The Squared Circle Read Online Free PDF Page B

three-pointers.
    But the more time passed, the more they wanted Sonny and Luther. Luther was basking in the singular attention, but Sonny felt sorry for the team’s veterans, the guys who played last year, especially C.J. Moore, a stylish six-foot-five swingman who was a big-time talent. Media folks had none of these concerns; they wanted Sonny and Luther together, spinning basketballs on their fingertips, dunking each other’s lobs, until the two had in fact worked up game-condition sweat. The cheering coming from the assembled spectators seemed gamelike as well.
    A final dunk-off between Sonny and Luther, requested by ESPN’s Chris Berman and cleared with Coach Gentry, was set up for any technician with a videocam on his shoulder.
    Luther went first. He came in from the side, along the baseline, and hammered home a two-handed reverse slam. He even hung briefly on the rim before he jackknifed himself up and away. In his wake, the backboard was shaking like a leaf. The crowd erupted like a conference championship had just been claimed.
    It was competition now, so when Sonny’s turn came he passed quickly into the zone that left everything behind. No more regrets for last year’s players, no camera lights, no residual tension from the ordeal of the head table with microphones. No nothing.
    He stood on the spot where his heels covered the free throw line. If he looked straight at the rim, ignoring the net, the circle met the square. Sonny never did have a way with words, but something about it was perfect. If he looked straight at and through the rim, it formed a kind of flattened disc framed just exactly right by the square on the backboard behind it. Not too big, not too small, the outer edges of the circle made just the barest contact with the four edges of the square. It was all within, but just.
    In place at the free throw line, six feet five inches and 206 pounds. Where his long, sinewy arms hung at his sides, each large hand palmed a bright orange basketball casually. The crowd of onlookers, quiet as a church and without access to the inner chamber where Sonny was locked in his vision, might have been looking for sure at one of God Almighty’s lightbulb afterthoughts: Hot damn! Before I call it a day, I think I’ll just sit me down and design the perfect basketball player!
    But if Sonny looked to others like a pilgrim standing reverently before a shrine, he didn’t linger long for meditation: The floorboards squeaked as he vaulted himself suddenly forward. He launched like a missile, two quick strides and a flight at the iron. He dunked both balls in a blink, first the right and then the left, in a succession so rapid it looked like an optical trick. It took a moment to absorb, but then the crowd’s astonished approval erupted like a volcano.
    It was the mystery of Checkpoint that made it a source of apprehension. For his own information, Sonny wanted to know if Coach Gentry was going to be present, but Gardner told him no.
    â€œWhat about Coach Price?”
    â€œCoach Price won’t be here either. This is strictly routine, Sonny. It’s not like you’re in any kind of trouble.” While he was offering this reassurance, Gardner was directing people to be seated by gesturing at the chairs around the table. As compliance officer, Gardner was a member of the athletic staff, but not a coach. Sonny assumed his basic duties were to monitor all the rules and regulations published by the NCAA in order to guard against possible violations.
    â€œShouldn’t I be at practice?”
    â€œWould you relax, Youngblood? Coach Gentry knows where you are, you’re covered.”
    The setting was a conference room on second-floor Lingle. Maria, one of the basketball secretaries, was bringing ice water and coffee in thermal pots. Quackenbush and Burns were from NCAA headquarters in Kansas. With their short haircuts and their crisp suits and shiny briefcases, Sonny thought they