The Grind
1255 Words
The alarm went off at 5:00 AM.
Alvin's hand shot out from under the covers, slapping the phone until the noise stopped. His body screamed. His legs were heavy. His eyes burned.
He'd slept four hours.
Maybe.
He sat up slowly, his joints cracking. The room was dark except for the faint glow of the streetlight outside. His roommate, a walk-on from Ohio, was still snoring.
This is college, Alvin thought. This is what I signed up for.
He swung his legs out of bed and stood up. His knees buckled slightly. He caught himself on the desk.
One game. One win. And I feel like I've been hit by a truck.
His phone buzzed.
Michael: You awake?
Alvin: Yeah.
Michael: Good. Practice in an hour.
Alvin: I know.
Michael: Same time?
Alvin: Same time. Don't be late.
---
The athletic complex was quiet at 6:00 AM.
A few players were already there, shooting in the dark gym. The lights flickered on as Alvin walked in. The familiar squeak of sneakers. The thud of a ball against the floor. The smell of sweat and floor wax.
Michael was at the far basket, shooting threes. His form was perfect. His release was smooth.
"You're early," Alvin said.
"I couldn't sleep."
"Me neither."
"Too much adrenaline?"
"Too much everything."
Michael passed him the ball. "Shoot. Five hundred free throws. Then we run."
---
The first week after the opener was brutal.
Coach Bradley didn't let up. He pushed them harder than before — sprints, drills, conditioning, film study. Every day was a grind. Every night, Alvin collapsed into bed, unable to move.
But he kept going.
Because he wasn't the only one grinding.
Michael was there every morning, his knee wrapped, his jaw tight. Leo was there, working on his post moves. Marcus was there, shooting threes until his arms gave out.
And Junk — Junk was there too, despite not having a scholarship. He showed up early. Stayed late. Did everything the coaches asked.
"You don't have to do this," Alvin told him.
"Yes, I do."
"Why?"
"Because I want to prove I belong."
"You already belong."
"No. You do. I'm still trying."
---
The second game was against a team from the south — faster, more athletic, with a point guard who'd been recruited by SEC schools.
The game was close. Back and forth. Lead changes. Hard fouls.
With two minutes left, Northwood trailed by three.
Alvin had the ball. The defense was in his face, hands everywhere, refusing to let him breathe.
He looked for Michael. Michael was covered. Leo was sealed. Marcus was trapped.
Alvin drove.
Not fast. Not pretty. Just forward.
The defender stepped in front of him. Alvin jumped.
The ball left his left hand.
Time slowed.
The arc was wrong. The spin was off.
The ball hit the backboard. Bounced off the rim. Rolled around the cylinder.
Fell through.
One-point game.
The other team called timeout.
---
In the huddle, Coach Bradley looked at Alvin.
"Chen, you're running the show. Vance, you're the target. Everyone else, clear out."
Alvin looked at Michael. Michael looked back.
"Blind set," Michael said.
"Everyone's expecting it," Alvin said.
"Then don't close your eyes."
---
The inbound.
Alvin had the ball on the baseline. Five seconds. Four. Three.
He saw something. Not a player. A space.
He threw a left-handed redirect — not to Michael, but to the empty space.
The ball slapped off his palm and sailed into the gap. Michael cut into the space, picked up the ball on the bounce, and rose for a layup.
The buzzer sounded.
The ball hit the backboard. Bounced off the rim.
Rolled around the cylinder.
Fell through.
Northwood won. 72-71.
---
The locker room was loud.
Michael grabbed Alvin, lifted him off the ground. Leo was screaming. Marcus was crying. Junk was running in circles.
Coach Bradley stood in front of the team.
"Two wins. Two close games. But wins are wins."
The team cheered.
"But the season is long. The competition gets harder. We have to get better. Every day."
---
The third game was against the defending conference champions.
They were bigger, stronger, more experienced. They'd been to the tournament three years in a row. They knew how to win.
Northwood lost by fourteen.
Alvin had twelve points. Six assists. Four turnovers.
He sat in the locker room after the game, his head in his hands.
Michael sat next to him. "It's one loss."
"It's a bad loss."
"They're the defending champs. They're supposed to beat us."
"Not by fourteen."
"We'll get them next time."
"How do you know?"
Michael was quiet for a moment. "Because we're not the same team that lost tonight. We're going to work harder. Get better. And next time, we'll beat them."
---
The next week was the hardest of Alvin's life.
Coach Bradley pushed them harder than ever. Double practices. Early mornings. Late nights. Film study until their eyes crossed.
Alvin's body screamed. His mind was foggy. His hands were raw.
But he kept going.
Because Michael was there. Because Leo was there. Because Junk was there.
Because they were a team.
---
The fourth game was against a rival — a team that had beaten Northwood four years in a row.
The gym was packed. The crowd was hostile. The other team's fans chanted and screamed.
Alvin stood in the tunnel, listening to the noise.
Michael stood next to him. "You ready?"
"No."
"Good. Me neither."
---
The game was brutal.
Hard fouls. Trash talk. Referees who let everything go.
Alvin took an elbow to the ribs. A knee to the thigh. A shove out of bounds.
But he didn't quit.
With two minutes left, Northwood trailed by two.
Alvin had the ball. His left hand was shaking. His right wrist was numb.
He looked at Michael. Michael was covered. Leo was sealed. Marcus was trapped.
Alvin drove.
Not fast. Not pretty. Just forward.
The defender stepped in front of him. Alvin jumped.
The ball left his left hand.
Swish.
Tie game.
The crowd went silent.
---
Northwood's final possession.
Alvin held the ball at the top of the key. The clock ticked down. 30 seconds. 20. 15.
He didn't pass. He didn't drive. He just looked at the defender.
"You're not stopping me," Alvin said.
"I'm going to try."
"Try harder."
Alvin rose for a jumper.
The ball hung in the air.
Swish.
Northwood won. 68-66.
---
The locker room was chaos.
Michael grabbed Alvin, lifted him off the ground. Leo was screaming. Marcus was crying. Junk was running in circles.
Coach Bradley stood in front of the team.
"Three wins. One loss. Not bad for a freshman class."
The team cheered.
"But the season is long. The competition gets harder. We have to keep working."
---
That night, Alvin sat in his dorm room, staring at the ceiling.
His phone buzzed.
Observer (Maya): Three wins. One loss. Not bad.
Alvin: We're working.
Observer: It shows.
Alvin: I'm tired.
Observer: Good. Tired means you're working.
Alvin: I know.
Observer: What's next?
Alvin: More games. More work. More improvement.
Observer: Good. That's the right attitude.
Alvin: Thank you.
Observer: For what?
Alvin: For everything.
Observer: That's what sisters are for.
---
The next morning, Alvin woke at 5:00 AM.
He got dressed. He walked to the gym. He shot free throws until his arms gave out.
Michael arrived at 6:00.
"You're early," Michael said.
"I couldn't sleep."
"Me neither."
"Same time tomorrow?"
"Same time. Don't be late."
- Writer
