Free Pull by Kevin Waltman Page B

big-time team from another state. I just want to make sure they’ve got confidence in themselves, so I talk each of them up. But with a minute left in warmups, Coach Bolden grabs me by the elbow and pulls me toward the bench. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asks.
    â€œGetting guys amped,” I answer.
    â€œAmped,” he repeats, like I’ve said some dirty word. “Why not focused instead? Derrick, I know you can go toe-to-toe with any player on Ballard, but that’s you . We don’t want Josh Reynolds thinking he needs to put up 20 tonight. We don’t need J.J. Fuller thinking he’s a three-point threat. What we need is for them to know we want to make them work on defense. That we’ve got to give up crashing the offensive glass so we can get back in transition.”
    â€œI hear you, Coach,” I say. The man’s the man, and there’s no changing that. I jog back out to get a few more Js in before game-time. A pure three from the corner. A pull-up from the right wing. And then one rip to the hole for an up-and-under. Ready.
    In the huddle, Coach runs through our game plan, shouting at us like we’ve already messed it up. Then it’s time—starting line-ups and tip. Just before I hit the boards though, Coach Murphy gets in my ear. “Hey, don’t sweat Bolden,” he says. “The old man gets amped too, and that’s how it comes out. Help rein the other guys in, but you attack when you get the chance.”
    That’s the message I want to hear. As I put my D Rose 5s on the hardwood, I just know—feel it in my bones—I’m about to drop the truth on this gym.
    As soon as I get out to center court, I see what Coach means.Ballard’s the real deal. They’ve got size across the board, especially down low with a 6′10″ beast named James Lacy. And I know from watching game film that everyone but Lacy can stretch the D out to the arc.
    Lacy controls the tip over Stanford, and they come at us. I know they can rip it and run in transition, but in the half-court they’re pretty methodical. They reverse and look for Lacy. We sink down to scare off the entry, so they zip it back around the perimeter. Not a lot of cuts. Hardly any screens. But all it takes is one slow rotation. And they get it from Reynolds, who keeps his kicks in the paint a split second too long. He can’t get back out to challenge his man at the arc, and—zip—Ballard’s got a 3-0 lead.
    Jones kicks the in-bounds to me, and Ballard offers some pressure. It’s just to slow me down a beat. As soon as I get my shoulders past the first man, they all retreat. On our end, we’re the polar opposite of them. Sure, we look inside, but our O is built on cuts and screens. I kick to Reynolds on the wing and cross-screen for Fuller. Reynolds looks post, then fakes to me flashing at the elbow. Soon as that’s done, he runs a dribble exchange with Fuller. By then I’m coming all the way to the opposite baseline with a little breathing room. Fuller puts it in my mitts. Right away I see two coming at me. That leaves Jones alone on the block. I hit him. Lacy helps, but even Jones is quick enough to shuttle a pass around him to Stanford. An easy bucket.
    I decide to give a little pressure right back. I hound my man for the first few dribbles up the floor. Then I hear Bolden thump his foot on the sideline. “Just get back, Bowen!” he shouts. I obey, but I saw enough. Their point guard has size and a sweet stroke—but his handles are shaky. He wanted no part of my pressure.
    The game’s like a boxing match between a heavyweight and a featherweight. They want to stand there and slug it out—pound, pound, pound down low—and when we get a chance we want to make them chase us until they drop. It pretty much evens out. They’ve got a 12-11 lead with about three minutes to go in the first.
    And then it all