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“Then why do I have to do all this?” Jamal raised his chin to a stubborn angle. Still Warrick heard the insecurity in his voice. “We’re up two games to one over the Nuggets and tomorrow night we play our second game at home. Why do I have to do this if we’re winning?”
Warrick pictured winning game four Wednesday night in the Empire Arena. That would bring them within one game of ending the series and capturing the championship title. Game five was Saturday night in Denver. It would be great for the team and the fans to earn the title at home. But it didn’t really matter where they lifted the trophy.
DeMarcus dragged his hand over his close-cropped hair. “You need to learn the plays, Jamal.”
“Yeah, man.” Anthony shifted to face the younger player. “We can’t keep covering for you. If you give a man a fish, he eats for a day. If you teach a man to fish, he eats for a lifetime.”
“Thanks, Saint Anthony. Now I know what Jesus would do.” Vincent’s words were dust dry.
Anthony’s olive green eyes glared at the Monarchs’ center. “Jesus didn’t say that.”
Serge rubbed his forehead. “Could we get through one practice without the two of you sniping at each other? I know a three-year-old girl who is better behaved than the two of you.”
“Sorry, Serge.” Vincent’s words didn’t hold much sincerity. “Look, Jamal. You’re always complaining that we have to take the series to seven games. We wouldn’t have to do that if you’d learn the playbook.”
Jamal turned his mulish expression on Vincent. “Everything I’ve got, I leave on the court. It’s been good enough to get us this far.”
“The finals aren’t about being good enough, Jamal.” Warrick slipped his hands into the front pockets of his black Dockers. “The finals are about being the best. What are you prepared to do for it? How far are you willing to lift your game?”
The room grew still as Warrick waited for the rookie’s response. This answer would determine the rest of their season. They’d need the support of all thirteen players to take home the championship. Without that, the Monarchs would end their season as the also-ran. No one remembered second place.
Slowly, Jamal’s muscles relaxed. His stubborn expression eased. “I’m willing to try this—if it will lift my game.” He gave Warrick a sharp look. “But my game’s already really high.”
Warrick recognized the younger man’s cockiness as cover for the insecurity underneath. “I know.”
“Good.” Julian spoke on a relieved sigh. “Let’s get started.”
Warrick looked to Julian. “What do you need us to do?”
Julian switched his attention to individual players during his explanation. “When you boil them down, each play is tailored to a specific player and designed to maximize his skill at his position. For example, there’s a plan designed to get Serge open in the post. Another to get Warrick open in the paint.”
Watching Julian, Warrick imagined the high school teacher he must have been. A great one.
“So, how does this work? Am I supposed to stare at Serge and keep repeating his play number like a parrot?” Jamal sounded dubious.
“No, we need a visual representation of the play associated with that player.” Julian gestured toward the other side of the room. “Serge, take a seat on the sofa. Tony, go ahead and sit on the coffee table. It’s sturdier than it looks. Rick, take the recliner, and Vinny, stand beside the television.”
Jamal’s expression remained doubtful as the other players took their positions. “What’s this supposed to do?”
Julian gestured toward Warrick. “Instead of thinking of Rick’s play as Backdoor, remember it as the Recliner Play.” He turned to Serge. “Serge is no longer the Post Screen play. He’s the Sofa Play.”
Jamal hooked his hands onto his hips. “And what’s Tony? The Table Play?”
Julian nodded. “And Vinny is the TV Play.”
Jamal’s brows knitted as he stared across the room at Warrick, seated in the armchair. “Rick. Recliner.” He stressed the R sound in both words. A grin spread across his warm brown features. “This is dumb, but it might work.”
DeMarcus patted his father’s left shoulder. “I don’t care how dumb it seems as long as it works.”
“Let’s run through a couple of plays.” Julian displayed a green and blue stress ball. “You guys stay where you are. Jamal’s going to walk to his position as it relates to where you’re seated.”
“Wait a minute.” Jaclyn gestured toward Julian’s right hand. “Is that a Miami Waves stress ball?”
Julian’s cheeks darkened. “Come on, Jackie. I can’t just toss it out. Marc played for the Waves for fourteen years.”
“He’s the Brooklyn Monarchs’ head coach now.” Jaclyn looked to her assistant. “Althea, please arrange to have some Monarchs stress balls ordered. Julian needs a new toy.”
“You know how Jackie feels about the Waves, Julian.” Althea shook her head with a grin. “I’ll take care of it first thing in the morning, Jackie.”
