“Let’s go! Hustle!” A whistle blast pierces the air.
The sound of squeaking sneakers on the newly resurfaced gym floor drowns out the huffing and puffing from the players. It’s November 26, the first day of practice at Clifton High, and we’re running suicides. The exercise is a killer, and Coach Ant always saves it for the end of practice when everybody is dead tired. Some kids even pull up with cramps.
“Way to move!” I say to teammates between my own heavy breaths, sweat dripping off my face and arms. As a co-captain, I’ve got to be encouraging. I watch from the back of the line after taking my turn sprinting to quarter-court, half-court, three-quarters-court, and the far baseline, slapping the floor each time before running back.
“Wilt, did you tell him to run this damn drill?” Kareem
