That afternoon, Dad drops me off outside the gym for the bus ride to Eastern Adams, one of our last away games of the season.
Coach Wise stands outside the team bus, directing people away.
“Team meeting in the locker room before we go. Head inside, Matt.”
Most of the team is already there when I walk into the locker room, sitting silently on the benches, all looking uncomfortable in their dress shirts and ties. I sit down next to Trip in the back, furrow my brows in question. He shrugs in response, and we sit in silence while the last few players trickle in.
Devin Heiner hobbles in last, followed by Coach Wise, who leans against the locker room door.
Damn, did someone else die?
Instinctively, I think of Branson and quickly scan the room, my legs and arms tingling—but, no, he’s right there in the front row, his head bowed, Lighty and Leppo on either side of him. Right where he’s supposed to be.
Finally, Coach Langley comes out of his office, looks at Coach Wise, who nods that everyone’s here.
Coach Langley looks as uncomfortable as the rest of us, sitting here waiting to find out why we’re not already on the bus to Eastern Adams.
He unwraps a stick of gum and chews on it violently, pulls out a folded piece of paper, looks at it, folds it back up, and puts it back in his pocket.
“Men, you’ve listened to me talk about adversity all season. Overcoming adversity. And you should be proud—very proud—of the way you’ve done that, the way you’ve overcome adversity as a team. At the end of practice, when your legs are burning and you can’t imagine one more sprint, you reach down and hit one more opportunity under thirty seconds.
“You show up, early in the morning the day after Thanksgiving, when all your friends are either shopping or sleeping, running off every ounce of turkey you put in you the day before. After a tough loss at Catholic, you came back, you worked hard, you refocused, and you won your next three games. Even on JV—Devin goes down in practice, and his teammates step up. Everybody stepped up, JV and varsity, and we’ve had the best practices we’ve had all season. And, believe me, that shows up in games.”
I don’t know where Coach is going with this, or why we’re here listening to it right now. But it does feel good.
“Adversity,” he says again with emphasis, slapping his rolled-up game notes in his palm.
Coach runs a hand through his thinning hair then, looking down at the floor, like he’s suddenly run out of words and can’t remember why we’re here. He pulls out another stick of gum and adds it to the first—though the first very well could have disintegrated by now beneath the power of his jaw.
What the hell—
“I’ve known Liam Branson a long time,” he says, quieter, his voice rumbling out of him. He reaches forward and rests his hand on Liam’s bowed head. Liam’s shoulders quake silently.
No fucking way.
“He’s played for me on varsity since he was a sophomore. And I’ve watched him play, in camps and youth leagues, since he was ten.”
Coach takes his hand off Liam’s head, and it bows even lower. Next to him, Leppo rests a fist on Liam’s shoulder.
I don’t want to hear this shit.
“It’s rare to see a young man play with so much heart, to see him work so hard for his teammates, no matter the circumstances. But, gentlemen, we play basketball. We play a game. It’s the best game I know, and I believe you learn things about each other, and about life, that you can’t anywhere else. But it’s a game. With made-up rules we all agree to follow, and if you lose, you can play another game.”
He pauses and takes a deep breath. Just stop already.
“Liam’s suffered a loss that’s not so easy to come back from. Battling adversity that most grown men can’t overcome. Men, this is where our game can mean something more. When you pull together for your teammate when he needs you most.
“I’m proud of all the things you’ve accomplished so far this season—and I’ll be proud to be your coach no matter what happens the rest of the way. But these last few games, men, these last few games we play for Liam.”
The locker room is silent, the entire team—JV and varsity—nodding their heads with such solemn agreement that I want to puke.
The fuck if I’m playing for Liam and his great loss.
Coach nods then at Lighty and steps back. Lighty stands and faces the rest of us and pulls his open gym bag onto the bench in front of him.
“Bring it in.”
The whole team huddles around them, and I end up stuck behind Branson, still slumped over on the bench, rubbing his face in his hands as the rest of the team looks at him with fire in their eyes, ready to overcome the shit out of some adversity, apparently.
I’m ready to just get on the bus. But it looks like Lighty isn’t through stoking this fire for his friend.
“The seniors decided we wanted to do something to show our support. To show everyone that we’re united for Liam.” He holds out a fist for Liam, who taps it lightly without looking up. “So I got these to wear on our arms for the rest of the season.”
He takes a plastic Nike bag out of his gym bag, reaches in, and pulls out a handful of light blue armbands.
The laugh escapes my mouth before I can stop it, and while I’m screaming You’re fucking kidding me in my head, I’m not a hundred percent clear whether it reaches my lips as well.
Lighty looks like he’s about to kill me, but it’s Branson, who’s shown no emotion in weeks but now has tears streaming down his face, who stands and drills me in the face.
An explosion of white, and I’m out.
“Don’t get me wrong, Matt. There will be consequences for his actions,” Coach Langley says, standing over me on the locker room bench, my head in my hands, just like Liam a short while ago. Only I’m holding an ice pack to my left eye, which has already swollen shut, and Coach is not nearly as sympathetic to my suffering in this moment.
He waits until the locker room door closes behind Monica the trainer before he continues. We’re the only ones here: the rest of the team got on the bus while I was laid out on the floor, and it pulled away while Coach and Monica helped me up and sat me on this bench.
“But right now we need to discuss your actions and your consequences.”
I get the whole “seeing stars” thing now, but that makes it sound a hell of a lot more mystical than it really is.
“Matt, you’ve done an admirable job this season, performing at the level you have as a freshman. The way you’ve stepped up in Devin’s absence in practice, going head-on with a player much better than you currently are. And I don’t say that as an insult, Matt—Liam Branson is one of the top players in the county. Maybe the best player I’ve ever coached—”
“Yeah, I’ve heard this already,” I say into my hands. I don’t look up at Coach, but I hear him breathing, feel the tension roiling off him. I don’t mean for it to sound the way it does, but, shit, there’s probably only one way that can sound.
“I cannot begin to wrap my brain around what you found funny or off-putting or whatever your issue was with what your teammates did here tonight—what you found so trivial in supporting a teammate when he’s gone through hell.” He stops, and I can almost feel Coach holding back. “But I will tell you, Matt, it is the most disappointing thing I’ve ever seen in a locker room.”
He takes a moment to compose himself. “Grab your stuff and head outside. Your dad should be here in about five minutes.”
The locker room door closes, and I’m alone. I pull the ice pack off my face and press my finger into the numb swelling over my left eye. My chin sinks lower into my chest, my eyes resting on this stupid-ass light-saber tie. I pull it loose, the two sides dangling, and my face burns at the ridiculousness of it. My mind flashes to Corey Sheridan, and I feel like a stupid little kid again, standing in front of him, feeling the burning in the back of my eyes and nose. I dig my fingers into my hair and squeeze my good eye closed.
What does this mean? Am I off the team?
Why? Because I don’t feel sorry for goddam Liam Branson? Because I don’t want to work my ass off in his name? Because I don’t want every shot I hit—every three I knock down, every opponent I shut down on D—to be dedicated to the Liam-Branson-Is-Going-Through-a-Lot Fund?
Because I got punched in the face?
Fuck him. Fuck all of them.