Alley-Oops I Think I'm Falling in Love (With the Wrong Guy)

Somehow my lackluster performance didn't sour Coach Brown's opinion of me. It was a miracle.

He tracked me down in the corridor and said, "You're a diamond in the rough, DeLang, but diamonds need pressure — challenge, adversity — to form. You're not going to get that at this level. I think you need to supplement your training, you need to surround yourself with players that challenge you. If you're willing to do the work, I'd be happy to have you join us at our practices this summer."

... And that was that.

How I managed to impress a man that didn't so much as bat an eye at 360 Windmill dunks, I'll never know. I knew that I couldn't let this opportunity go to waste.

The immediate benefits of this invite were what had initially sparked my interest (i.e., making an army of guy friends before school even started), but Coach Brown was right, this could catapult my skills to the next level — the collegiate level.

That'd been on my vision board since day one. Basketball was a means to an end for me. Socially and academically.

I wasn't a teacher's pet for nothing. I had no intentions of being a homeless Wembanyama for the rest of my life.

I was going to get to college or die trying. That was the ultimate goal, that's what all this was for.

Unfortunately, my rivalry with Roscoe Tate was no longer a petty grievance between two childhood competitors, it had spiraled into an embittered feud that had the potential to upend everything.

He'd not taken kindly to the added half hour of conditioning he'd suffered at my hand. When I'd exited the gym that afternoon, he was still sprinting from line to line, but that characteristic airiness to his step was gone.

At practice the next day, it became immediately apparent that those final tethers of mutual respect had snapped. Whenever his eyes passed over me, an icy prickle scattered down my back — his hatred was that potent.

Roscoe didn't ask to guard me again, instead, he acted like I didn't exist. If we happened to be on the same team, he wordlessly ensured that I never touched a ball — not even a rebound.

After a week or two of this, his disdain for me was so palatable, that even the most oblivious of his teammates started to pick up on it. And worse than that? They started to emulate him.

For all of Roscoe's swagger and elephant-sized ego, he knew how to win the loyalty of the male mafia. He was their king — he always had been, and always would be.

There was only one thing that emboldened males enough to usurp their beloved king and that was sex. And not just sex with any ol' gal, it had to be "Helen of Troy" level sex. Or at least, "way out of their league" sex.

I could provide neither of those things, so Roscoe's toadies wouldn't risk a friendship with me. I was a charity case, not a prize worth sticking their neck out for.

It sucked giant blue monkey balls.

To make matters worse, Roscoe kept his promise to me. He had the uncanny skill of making me feel like I didn't know how to play basketball anymore, and he did it without even guarding me. I was used to being the best, now I was among the worst. It was sheer stubbornness that kept me going.

I had to trust the process, trust that I was learning something even if I couldn't see it.

Meanwhile, the Prince of Pepperwood High continued to show up late, half-ass every drill, and spout any number of lame excuses whenever he got called out. Roscoe took his punishments on the chin and pushed harder against the rules the next day.