Silencing Stork
“Come
on, short stuff. Get in my face.” Stork dribbled the
basketball, edging his hip into me one step at a time. With
each bounce, he nudged me closer to the hoop.
“You can quit the talk, Stork,” I answered. “Just shoot the ball.”
Stork beat me at one-on-one every morning, needling me the whole time. I was sick of it.
“I’m coming, shorty,” he said, backing into me. “Watch yourself, now. Here it comes.”
I pressed my elbow hard against his hip. I leaned forward on the balls of my feet, shadowing his every movement. Stork was as quick as lightning and just as flashy. The only way to silence him was to beat him. Today was as good a day as any to try.
He glanced over his right shoulder. Then, after one last high dribble, he cut hard to my left. He dipped and passed me before I could recover. An easy lay-up.
“Man, you won’t ever catch me that way,” he said. “You’ve got to know my moves. You’ve got to see me coming.”
“Yeah, I know, Stork. You remind me every time you beat me to the hole.”
“Well, the truth isn’t always pretty.”
Stork had one full year and at least five inches on me. And he was good. He played in a regular league. I hadn’t made the team.
He tossed the basketball at my chest, and it thumped me good and hard. “Your ball, man,” he said. “Let’s see what you’ve got today.”
I dribbled the ball at the half-court line. I stared into Stork’s eyes, trying to read his mind. He always goes for the steal, I thought. He doesn’t have patience. Wait for the chance.
Stork jabbed in with his right hand. I cross-dribbled between my legs and drove hard. I had the step and took the ball to the hoop for a quick, left-handed lay-up. The score was even. That stopped the talk, temporarily.
Most guys avoid working their weak side. Not me. I’d practiced my left-handed lay-ups every day since getting cut at the league tryouts. “Your ball, Stork. Guess you’d better learn my moves, too.”
“Your moves? Give me a break,” Stork groaned. He took the ball two steps to his right and popped up for a quick jumper from the free-throw line. Nothing but net. He was up by a basket again. I had to find a way to stop him.
My ball. I dribbled with my back against him, planning to crowd him into the post beneath the basket. Stork darted in from my left and tapped the ball away. Posting wouldn’t work—his arms were just too long. He was always reaching in with that quick right hand.
Stork bounced the ball high, showboating at the top of the key. “Come on, little man,” he taunted. “Come and get me.”
So I did. I lunged at the ball, but Stork did a quick spin move and drove to his right for the hoop. “Man, this isn’t even a challenge,” he said. “Do you ever dream about stopping me?”
“Give me the ball, Stork. If you could shoot half as well as you talk, you’d only be one-third as good as you think you are.”
He flipped the ball at me with a grin. “Come on, now. Make up your mind,” he said. “Are you playing? Or are you just going to let me whip you again? Maybe you want me to teach you some solid moves?”
I drove straight down the right side of the lane. No fakes, no fancy stuff—straight at Stork’s left side. He tripped over his feet moving backward to his left. Easy basket for me. “Your ball, big man,” I said.
Stork dribbled high again. He faked left but pulled up. He dribbled with his left hand and smirked. He wanted to draw me to his weak side with the fake. No way. I’d already fallen for that one. He head-faked left again, then drove hard to his right.
I was waiting for him. One quick jab and the ball was mine. A clean steal. Could it be that easy? Did he ever work on his weak side?
My ball. I faked right and dribbled left. I pulled up for a fade-away jumper from ten feet. The ball bounced in and out.
Stork grabbed the rebound. “It’s over now, baby. It’s all over,” he jeered from midcourt.
I crouched low on the balls of my feet. It was time to test my theory. Time to see if this big guy could do anything else but go to his right.
I shifted to my left, cutting off Stork’s right-hand lane. His left lane was wide open. Could he do it? Would he drive to his weak side?
Stork looked confused by my stance. He cross-dribbled to his left hand. He feinted once left.
I didn’t go for it.
He took a quick step left and pulled up.
Again, I didn’t take the bait.
Then he dribbled straight up, searching my face. He spun and tried to drive around me to his right side.
I was all over him, cutting off his lane, forcing him to his left. He couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t do it. He plowed right into me. I staggered onto my back, taking the charging foul.
Stork was silent as I rose to my feet.
I took the ball at midcourt and grinned. Stork couldn’t drive left. He had five inches and one year on me, but now I had something on him.
I had a chance.
