Blue Star Rapture Read Online Free PDF Page B

compadre . Could block out the streetlight or the moonlight just as well as the sun, but trying to imagine him as a college basketball star, as a student/athlete , that seemed more far-fetched than a thing should be.
    Nevertheless, hadn’t Lindsey outlined for him the 504 concept? A coach at North State ought to know what he was talking about. T.J. said to Tyron, “The payoff is glory.”
    â€œGlory.” Tyron repeated the word reverently.
    Tell me about the rabbits, George. Tell me about the part where I get to tend the rabbits , T.J. thought to himself. But he said, “Playing in places like Pauley Pavilion and Madison Square Garden. Playing on ESPN and CBS. Flying in jet planes all over the country and staying in fancy hotels. You get the picture, don’t make me say it again.”
    â€œJesus.”
    By this time T.J. had been too tired to continue the conversation; besides, it was getting cold in the car. “I’m goin’ to bed,” he declared. “You better go on home before you miss your curfew.”
    â€œDon’t remind me about curfew. Curfew is a thing I hate.”
    â€œDo me a favor, Tyron?”
    â€œWhat favor?”
    â€œTurn your hat around.”
    The thing that woke him up was Obie Williams shaking him by the arm. “Let’s go, Nucci,” Obie was saying. “Ingalls says we only got twenty minutes.”
    The next game , T.J. thought to himself. His stroll down memory lane had put him to sleep. He swung himself into the seated position on the edge of the bed and started rubbing his eyes. “You know what, Obie? You snore like a chain saw.”
    â€œIs that it? You ready or what?”
    â€œI’m ready, I’m ready.”
    When they left the air-conditioned dorm, though, and walked into the teeth of the two P.M. heat, T.J. wondered if he really was ready. It was a distinct possibility that his ankle might be giving him trouble by the second game, if not by the second half of the first game.
    The Blue Stars kept winning. Besides the incomparable Ishmael, Obie Williams was a good player, and Tyron was playing as well as T.J. had ever seen him. Once, when T.J. and Ishmael were sitting out at the same time, T.J. said it was amazing that Tyron wasn’t worn out and discouraged.
    Ishmael grinned at him. “Must be the shoes, man.”
    T.J. had to laugh. “Must be.”
    â€œGot to be the shoes, man.”
    When T.J. entered the game, he had to endure the task of guarding Streets again. It was hopeless. Streets was tireless, quick, and strong. There was an upside to T.J.’s situation, though; Ingalls had figured out by now that he was one of the lesser players on the team, so he played him fewer minutes. Maybe a sore ankle gambit wouldn’t be necessary.
    Between games, T.J. mopped his sweat and drank a whole bottle of Gatorade. Buddy Ingalls was telling them, “If they’re going to play that zone, you have to punish them for it. A zone is a cop-out; make them pay the price.” T.J. could tell what kind of coach Buddy would be one day. He would be one of those roosters with a flower in his lapel, prowling the sidelines with a steady chatter and a cock-of-the-roost sort of strut.
    He tuned Buddy out so he could observe the crowd of adults hovering near the courts, the coaches, the assistant coaches, and the groupies. Even they were hot, wiping sweat and drinking Pepsis. T.J. picked out Bee Edwards talking to a coach from Purdue. He was wearing a hat that looked like an undersized cowboy hat, but it had the Nike logo on it. Every garment he wore had the Nike logo, even his socks.
    He’s a street agent , Ingalls had said. A hustler . T.J. remembered Coach Lindsey’s words too: You’d be surprised at what kinds of characters can surface in this business .
    When the second game started, T.J. made sure he was sitting next to Buddy Ingalls. He asked him what a street agent was.
    â€œA douche bag,”