Six months ago
“Of course I’m angry! Look what they’re doing! Why wouldn’t I be angry?”
My words fill the sweat-laced air of our cramped shoulder-to-shoulder huddle, an open question to Coach Ryan, who’s looking at me like he’s examining some sort of knot he can’t untie. It’s one of those tense time-outs when every second seems to vanish like smoke in the wind.
I sit down in a chair to give my legs a moment of rest as Coach Ryan’s answer rolls in on the heavy breath of late-game exhaustion. “You can be mad, Ossie,” he says, his voice echoing with the hard clang of missed shots and offensive fouls. “But stop trying to get even — get ahead. Let’s win the damn game!”
“I hear you, Coach! But look at these scratches on my arm!” My voice is thick with frustration. “These white boys are trying to hurt me, and the refs are either blind or racist, ’cause they haven’t been calling anything!”
Coach Ryan frowns at me. “You know I support most of the Black Lives Matter stuff, Ossie. But not everything is about race. You’ve been acting like a hothead out there, swinging your elbows around like you’re trying to start some shit.”
“If those white boys weren’t playing dirty and trying to hurt me, I wouldn’t have to swing my elbows —” I begin, snapping with the irritation of someone who was nearly clotheslined on multiple layups. But my bench-warming teammate Patrick decides to jump into the conversation.
“The problem isn’t about them being white. It’s about you shooting four for fifteen while everyone swears you’re the next Kevin Durant or something,” Patrick says snidely.
Patrick always knows how to push my buttons. How many times have I imagined shutting his pasty redheaded ass up? Too many to count. And yet I’ve always held back. Until now.
“Why are you speaking, Patrick? You barely even play. If your daddy didn’t work for Nike, you wouldn’t even be on the team!” I glare at him, years of suppressed dislike rising to the surface. “You should be thanking me for carrying your bum ass to the state championship!”
The blunt honesty of my words bounces off everyone in the huddle, exposing more than just a disagreement. Patrick jumps in my face as if he’ll hit me if I say anything else. His six-nine frame is significantly bigger than mine, at six five, but I’m not afraid of him. I spring from my chair to meet him where he stands.
“Enough!” Coach Ryan’s eyes dart between Patrick and me, then to the court, where Milwood High is locked in for the final three minutes of the game. “We’re down seven, and we only have a few minutes to turn this thing around. So cut the shit and focus on what matters — winning this game and going to State!”
As he speaks, his gaze sweeps over everyone on the team, but when it reaches me, it lingers for a few extra seconds. We both know he’s talking to me. I’m the one who needs to get us to where we’re trying to go. The only reason Coach Ryan recruited me. The only reason Braxton Academy gave me a full ride. The state championship.
As the gravity of Coach Ryan’s words settles around us, the silence that follows is a beast in and of itself. Each second is a striking clock hand, a testament to the moments that are about to live forever. Patrick and I exchange reluctant nods, silently acknowledging that our issues can wait, there’s a more important battle to win.
“All right, everyone, bring it in,” Coach says. We huddle together, each hand falling over the other, forming a tower of unity and solidarity.
“Remember the game plan! Be smart — don’t let them get in your heads! I want to see you hustling on every possession! Play Braxton basketball! If you hear me, give me a ‘Bears’ on three!” he bellows, a general leading his troops into war. “One, two, three!”
In unison, we roar, “Bears!”
When our voices die down, the others seem left with a sense of urgency and renewed focus. But when the game starts again, my head still isn’t in it. It’s like I’m stuck in a whirlpool of anger and frustration over how they’ve been fouling me while no one cares.
On our first few plays after the timeout, I know if I try driving for a layup, they’re just going to foul me, so I settle for jumpers like I have since the first quarter. My teammates are doing their best, feeding me good looks, but I’m missing shots I normally make in my sleep. Brick after brick, like I’m trying to build a house, while Milwood extends their lead. As they lay up another two points, the score is 69 to 78, with a little over two minutes left in the game.
Looking around, I see everyone’s hope of a state championship appearance fading away. My hope of honoring my father’s legacy disappearing right along with it.
Our home crowd’s collective sigh, heavy with disappointment, washes over me. The murmurs carry the sound of people giving up — including my girlfriend, Laura, who is wearing the look of someone who doesn’t believe. Along with my blue-and-white letterman jacket. Everyone is writing us off.
Well, everyone except Grandma Alice — who has never missed one of my games and probably knows more about the sport than most NBA fans.
Her voice, usually soft with a comforting southern tinge, cuts through the tense gym. “Enough jumpers! If they want to get physical, give them something they can’t handle!” As her shouts reach me, I look her way. She’s at most five foot two but somehow always towers over everyone around her.
When our eyes meet, she says one last thing. This time she isn’t yelling. She speaks softly, but she knows I can read her lips.
“Stop playing. Go bust their ass, baby.”
A small smile curls at the corners of my mouth as I nod at her. She returns my gesture, an understanding passing between us. Her words ignite a spark within me, reminding me who the hell I am.
It’s time to show them why I’m the third-ranked high school player in the country.
When we get back on offense, I gesture for Tommy, our point guard, to give me the ball. He seems hesitant to trust me, his eyes searching around, considering other teammates to pass to. But I’m not about to let this moment slip away.
“Trust me, I got this!” I yell, my voice carrying an assurance that eases him.
Tommy tosses the ball to me. Taking control, I wave my teammates away, making space for an isolation play. The audience in the gym holds its breath as I square off against my defender. If I miss this and they score, the game is probably over.
As I dribble, my mind starts plotting, calculating the perfect moment to strike. Anticipation builds as I wait for the defender to commit. I can tell from his stance that he’s bracing for me to shoot, believing I’m hoping to avoid another harsh foul. Little does he know that’s exactly what I want.
With a swift head fake, I trick my defender into believing I’m about to launch a three. The moment he takes the bait, I drive hard into the paint. As my defender recovers, he barrels into me from behind. But I’m already exploding into the air. Their center, trying to stop me, jumps with me and delivers a direct hit to my mouth. But it doesn’t faze me.
This is the kind of explosive, gritty, relentless basketball I learned playing on the cracked courts of South Yonkers, where I matched up against men who didn’t hesitate to knock a twelve-year-old on his ass. Grandma Alice was right: this is something these rich suburban kids can’t handle.
As I continue to rise, the ball is cocked back for a one-handed dunk that lands with resounding authority, dropping their center flat on his ass and sending our home crowd into a thunderous roar. Even the referees can’t deny me this time as the whistle signals my march to the free-throw line.
“Y’all thought that shit was sweet, huh?”
My words aren’t about ego; they’re about affirmation. I’m here.
My chest heaves with the thrill of the fight as the blood from my busted lip stains my jersey. Our assistant coach, Jerry, runs over, his face tight with worry. But when he notices I’m fine, he sighs with relief and dabs away at the fresh streak of blood with his towel. Then he’s back off to the sideline.
A deep breath, and the shot. The ball sails through the air and slips through the hoop as if it were destined to do just that. Their lead, once seeming impossible to overcome, now feels more like an obstacle that will inevitably be out of our way soon. Just six more points
to go.
Milwood, obviously flustered and eager to regain control of the game, gets careless with the ball. Tommy comes alive and steals it right from their point guard’s hands. Without hesitation, he sends a bullet pass my way. I look at the rim, and something has changed. It no longer seems like a small target at the end of a long tunnel but more like an ocean, vast and welcoming. I set my feet and release a three-pointer. The sweet sound of a swish fills the gym as the ball cuts through the net, slicing their lead to just three.
Frustration hangs over the Milwood team like a dark cloud as they try to gather themselves. They hand the moment over to their small forward, who has been leading them the entire game. I can see that he’s confident, his eyes burning with determination. I pick him up on a defensive switch. He sees me and smiles, thinking he can dance past me, likely score an easy layup, save his team’s lead.
Nah.
I’ve been studying him, anticipating his moves. As he drives, I shadow him, letting him believe he’s shaken me off. Then, as he goes in for his layup, I block him. My palm meets the warm leather of the ball and pins it to the backboard.
“Gimme that!” I yell, swagger pouring out of me.
With the block acting as a shot of adrenaline, our team races back down the court. Tommy feeds the ball to me, and I push hard, the rim in my sights. But this time, I choose not to go solo. I flick the ball out to the three-point line, where my teammate Zack is waiting, locked in and ready. His shot takes flight, and it’s a thing of beauty that ends with a swish. The game is tied.
The crowd erupts. Booming cheers shake the walls of the gym.
With the clock ticking away, now at a nerve-racking twenty-two seconds, Milwood is visibly shaken. They scramble, taking a rushed, bad shot that barely touches the rim. We get the rebound, and Coach Ryan calls a time-out. He pulls out his whiteboard and starts mapping out our next move. He decides to go with an isolation play for me.
I can feel the weight of what’s about to happen. I’ve wanted this my whole life. The type of moment I wish my father was still around to see.
Across the court, Milwood is huddled, their coach whispering, their eyes cutting in my direction.
As we break from our time-out, Tommy gets the ball and instantly passes it to me. I hold it, allowing a few precious seconds to bleed from the clock. I dribble and tease my defender with a head fake, but he doesn’t fall for it again. So I decide to try something else. I hesitate to my right and cross back left. He reaches to steal the ball and is momentarily off balance. I take the split-second opportunity to blow past him.
I’m a freight train bound for my destiny.
I push off the ground with all the athleticism I can muster, not sure if I’m aiming for a dunk or a layup. I just know I need to score. The world around me slows. My body feels completely free for maybe the first time in my life. The clamor of the crowd dims to a muffled hum, my focus on a solitary thing — the rim.
Suddenly, a forceful shove from the defender I blew by sends me tumbling from the sky. I crash into the camera crew standing on the baseline, toppling equipment, my flight ending in a brutal landing on the cold, unforgiving floor.
My left knee is in unbearable pain. The noise of the crowd overloads all my senses. I can barely understand what’s happening.
The last things I hear as the world blurs into darkness are the sharp sound of the referee’s whistle and a stampede of footsteps running toward me.
PHENOM OSSIE BROWN DERAILED BY INJURY
AFTER BROWN INJURY, SYRACUSE LOOKS ELSEWHERE FOR NEXT STAR
FROM THE NEXT LEBRON
TO WHAT COULD HAVE BEEN
Copyright © 2025 by Frederick Joseph. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
