This is Part Two of a three-part story.
The defense couldn't stop Colby Jacobs. That was obvious to everyone in the gym, except Colby Jacobs. All they needed to do was swing the ball to the weak side, make the entry pass into him in the low post, and have Colby square up. The rest was low-hanging fruit.
But Cody wouldn't square up -- wouldn't turn around. Instead, he passed the ball right back to whomever had gotten it to him within a second of catching it... five straight times!
Christ, Colby
, he thought to himself
, turn around and shoot the damn ball!
When
Woodhull
scored to take a two-point lead with under a minute to go in the first half, he called a timeout.
He tried to calm himself. Colby was a good kid, and, ironically, a pretty smart kid. But for some reason, there were an awful lot of times when it was virtually impossible to communicate even the simplest idea to him. The cause of these failures to communicate still escaped him.
He gathered the JV players around him and knelt in the middle of the circle with his dry erase board, facing Colby. "Guys, what is our best offensive option right now?"
"Colby!" Mark Smyth understood. Mark was the point guard and Colby's best friend. Mark knew what he wanted, and he understood that Colby could be having the game of his life if he would only take advantage of the situations being presented.
"Exactly!" He paused. Looking up at the huge, blonde kid towering over the rest of the team, he spoke quietly, calmly. "Colby", he held the board up for everyone to see. "In the 2-3 Zone, their middle defender has been slow to react when we swing it to the weak side, and the last few possessions, there hasn't been anybody behind you when you catch it on the block." He showed the ball movement -- wing to point to wing to post -- three passes, or, if possible, even simpler, wing to point to post -- two passes. He also showed with big Xs the positions of the defensive players when the ball moved quickly from the left side to the right.
He stared directly at the big freshman. "All you have to do is square up to the basket. Just
turn
around! There's
no
body behind you, no one between
you
and the basket! You've got a
lay
up almost every time! Even if the defender does react, we want
you
with the ball in the low post.
You
can shoot over the top of them. That's a jump shot you can make 75% of the time!"
He thought he recognized understanding in the kid's eyes. "Okay, we're going to you again, Colby. Pivot to the basket and take what the defense is giving you. It's either a layup or a short, jump shot. Either one is a better than the shots we've been taking." He paused; then continued slowly, "Colby, we
want
you taking the shot. Understand?" The big kid shook his head and smiled.
He paused. "Okay, let's get one right now. We're not working for a last shot. We'll take points when we can get them. If there's any time left, just play good D -- no fouls -- and we go into halftime tied." He put his right hand out, and 12 hands found the top of his. "All right, one... two... three", 12 hands bounced up and down, as they chanted as one, "
Missiles
!"
The five starters returned to the floor. Steve Gruber inbounded the ball to Mark, and he brought it up the floor quickly, deliberately.
Woodhull
was playing their 2-3 Zone again, and when Craig Robey popped out to the left wing, Mark made the pass to him. The middle defender on the bottom of the zone predictably shifted to the left elbow behind Colby in the high post. "Swing it, swing it!" he yelled.
Craig sent the ball back to Mark and as he did, Colby pivoted, sealing off the defender, and then quickly slid across and down the lane to the right block. Mark didn't even need to make the extra pass to Danny Withen on the right wing. Instead, he led Colby with a perfect, bounce pass.
Colby caught it; his back to the basket, right after
Woodhull's
baseline defender had stepped out of the lane to the right to defend Danny. As he predicted, the middle defender was slow in shifting back to Colby. He was all by himself with the ball, not more than four feet from the basket.
But instead of turning around, Colby passed it right back to Mark, and by the time he did, the
Woodhull
guard had shifted. He knew exactly where the pass was headed because he'd seen that same pass on the last five defensive sets. He intercepted it in full stride, and before Mark or any of the other
Missiles
could react, he was already 20 feet up court past the center circle and gliding like an eagle toward the other basket.
The kid went in for the easy layup, and the hundred or so spectators in the
Woodhull
gym erupted in celebration. He looked up at the scoreboard:
Eagles
27 -- Visitors 23. The clock was ticking down: 26... 25... 24...
He was beside himself and, for an instant, lost his cool. "COLBY!" he screamed at the top of his lungs. The entire crowd heard him -- how could they not? It was a tiny gym, not even one-quarter full. The big, blonde kid stopped near the
Woodhull
baseline, staring, absolutely baffled. "SHOOT... THE... BALL!" his voice boomed, as he glared with frustration at his freshman center.
And then he saw it, saw it
before
it happened, before Colby's brain even registered what he'd said. Colby, he had come to learn, did everything he was told to do, exactly as he was told to do it. That is, when he understood
what
it was he was being told to do. He was perhaps the most obedient kid he'd ever met.
So, when Steve Gruber gathered up the ball under the
Eagles'
basket and stepped out of bounds to make the inbounds pass, his attention, too, was drawn to the lumbering center being dressed down in front of everyone. The last person on the court that should have been receiving that inbounds pass was Colby, but Steve passed him the ball anyway.
Colby caught it, stopped, turned, and stared directly at him again, as if what his coach had said had finally made an impression on his tender, adolescent brain. And turning again to the basket 80 feet away on the opposite side of the gymnasium, he heaved a shot, like a quarterback throwing a post route to a non-existent wide receiver.
The ball flew, as if in slow motion, high above the gym floor, over the heads of all of the
Missiles
and
Eagles