The Champions' Wall
1181 Words
The defending state champions warmed up like they owned the arena.
Southridge's players moved with a confidence that came from winning. They didn't rush. They didn't stare. They just went through their drills like this was any other game.
Alvin watched from the baseline. His stomach was tight.
They've been here before. They know what it takes.
Michael stood next to him. "They're not unbeatable."
"No one's unbeatable."
"They act like they are."
Junk walked over. "Their center is six-eight. I'm six-four."
"Box out," Alvin said.
"Boxing out doesn't make me taller."
"Boxing out makes you smarter."
---
The locker room before the game was different from the first round.
Quieter. Everyone knew what was at stake. Win and face Lincoln Heights in the semifinals. Lose and go home.
Rivera stood in front of the team.
"Southridge has size. They have experience. They have a championship banner."
He paused.
"But they don't have what we have."
"What's that?" Junk asked.
"Hunger. They've already eaten. We're starving."
Alvin looked at his teammates. At Michael, who was icing his knee. At Dante, who was taping his fingers. At Kwame, who was praying.
Starving, Alvin thought. He's right.
---
The game started at 7:30 PM.
Southridge won the tip. Their center — a giant named Lucas — caught the ball on the block, backed Junk down like he was made of paper, and dunked.
2-0.
The crowd roared. Southridge fans had traveled well. They waved championship flags and chanted.
Westbrook ball.
Alvin brought it up. Southridge's point guard was a senior named Harris — not fast, but smart. He stayed in front of Alvin, hands active, feet moving.
Alvin looked for Michael. Michael was cutting, but Lucas had rotated into the lane.
They're packing the paint. They want us to shoot outside.
Alvin passed to Dante on the wing. Dante pump-faked, drove, and kicked to Michael. Michael shot a three.
Swish.
2-3.
Harris raised an eyebrow. "Nice shot."
"Thanks," Michael said.
"It won't happen again."
"It already did."
---
The first quarter was a chess match.
Southridge scored inside. Westbrook scored outside. The lead changed five times.
With two minutes left in the quarter, Lucas posted up Junk again. Junk held his ground — barely. Lucas spun and shot.
Clang.
Michael rebounded. Westbrook fast break. Alvin caught the outlet pass, drove left, and dished to Dante for a layup.
14-12. Westbrook.
Southridge called timeout.
---
The second quarter was a war.
Harris started guarding Alvin full-court. He wasn't fast, but he was physical. He bumped Alvin, pushed him, refused to let him breathe.
Alvin couldn't get into rhythm. His passes were rushed. His shots were short.
Southridge took the lead. 22-18. 28-22. 32-26.
Rivera called timeout.
"Chen, what's happening?"
"He's in my head. Bumping me. Pushing me."
"So bump him back. Push him back. Don't let him bully you."
Alvin looked at Harris across the court. Harris was smiling.
He thinks he's won.
Alvin walked back onto the court.
---
The rest of the second quarter was different.
Alvin initiated contact. He drove into Harris's chest, drew fouls, got to the free-throw line. He made four of four.
Westbrook cut the lead to two. 38-36 at halftime.
Alvin had ten points. Four assists. Two turnovers.
Michael had twelve points. Junk had six rebounds.
Rivera stood in front of the team. "They're not stopping us. We're stopping ourselves."
"So what do we do?" Junk asked.
"Run. Push the pace. Make their big men run. They're not used to it."
---
The third quarter was a blur.
Westbrook ran. And ran. And ran.
Alvin threw outlet passes. Michael sprinted the wings. Junk ran the floor like he'd never run before.
Southridge's big men got tired. Lucas was slow getting back. Their forwards were gasping.
With four minutes left in the third, Westbrook led 52-48.
Harris fouled Alvin on a drive. Hard foul. Alvin hit the floor.
His wrist — the bad one — screamed.
"You okay?" Harris asked, not meaning it.
Alvin stood up. "I'm fine."
"You're not fine."
"I'm standing."
---
The fourth quarter.
Westbrook led 58-54. Eight minutes left.
Lucas was exhausted. His shoulders were slumped. His feet were heavy.
Alvin pushed the pace again. He threw a left-handed redirect to Junk on the block. Junk caught it, turned, and scored over Lucas.
60-54.
Southridge called timeout.
Their huddle was tense. Harris was yelling at his teammates. Lucas was shaking his head.
They're cracking, Alvin thought. They're not used to being pushed.
---
With two minutes left, Westbrook led 68-62.
Southridge had the ball. Harris drove right, pulled up, and shot.
Clang.
Junk rebounded. Westbrook ball.
Alvin held the ball at the top of the key. The clock ticked down. 1:30. 1:00. 0:30.
Southridge didn't foul. They just watched.
The buzzer sounded.
Westbrook won. 70-64.
---
The gym erupted — Westbrook fans flooding the court.
Alvin stood at center court, breathing hard.
Harris walked over. "You're tougher than you look."
"I'm tougher than I look."
"Lincoln Heights next. Devin Cross. He's going to destroy you."
"We'll see."
Harris walked away.
Michael ran over, grabbed Alvin. "We beat the defending champs."
"We beat them. We're not done."
"Lincoln Heights. Devin. The rematch."
Alvin looked at the bracket on the Jumbotron. Lincoln Heights had won their quarterfinal by twenty points.
Devin is waiting.
---
The locker room was loud.
Junk was singing. Dante was arguing with Kwame. Michael was replaying his highlights on his phone.
Rivera stood in front of the team.
"One more game. Lincoln Heights. Devin Cross. The team that ended our season last year."
The room went quiet.
"We're not the same team. We're faster. Stronger. Smarter."
"And hungrier," Junk said.
"And hungrier." Rivera looked at Alvin. "Chen, you're the engine. Don't stall."
Alvin's phone buzzed in his bag.
He didn't check it. He didn't need to.
He knew who it was.
Unknown: One more game. Devin. Don't blink.
---
That night, Alvin sat in his hotel room, staring at the ceiling.
His phone buzzed.
Observer: You played well against Southridge. But Devin is different.
Alvin: I know.
Observer: He's been waiting for this game all year. He wants revenge.
Alvin: So do I.
Observer: Good. Then prove it.
Alvin put the phone down. He closed his eyes.
One more game.
He said it again. Out loud.
"One more game."
He said it until he believed it.
Then he heard a knock on his door.
He opened it. Michael stood there, his knee wrapped, his face serious.
"I can't sleep," Michael said.
"Me neither."
"Devin's in my head."
"Get him out."
"How?"
Alvin thought about it. "Remember the first time we played together? The redirect that hit you in the face?"
Michael almost smiled. "Yeah."
"You caught it. Everyone else would have dropped it. But you caught it. That's why we're here. Because you catch what no one else can."
Michael looked at his hands. "I've dropped a lot since then."
"You've caught more."
They stood in silence for a moment.
"Same time tomorrow?" Michael asked.
"The arena," Alvin said. "Don't be late."
- Writer
