Shot in the Dark

By Daniel Humphrey

Ever since he lost his dad to cancer, seventeen-year-old Austin Reynolds has viewed basketball as a place to escape from his pain and bottled up anger, as well as a means to a better life, working hard enough on his game to gain attention from several colleges. But when Austin’s anger issues get the best of him during a key game, the resul

• Language: English
• Publisher: Daniel Humphrey
• Release date: Feb 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9781733659819

Daniel Humphrey

Daniel Humphrey grew up playing several sports in his hometown of Lincoln, Nebraska, but basketball was his first love. He was a proficient shooter on offense, but sadly, offered little else to his game. SHOT IN THE DARK is his first novel.

Book preview

SHOT IN THE DARK

SHOT IN THE DARK

DANIEL HUMPHREY

Copyright © 2019 by Daniel Humphrey

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 123456789 (print)

ISBN : 123456789 (e-book)

TABLE OF CONTENTS:

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Never say never,

because limits, like fears,

are often just an illusion.

– Michael Jordan

CHAPTER

1

My dad was never even close to becoming a millionaire, but he had a different kind of wealth that never ran out. When it came to shooting a basketball, one of the things he instilled in me was the importance of confidence. You can have textbook form and flawless footwork. But when the game is on the line, if you don’t have confidence in your shot, all that gets tossed out the window.

My coach, Jeff Valentino, who everyone calls Val, shares a similar view and always preaches to us in practice how confidence is something you actually have and carry around with you. I don’t care what you wear when you get dressed in the morning, he’d say, as long as you bring your confidence.

That’s the kind of mentality l want to have for every game, especially when we’re up against St. Thomas High School, one of the biggest schools in the state. 

It was senior night at Allington High School, home of the Eagles. Allington is a small rural town in Illinois with a population pushing toward a whopping eleven thousand. The town is surrounded by agricultural country with a lot of farming land and acres of cornfields. There are a few gas stations and restaurants, but you have to drive half an hour just to see a movie, and it’s about a two-and-a-half hour drive to Chicago.

Senior night conjures up a load of emotions. It’s the last opportunity to put everything on the floor in your home gym. A lot of people seem to think about senior night as just one night, but it’s so much more than that. It’s the culmination of years’ worth of shared experiences, which began well before high school for me.

I remember participating in Allington’s basketball camp when I was in elementary school, dreaming that I’d one day start for the high school varsity basketball team. Val was just starting out at the time as head coach, taking over for Wes Wilson, who had just retired. Val was in his mid-thirties back then, and his hair was jet black, rather than the salt-and-pepper look he was exhibiting on senior night. 

During camp, I’d sit at midcourt alongside the other campers watching Val utilize his high school players to illustrate a drill. When you’re in elementary school, nothing is cooler than a high schooler. I’d watch in awe as the players moved with lightning quickness and agility. They seemed to be having the times of their lives, cracking jokes with one another. The camaraderie among the team was enthralling, and I knew I’d want to be a part of something like that one day. 

I’d wear the same Michael Jordan Chicago Bulls jersey every day at camp. The other guys at camp, who eventually became my teammates, would call me Jordan because of the name on the back of my jersey, and the nickname stuck. Whenever I was on the court, I was always referred to as Jordan. I still feel like a few of my teammates, especially some of the younger guys, might not have even known that my real name isn’t Jordan, but Austin. 

Austin Reynolds.

Our record was 23-2 leading up to senior night. Prior to the beginning of the season, the media outlets had selected us as one of the favorites to win the IHSA Class 3A Boys Basketball State Final. We had four senior starters on our squad who had all played together since way back in those days at camp in elementary school, and I felt like we could go all the way this year after narrowly missing the state tournament a year ago.

I knew St. Thomas had plans to spoil senior night for us. St. Thomas is a private preparatory school in Chicago for boys only. The school competes athletically in class 4A, which is the classification with the biggest enrollment numbers in the state of Illinois for high school basketball. Their basketball team seems to be in the hunt almost every year at the state tournament.

During the JV game, I checked out their fancy maroon-colored coach bus sitting in the parking lot at the front of the school with St. Thomas Trojans displayed in gray letters. I’d be lying if I told you that I wasn’t a little bit jealous. People always say to be grateful for what you have. But dang, their bus was legit.

In his message to the team prior to the game, Val told us not to be afraid or intimidated about how St. Thomas had almost twice as many kids at their school compared to us. Since Allington High School is mixed with both boys and girls, the statistic was even more ridiculous. But I didn’t care about any of that. Way I see it, numbers and sizes make more of a difference in football than in five-on-five sports like basketball. But whatever. I would not be intimidated by anybody, especially by a bunch of rich kids. 

Rap music was blaring through the speakers in our home gym during pregame warm-ups. I could feel the reverberations pulsing through my veins, or maybe it was just the adrenaline flowing.

Either way, I was feeling it.

After going through layups a few times, we did a shooting drill involving two lines – one right next to the basket and the other on the right wing. The first player next to the basket would kick out a pass to the player on the wing. That player would then take a jump shot from behind the three-point line while the player passing the ball would rush out to the wing to challenge the shot. The player taking the shot would then get the rebound and give the ball to the next person in line and switch lines with the other player. We had two balls going to speed up the time between each shot. I love this drill because it allows me to showcase my shot and refine my mechanics.

My first time receiving the ball, I jumped straight up as soon as the ball came into contact with my hands and brought my elbow into a straight line with the hoop, letting go a high arc over the outstretched arms of Darius Campbell, our team’s leading scorer.

I have more of an exaggerated follow-through on my release than most other guys, promoting a higher arc and more rotation on the ball. When I’m playing and somebody’s taking a picture, I know I’m always going to look good, no matter if I make or miss the shot.

I knew the shot was going in the moment the ball left my fingertips. I locked my eyes on the hoop and froze my follow-through as the ball sailed through the net without making any contact with the rim. 

I’m heating up! I hollered at Darius with a wide grin on my face. We high-fived each other as we crossed paths.

Darius is black and has short, wavy hair. His face was beaming as his hand slapped against mine. I wanna see that in the game, he said. 

Oh, you’ll see that in the game, I said. Don’t worry about me. I’m just getting warmed up.

I chased down the ball and handed it to the next person in line, and the drill continued. After a little while, we switched to the left side of the court. I took several more shots, and each time I tossed up a rainbow into the pot of gold at the other end.

After the shooting drill wrapped up, our starters relocated to half-court to stretch out while the rest of the guys on our team hung around the basket for a lazy shootaround. At least, that’s how I viewed it. After all, there’s a reason they had been riding the pine all season.  

I lay down at center court with my back resting up against the hardwood and pulled one of my knees to my chest, stretching my hamstring. Around 30 seconds or so later, I relaxed my leg and pulled my other knee to my chest. While doing so, I scoped out the St. Thomas players in their fancy polyester warm-ups, which covered their bodies from head to toe. By contrast, all we had over our uniforms were black T-shirts with an image of an eagle and the words Rise Above printed on the front and our first initials and last names printed on the back. 

The St. Thomas players’ movements almost seemed robotic. Every last one of them was perfectly in sync, making the same expressions as they performed layup drills. They even had matching sneaks, which almost made me laugh. I noticed that their players were acting like they had already copped the victory, which I wasn’t digging one bit.

As the warm-up clock on the scoreboard winded down, both teams headed back to their benches. I sat down on the bench and absorbed the stale and musty aroma of the gym. The smell is instantly recognizable when first stepping inside the gym, but after a while, the fragrance subsides, and you can only notice it when you really focus on it.

Our gym is an old dome-shaped facility. You could just feel the thousands of games that had been played there. There are quite a few scratches and small stones crammed between the panels on the hardwood floor. Several rows of wooden bleachers rest on both sides of the gym, and a dark brown wooden stage sits directly behind one of the hoops by the baseline. The outlines of the court are painted in red and black. A couple of championship banners suspend high in the air on the wall opposite the stage, illuminated by the bright yellow lights that hang from the ceiling above, scattered evenly throughout. The lights are also surrounded by an array of strong wooden beams, which stretch across the entire width of the gym. 

The fact this was going to be my final game in this gym was a difficult pill for me to swallow.

As I sat on the bench, I checked out the spectators sitting in the bleachers. The gym was filled to the brim with hundreds of spectators packed into the rows of bleachers on both sides of the court.

Earlier in the week at practice, one of the assistant coaches from the University of Central Illinois had emailed me and told me that he’d be in attendance for this game. Although this hadn’t been the first time in the season a college scout had been in attendance for our game, this was the first time a scout had come exclusively to watch me play, causing all those butterflies or whatever to come alive before the game. I knew there was a lot riding on this game. Val had told me to me to just keep playing like I had been playing all season, but I knew I was going to have to ball out if I wanted to snag a scholarship offer.

According to the NCAA, we were still in the evaluation period, so I wouldn’t be allowed to have face-to-face contact with any of the college scouts or coaches until the beginning of March, when the contact period opened up again.

But still, as I scanned the bleachers, I attempted to identify someone who looked like they might be the scout who had come to watch me play, as if I were playing Where’s Waldo in my head. But rather than trying to find someone with a red-and-white striped shirt, a knit cap, glasses, and a walking stick, I expected to see some middle-aged dude taking notes and decked out in red and black because I knew those were the school colors for Central Illinois. But those were our school colors, as well, making the search for Waldo seem almost impossible.

But Waldo wasn’t the only person I was looking for. I saw a man get up from his seat in the bleachers and walk down the set of steps, and for just a split second, I thought the man was my dad.

And then I remembered that he was gone.

As the man exited the gym, I realized that he looked nothing like my dad, and I had no idea why I thought he looked like him in the first place. I hate how sometimes you can get so blinded because you only see what you want to see, and then reality kicks you in the face and makes you feel stupid. 

Once the rap music stopped playing, the cheerleaders from our school escorted us to the far corner of the gym, where our parents were standing and waiting for us to join them. Each one of our seniors, escorted by our parents, stepped towards the center of the gym as the announcer called our names and congratulated us.

When my name got announced, I followed the pattern by stepping towards center court with my right arm locked with my mom’s left arm. She was wearing a corduroy jacket over her work clothes and was carrying a rose I had given to her.

The moment should’ve been bittersweet, but the last five letters of that word must’ve been cut off somehow and tossed into the trash. My mom hugged me afterward and started to tear up a little. I couldn’t explain how I felt, so I kept it all inside, just like I had been doing ever since my dad died.

After the commemoration got over, everything was back to business as usual. The announcer introduced the starting lineup on each squad, his voice reverberating off the surrounding brick walls inside the gym. Our pep band played the national anthem, and then the starters took their positions around center court. I bent down and put my hands on my knees as I positioned myself at center court.

Yo, Reynolds!

I turned my head in the direction where the voice had come from.

Tanner Skaggs.

We had watched film of St. Thomas before practice earlier in the week, and I recognized Skaggs immediately as he sauntered over to me. I knew I’d be guarding Skaggs, and vice versa. 

The first thing I noticed about Skaggs was that he looked as if he had spent more time in the weight room than on the basketball court. His light brown hair was trimmed short in a buzz cut, and his nose appeared a little disfigured, as if he had broken it in the past and it didn’t heal correctly.

Skaggs extended his hand once he got near me, but when I reached out mine, he pulled his hand back.

What? asked Skaggs, revealing a cheap grin on his face. Were you looking for a high five? Nice try, bro. 

Apparently, Skaggs was still in junior high.

You ain’t getting nothing today, Skaggs continued.

I cracked up. What are you smoking?

I don’t smoke, Reynolds, except right past you on the court.

If you ask me, Skaggs needed to work on his trash-talking game.

Skaggs fixed his eyes on the shoes on my feet. Where’d you get those shoes? he asked.

Dude, we’re about to play a game here.

I just wanna know.

Well, that’s too bad, ‘cause I ain’t gonna tell ya.

Whatcha say?

I said, stuff it, Skaggs!

Skaggs jerked his head back, acting surprised. Whoa. You mad, bro?

I didn’t say anything this time around. Sometimes silence is the best answer to a stupid question.

I see how it is, said Skaggs. He moved closer to me until he was right next to me. Then he leaned forward and shushed his voice, practically whispering in my ear. You better watch your back, bro, he said. You’re messing with the wrong person.

Dude was rubbing me the wrong way. Literally.

"Sure thing, bro, I said. Now get away from me. People are gonna start to think we’re together, and I ain’t dating you."

Yeah, in your dreams. Skaggs backed off, but only a few inches.

I directed my attention back to the