of Mr. Gilbert’s friends, the center fielder for the Dodgers, who hadn’t lost their game tonight.
    Next Mr. Gilbert wanted Drew to spend some time with an
LA Times
guy Drew recognized from the locker room, one who told him he’d finished his story at what he called warp speed.
    â€œOf course,” the guy said, “it wasn’t the story I came here looking to write tonight.”
    He was smiling as he said it—everybody here seemed to be smiling at Drew. But his eyes weren’t. It was almost as if Drew had let him down, too, in addition to himself and his teammates and his school.
    Maybe even his mom.
    â€œSorry,” Drew said. “I was sort of looking for a different ending myself.”
    â€œThat’s the problem with sports,” the reporter said.