The squeak of sneakers on polished hardwood echoed through the gym. Trace LaRose pivoted, the ball a blur as it danced between his hands. He exploded towards the hoop, muscles coiling, then releasing in a perfect symphony of motion.
For a moment, he was airborne, suspended above the court like gravity was just a suggestion. Then, he slammed the ball through the hoop with a satisfying thunk in a show of impressive power for a six feet, four inch point guard.
Point Guards were usually the shortest players on their teams with a few exceptions, usually anywhere from 5'10 to 6'2, with taller guards going for 6'6 or better, but they were rare players. It wasn't everyday a highly skilled player at better than 6'2 possessed the speed, agility, touch, floor vision, and basketball I.Q. to play that position while having the musculature of a taller player without being slowed down by it. They were called 'Unicorns' for a reason. They could play as or defend against other position players that created mismatches for opposing teams.
Trace was six foot, four but he didn't possess the build or height to regularly play or guard a Small Forward. Even Shooting Guards had him beat in the build department, if only slightly, but most were still taller than 6'4 without the power advantage. It was Trace's high basketball I.Q. and defensive instincts that allowed him to defend against these two positions if asked, but it would be to his disadvantage if he was made to guard them for the majority of a game. In basketball, height and power made up for a lot.
It's often joked in the world of basketball that you couldn't teach height. Height above all was prioritized in Trace's father's playing days and the truth hadn't changed now. The only difference now was that Centers and Power Forwards were asked, if not expected, to be able to 'stretch the floor'. Meaning that taller players couldn't just get by on being tall, taking in rebounds, and blocking shots of shorter players. They also needed to be skilled passers, possess some level of athleticism, be able to shoot with range instead of from beneath the basket, and be able to make at least one of two free throws from the foul line, if not both.
The modern day game was all about offense to the detriment of the big man positions of basketball, the Power Forward and the Center, who were known more for defensive playing skills. Coaches preferred two types of shots that forced formerly tall players to be expected to do as much, if not more than their shorter counterparts, and that was scoring the ball within a few feet of the basket or shooting from 3 point range, which was beyond 19 feet away from the basket at the pro level.
The mid-range shot was statistically a bad shot to take when formerly, having a great mid-range jumper was coveted by a player and their teams. A great Small Forward was to be the perfect balance of defense and offensive ability, more offense than defense, but did both great rather than good, and they had power to go with it. That was the position Marcus LaRoy had played and they were often called 'all-around' players, they did a little bit of everything well.
Height would still turn a tall person who had never played the game before into a professional player, so long as he could acquire some offensive skill set within an acceptable time range. Usually three to five years. Taller, heavier players were now expected to move with some sort of speed to keep up with shorter, lighter, faster players. Centers that didn't possess high offensive capability, or shooting were a liability for their teams no matter how great their defense.
If a Center-Power Forward couldn't shoot, the defensive team could double-team any other player, leaving the Center or Power Forward open enough to shoot the ball. If they were an awful shot, then the defense would just let them shoot as they were more likely to miss than to make a basket, which also allowed the opposing team an extra man to increase the likelihood of a rebound to their team's favor. A defensive stop meant a lot less when that defense didn't consistently translate to points.
Point Guards had to know their team and plays better than any other teammate. They were responsible for guiding the offense, directing their teammates into position, creating opportunities for their teammates while being able to create their own, and look for the quick and easy basket through their teammate first and themselves second. It was a solid rule, but not universal because players were people that came in a variety of temperament, philosophy, and I.Q. and the same thought could be applied to players of other positions.
What was expected of a player at a certain position wasn't always what the game or a team got, some players had the physical gifts and ability to play any position and adapt to what the team asked of them, some point guards were scorers more than passers, some forwards were passers more than defensemen, and some Centers could be better shooters than they were blocking a shot.
"Looking good, Trace!" Coach Williams called from the sideline. "How's the knee feeling?"
Trace landed smoothly, a grin spreading across his ligtly sweat licked face. "Like new, Coach. Better than new."
It had been four months since that disastrous game in Beijing. Four months of grueling rehab, of pushing his body to its limits and beyond. The doctors had called his recovery "miraculous." Trace just called it determination.
As he jogged back to the free-throw line, a flicker of movement in the bleachers caught his eye. Alicia Chen sat there, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail leaving blue colored bangs to frame her face, textbook open on her lap. She offered a small wave, which Trace returned, feeling a flutter in his chest that had nothing to do with exertion.
"All right, let's run it again," Coach Williams barked. "Play defense, full court press this time. Show me you're ready for Friday's game."
Trace settled into a defensive stance, his eyes narrowing in concentration. He might have missed the rest of the U17 tournament, might have had to watch from the sidelines as his team got eliminated without him, but that was in the past. Now, he had a high school season with hopes of reaching a championship to win.
"I'm telling you, Sarah, he's pushing himself too hard." Marcus LaRose's voice carried from the kitchen as Trace entered the house, gym bag slung over his shoulder.
"He knows his limits, Marcus," his mother replied, her tone a mixture of pride and concern as she continued preparing dinner around her husband as if he were a badly placed support pillar. "You were the same way at his age. If you insist on hovering, can you do it in the living room." She sighed, trying not to give in to her husband's worries.
Trace paused in the hallway, listening.
His father sighed. "That's what worries me. I remember what it felt like, thinking you're invincible. But one wrong move, one bad landing..."
"I'm fine, Dad," Trace said, stepping into the kitchen. "Better than fine. Did you see the stats from last night's game?"
Marcus and Sarah exchanged a look that Trace couldn't quite decipher.
"We did," his mother said, smiling. "Thirty-eight points, twelve assists. You were on fire and with less minutes played than your season average at that." She lightly elbowed Marcus as if to say his point was moot.
"That's my point," Marcus interjected. "You're playing like you've got something to prove, son. Like you're trying to make up for lost time."
Trace felt a flare of irritation. "Maybe I am. Is that so wrong? The scouts are coming back around. I've got a shot at the McDonall's All-American game. I can't ease up now."
Marcus opened his mouth to reply, but Sarah laid a hand on his arm, stopping the man from commenting. "We're proud of you, Trace. We just want you to be careful about stressing your body."
Trace nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "I am, Ma. I promise. I feel great." He turned and headed for the stairs, calling over his shoulder, "I'm gonna do my stretches, then hit the books. I got a Chem test tomorrow and I need to pass so Coach doesn't worry."
As he climbed the stairs, he pulled out his phone, smiling at the text notification on the screen.
Alicia: Great game last night! Still on for study session tomorrow?
He quickly typed back: You know it. Wouldn't miss it.
The roar of the crowd was deafening. Trace dribbled at the top of the key, the clock ticking down. Ten seconds left, his team down by one in the state semi-finals.
This was his moment. The moment to prove he was back, better than ever. To show every scout in the stands that Trace LaRose was still the future of basketball.
He made his move, a lightning-quick crossover that left his defender stumbling. The lane opened up before him like a red carpet. A clear runway that lit up brightly, inviting him to the hoop.
Trace drove hard, launching himself towards the hoop. In that moment, he felt invincible, unstoppable, flying higher than he ever had before.
Then he felt it. A sickening pop in his knee, like a rubber band snapping. The ball slipped from his grasp as he crashed to the court, a scream of agony tearing from his throat.
The world spun, faces blurring above him. His father's voice, tight with fear: "Trace! Son, can you hear me?"
Alicia, pushing through the crowd: "Someone call an ambulance!"
And through it all, one thought pounded in Trace's mind, a mantra of denial:
No. Not again. Please, not again.
But as the pain pulsed through him, as the paramedics lifted him onto a stretcher, Trace LaRose knew.
His dream, so recently revived, had just shattered. Again.
And this time, there would be no miraculous comeback.