The Final Four (7 page)

“I won’t sidestep a thing, Coach,” says Crispin. “I’ll take it all head-on.”

As the Trojans walk back onto the court, their cheerleaders are performing acrobatics.

Crispin sees Hope smiling for the crowd, standing on the shoulders of a pair of muscular guys from the pep squad. Then they toss her high into the air with her pom-poms waving, before she lands softly in their arms.

MARCH, THREE WEEKS AGO

FLYING SUSHI—that was the name across the front of Crispin’s helmet as he fastened his chin strap and then revved the throttle high.

He could feel the vibrations running up his spine and the horsepower surging through his body. Then his heel hit the kickstand. He pulled away from the restaurant with two full orders bungeed in behind him. As he took off through the streets of Troy, balancing his six-foot-ten-inch frame on that red moped scooter, he never felt more like a giant sitting on top of the world.

The Trojans had just won their first two NCAA Tournament games, just four shy of a National Championship.

They’d arrived back on campus the night before with nearly the entire student body cheering for them. There was a wild celebration at the fountain with the Trojan statue on the quad. Everyone was dressed in red. There were banners, and bottles of beer right out in the open, and the Trojan band played the school’s fight song over and over. And when Crispin locked lips
with Hope, people started chanting,
“Hope of Troy! Hope of Troy!”

Crispin was beat tired now. He’d gotten up early for classes and spent half the day catching up on missed assignments. But working the four to eight o’clock dinner shift meant good tip money. He could pocket maybe sixty dollars delivering for the only Chinese/Japanese takeout place in the city.

Crispin couldn’t afford to pass up on that kind of cash.

He was hell-bent on saving enough money for Hope’s engagement ring. He’d proposed without one, on the spur of the moment, after making that game-winning basket a month back.

In the five months they’d been dating, Crispin and Hope hadn’t talked about getting married. But the idea crept into Crispin’s mind a few days before he popped the question, after they’d seen a movie together where the characters got married on a whim in Las Vegas.

“Could you ever see us doing something crazy like that, running off to Vegas?” Crispin asked her on the walk back to the campus from the theater, with his arm around Hope’s shoulder to protect her from a chill in the night air.

“You mean, to elope?” she answered, snuggling closer to him. “My parents would kill me. I think my mom’s been planning my wedding since the day I was born. But I’ve got to admit, it was spontaneous. That’s a big part of being romantic—keeping things fresh.”

When they’d started dating, Hope made a point about wanting things to remain casual.

“My last boyfriend was really possessive and controlling,” she’d told Crispin the second or third time they’d hung out
together. “He’d even sneak my cell out of my purse to see who’d been calling me. I just like my freedom now, knowing I’m not boxed into anything.”

But from the very beginning of their relationship, Crispin felt like they were meant for each other. He loved Hope’s smile and sense of humor. She was the only girl he knew who liked belches and eating beef jerky. And Crispin loved her high-pitched laugh, which made her sound like a little kid. And whenever he heard it, it made him laugh, too.

Hope didn’t seem to care about getting expensive gifts, though her parents were loaded and she used a weekly allowance to treat herself to lots of designer clothes. Crispin never spent a lot of money on Hope, because he didn’t have much—his working-class parents couldn’t afford to give him a fat allowance. Their dates were mostly to the movies or eating burgers at cheap diners, like Mel’s with the old-fashioned soda fountain at the counter. Even when Crispin brought her flowers, he’d usually picked them from some garden himself.

So Crispin was shocked when Hope pitched a fit over not getting a diamond engagement ring.

He’d seen her have blowups before—usually screaming about a professor over a low grade, or the cheerleading coach for not featuring her in a particular dance routine. But this was the first one aimed at him.

It was on the day after Crispin proposed at the game, once all of the reporters and TV cameras had gotten their feel-good story and disappeared.

“I talked to my mother this morning, and she’s absolutely right—how can I take this marriage proposal seriously without a ring?” said Hope, as they waited to share a chef’s salad at Mel’s. “How do I know you’re really committed to me? That you won’t change your mind in a week and leave me looking like a fool in front of half the country, on
TMZ
and
Extra
?”

Hearing that was like a sharp elbow to Crispin’s ribs. Only this wasn’t a basketball game, and he hadn’t thought of Hope as the opposition before.

Crispin never winced or wiped the sympathetic look off his face.

“When I asked you to marry me, that was from the heart, not a store,” Crispin said calmly, trying to hide his annoyance.

He could see that Hope was getting even more upset, shifting around in her chair like she might get up any second and walk out. That scared Crispin. He reached across the table and took her hand, trying to get her to relax. Nearly everyone knew they were engaged. He didn’t want to screw it up in less than a day.

“If that’s what you want, I’ll get you a ring you can be proud of,” he conceded. “I’ll buy you one with the biggest diamond you ever saw.”

“That’s not the point. It doesn’t have to be huge,” Hope said with an attitude, as if she was looking to pick a fight with Crispin. “It just has to show people that we’re committed to each other.”

Crispin was completely thrown.

What’s up with her?
he wondered.

He was giving Hope what she wanted, but she still wasn’t happy.

Later that day, they checked out a downtown jewelry store together.

Hope didn’t see a ring she liked that cost less than five thousand dollars. And Crispin got pissed off at the salesman, who kept trying to steer Hope towards even more expensive rings.

“It’s going to take me at least five or six months to save up that kind of money,” Crispin told her when the salesman moved away to help another customer. “You really want to wait that long?”

“If I’m going to wear a ring for the rest of my life, I want it to be the right one,” said Hope. “I don’t want to look at it every day wishing it was something else.”

Crispin had already been delivering Flying Sushi for a few months. At the end of every shift, he’d bring Hope her favorite—an order of eel rolls with seaweed and wasabi on the side. But tonight, Hope told him not to bother—that she’d be grabbing a quick dinner with friends.

And as tired as Crispin was from the basketball, celebrating, and schoolwork, he was out making deliveries to buy Hope that ring.

“Hey, Flying Sushi! Win the tournament!” somebody screamed at him from a passing car. “Go Troy! Woo-hoo!”

Crispin hit his horn in response—
beep, beep, beep
.

He usually had to explain to customers why a nearly seven-foot-tall white kid was delivering Chinese and Japanese food, instead of an Asian.

“Why the hell not?” was his standard answer. “One of the chefs in our kitchen is short and Mexican.”

Most people would howl at that response, thinking it was a joke.

Only Crispin knew it was absolutely true.

But at his first stop, the talk wasn’t about any of that.

It was all about the NCAA Tournament and the Trojans’ winning streak.

“Think we can keep winning, C-Rice?” asked the man who answered the door. “It’s like a dream come true for this city. My wife and I graduated from Troy almost ten years ago. But the team was never this good. That fiancée of yours, Hope of Troy, is our good luck charm. Give her a big kiss for me, will you?”

Before Crispin left, he posed for a photo with the man’s wife and three kids, all holding up their fingers in the V sign for victory.

Crispin loved every second of it, and his tip was twice what he’d expected.

His second stop that afternoon was at a downtown apartment building, next to a leather boutique where Hope had once dragged him so she could shop for Italian boots.

He chained his moped to a parking meter and climbed the stoop.

“Flying Sushi,” Crispin said into the intercom, before the customer buzzed him inside.

By the time he reached the third floor, the tiny elevator that took him upstairs smelled like a combination platter of beef and
broccoli and spicy string beans in garlic sauce.

The older woman who answered the door looked up at him with her eyes rolling higher and higher. But she didn’t seem to know anything about Troy basketball, so there wasn’t much conversation.

As Crispin waited for the elevator back down, counting his tip, he heard a guy and girl laughing from inside another apartment.

He stood there frozen for an instant, confused, like his body and mind were suddenly in two different places. Then he moved closer to that apartment door.

The next time Crispin heard them—
hee, hee, hee, hee
—he was positive the girl’s high-pitched laugh belonged to Hope.

“I don’t want to be the next Michael Jordan, I only want to be Kobe Bryant.”

—Kobe Bryant, five-time NBA Champion who made the leap from high school to the pros before the NBA changed its drafting rules in 2005

7:30 P.M. [CT]

M
J fights for the rebound as Grizzly’s second free throw glances off the rim.

The ball is rolling loose on the floor, and MJ dives after it into a pile of bodies. For an instant, he gets so tangled up in the arms and legs of other players that he can’t tell for sure which limbs are his.

MJ comes out of the scrum empty-handed.

It’s the Trojans who come away with possession of the ball, trailing 70–69 with just eighty-eight seconds remaining in OT.

Regaining his legs, MJ digs in on defense. He turns from angle to angle, depending on where the ball is, fronting his man and
denying him the rock. MJ is determined—if a Trojan scores, it won’t be the one that he’s guarding.

But MJ is up so close on his man that he loses most of his peripheral vision. And Aaron Boyce takes advantage, setting a screen that MJ never sees coming.

Neither Malcolm nor any other Spartan calls out “on your left” to give MJ a heads-up.

As MJ gets bumped off his man, the Spartans are forced to switch around on defense, and MJ is left to guard Aaron.

The bigger player, Aaron immediately calls for the ball, backing MJ down beneath the basket. MJ doesn’t have the size to block his shot. But his reflexes are much quicker, and when Aaron turns to shoot, MJ strips the ball away at his waist.

The rock sticks in MJ’s hands, and a frustrated Aaron Boyce tries to rip it back, fouling MJ.

Troy has committed enough fouls in the second half and overtime combined to put Michigan State in the double bonus. So MJ heads to the foul line for a pair of free throws.

“You can put us up by three points in front of the whole basketball world,” Malcolm tells him. “This is your chance to live up to your name. I saw the real Michael Jordan in the stands before. Sink these free throws and even he’ll know who you are.”

“Don’t worry, I’m going to bury this ball twice,” says MJ. “Just watch me.”

Standing alone at the line, MJ’s entire body goes tight as the ref sends him the ball. He shakes his arms and shoulders loose, but that relaxed feeling doesn’t stay with him the same way Malcolm’s words do about everyone watching.

MJ bounces the basketball three times in front of him, takes a
deep breath, and then exhales. He brings it into his tense fingertips, and raises up with his left elbow.

The second he lets the shot go, MJ senses that it’s short. But even he’s not prepared for it to hit absolutely nothing.

“Air ball! Air ball!”
The catcalls rain down from the immense crowd.

MJ’s teammates alongside the foul line all slap hands with him in support.

Then Malcolm steps in from behind, connects his fist to MJ’s left arm, and fumes, “What, you only show some fight when you think you’re standing up to me?”

NOVEMBER, FOUR MONTHS AGO

Even before he walked into his room in the athletes’ dorm, MJ could hear the loud grunting from inside. It was Malcolm, in his usual spot on the floor, knocking out crunches with both of his legs raised high up in the air.

The pair hadn’t asked to be together. They were assigned by the athletic department. It just worked out that way, with Malcolm arriving on campus and MJ’s former roommate graduating.

“Malc, do me a big favor,” said MJ, balancing a load of books in his arms as he closed the door behind him with his foot. “Take that workout down to the gym tonight. I’ve got a pair of exams to study for.”

“I . . . don’t do . . . favors,” answered Malcolm, between deep breaths. “Big . . . or small . . . ninety-eight . . . ninety-nine . . . one hundred.”

“It’s not really a favor, man,” said MJ, dropping the books on
top of his desk. “That’s just a figure of speech. It’s more a common courtesy, something roommates and teammates do for each other.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah, and I might have said
friends
, too. But I haven’t seen you contribute a whole lot to that equation.”

“Hey, you got your way to act and I got mine,” said Malcolm, popping up to his feet, before he wiped his bare chest with a towel and then pulled a tank top over his head. “I don’t let any of my crap cross over onto you.”

“It did today,” countered MJ, as Malcolm began doing curls with a heavy weighted bar. “Ms. Helms called me. She was looking for
you
. Said you wouldn’t pick up your cell for her. That you got a D on an exam in black history.”

“Ms. Helms?” Malcolm said it like he’d never heard the name before.

“The academic advisor,” MJ said. “She wanted to know if you needed a tutor.”