"Rez Ball" by Byron Graves, Chapters 10–23

“Whoa, what is going on over here?” Khiana asks, venturing into the corner where Wes has the documentary interview spot constantly in place.

The demon on the screen grumbles, “Prepare to have your limbs ripped from their sockets, your eyes gouged and eaten, your heart ripped from your chest, and your soul...taken.”

All of a sudden, Wes stares at the screen very intently.

A car is rumbling down our dirt road. A few seconds later, I can hear the distinct rattle of the muffler of Uncle Ricky’s rez bomb.

It’s Halloween. Best holiday of the year. By far. Christmas is so commercialized. And the music? Yuck.

“We could coordinate outfits if you want. I’ve never done that before. But when my mom took me to a comic con a few years ago I was low-key jealous of all the friends there that made their cosplay costumes even cooler by matching up with people.”

“That’s kind of coordinated; the characters are from the same game and all, but they don’t necessarily go together.”

“Your dad, he was a hell of a ball player. Boy, he could shoot the lights out. He had one of the smoothest jump shots I’ve seen at any level.”
“He said that, too,” I say, deadpan.

“Some of you are not going to make it or won’t be able to hang. Most will quit. Some will go home and cry to your moms. But those who survive...you get to come with us.” Everyone looks stoic...

“We’re going to start with circuit training. Each section of the gym will be a different exercise. Sit-ups. Push-ups. Jumping jacks. Wall climbers. Leg raises. Wall sits. Sprints. And when we finish with that, we’ll run dribbling and shooting drills to gauge where you are, skills wise.”

Almost everyone walks to the one water fountain and waits in line, hunched over.

And you’re driven, self-motivated. No one was waking you up early every day this summer and forcing you to go and work out so hard. You did that. And that determination will carry over to anything else you want. You can do anything you want with your life.

I’m sore as all hell from the past week of torture, but we have one final scrimmage before it’s over.

Nate goes to inbound the ball, but Mason is all over me, hands flailing in every direction.

As I dribble, I worry if I’ve made varsity. I worry if I’m on the cusp. I worry whether this final play will make or break it.

There’s a sliver of room, and I take it to the basket.

“Whenever I watch documentaries, the best ones include tough interviews, from tough moments. That’s what makes them compelling. Special. Those clips.”

Next summer, I’m committing to the Tre Brun workout regimen.

Khiana barges past us toward the kitchen.

“I guess,” I say with a dismissive shrug.

“I’m going to focus on improving my game. This past week of working on my game with my JV teammates has shown me I can really hone my skills at this level. I’ll keep getting better.”

“I dig it. I like the premeditated, good guy, say-the-right-thing response. We have it in the can, as they say. But now, for the sake of options, tell me how you really feel.”

The lobby to the gym is filled with fans buying tickets to the game, getting snacks from the concession stand, and buying this year’s team apparel.

“Thank you,” I say, still mystified by the idea of holding my varsity Warriors uniform.

“We’re only running the set of plays we showed Tre at practice for the first half, so he will know what in the hell is going on. When we reconvene at the half, we’ll give him a refresher of JD. Bring it in.”

People all around talk, laugh, clap, cheer, and whistle, the sounds mashing into a single inhuman voice. Like static.

My screw-ups start to feel like dominoes falling as I botch the next couple of plays, too.

My online class did a review of the study guide for tomorrow’s test in my Advanced Policy Analysis, Advocacy, and Contemporary Issues class.

I throw on my headphones and scroll through social media on my phone and smile when I spot my lob pass to Kevin on a bunch of people’s stories.

Dallas tips it back to me and the ball lands perfectly in my hands, just the way I like the grooves to feel across my fingertips.

You already got three fouls. You’re playing out of control, looking like a rabid rez dog...

I fumble the ball, regain control of it, but suddenly, Bemidji players surround me.

Mason says, “Be cool if you can learn the plays and get some clock under your belt. Maybe we can get you some experience this year during some of our blowout victories.”

“Now drop your little prima donna hissy fit. I’ve got some coaching to do.”

Santa’s Workshop is located in front of the tree, with Santa himself poised on a gigantic red-and-gold throne overseeing the elf helpers directing an enormous line of kids who are shouting, screaming, pointing.