THE LAST SHOT
Len studied the grainy black-and-white photo that accompanied the article. Jordan looked younger than his seventeen years, with a lean frame and an earnest expression that suggested he'd grown up in a world very different from the one Len knew. Where Len had learned to play basketball on courts surrounded by drug dealers and gang members, where every game was a test of will as much as skill, Jordan appeared to come from the kind of place where the biggest worry was whether the grass was cut short enough for the Friday night football game.
"Different worlds," Len murmured, more to himself than to Terry.
"What you mean?"
"Look at this dude," Len said, holding up the photo. "Clean-cut, probably got two parents at home, probably never had to worry about whether he was gonna eat dinner or whether some fool was gonna try to jack him for his sneakers on the way home from practice."
Terry nodded knowingly. They both understood what Len was talking about. Growing up in Baltimore in the early 1980s meant navigating a landscape that was becoming increasingly dangerous as crack cocaine flooded the streets and the city's murder rate climbed toward record levels. For young black men like Len and Terry, basketball wasn't just a game—it was a potential escape route from a world where the alternatives were often prison or death.
"That's why you gonna destroy him," Terry said with conviction. "You been tested, man. You been playing against dudes who treat basketball like life or death, because for them, it is. This Jordan cat probably never played a game where losing meant anything more than disappointing his daddy."
Len wasn't so sure. There was something in Jordan's eyes in the photograph, a intensity that suggested he understood competition on a level that went beyond wins and losses. But Terry was right about one thing—Len had been forged in a crucible that would have broken most players. Every game he'd played since he was twelve years old had been against older, stronger, more desperate competition. He'd learned to use his size and skill not just to score, but to survive.
"You coming to the tournament?" Len asked.
"Wouldn't miss it," Terry replied. "Got some business to handle down that way anyway."
Len didn't ask what kind of business. He'd learned not to probe too deeply into Terry's activities, just as Terry had learned not to lecture Len about the company he kept. Their friendship was built on mutual respect and shared history, but they both understood that they were walking different paths—Len toward a basketball scholarship and a chance at the NBA, Terry toward whatever opportunities the streets provided.
"Besides," Terry continued, "somebody got to be there to watch you put this country boy in his place. Show him what real basketball looks like."
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"Different worlds," Len murmured, more to himself than to Terry.
"What you mean?"
"Look at this dude," Len said, holding up the photo. "Clean-cut, probably got two parents at home, probably never had to worry about whether he was gonna eat dinner or whether some fool was gonna try to jack him for his sneakers on the way home from practice."
Terry nodded knowingly. They both understood what Len was talking about. Growing up in Baltimore in the early 1980s meant navigating a landscape that was becoming increasingly dangerous as crack cocaine flooded the streets and the city's murder rate climbed toward record levels. For young black men like Len and Terry, basketball wasn't just a game—it was a potential escape route from a world where the alternatives were often prison or death.
"That's why you gonna destroy him," Terry said with conviction. "You been tested, man. You been playing against dudes who treat basketball like life or death, because for them, it is. This Jordan cat probably never played a game where losing meant anything more than disappointing his daddy."
Len wasn't so sure. There was something in Jordan's eyes in the photograph, a intensity that suggested he understood competition on a level that went beyond wins and losses. But Terry was right about one thing—Len had been forged in a crucible that would have broken most players. Every game he'd played since he was twelve years old had been against older, stronger, more desperate competition. He'd learned to use his size and skill not just to score, but to survive.
"You coming to the tournament?" Len asked.
"Wouldn't miss it," Terry replied. "Got some business to handle down that way anyway."
Len didn't ask what kind of business. He'd learned not to probe too deeply into Terry's activities, just as Terry had learned not to lecture Len about the company he kept. Their friendship was built on mutual respect and shared history, but they both understood that they were walking different paths—Len toward a basketball scholarship and a chance at the NBA, Terry toward whatever opportunities the streets provided.
"Besides," Terry continued, "somebody got to be there to watch you put this country boy in his place. Show him what real basketball looks like."
THE LAST SHOT
Len studied the grainy black-and-white photo that accompanied the article. Jordan looked younger than his seventeen years, with a lean frame and an earnest expression that suggested he'd grown up in a world very different from the one Len knew. Where Len had learned to play basketball on courts surrounded by drug dealers and gang members, where every game was a test of will as much as skill, Jordan appeared to come from the kind of place where the biggest worry was whether the grass was cut short enough for the Friday night football game.
"Different worlds," Len murmured, more to himself than to Terry.
"What you mean?"
"Look at this dude," Len said, holding up the photo. "Clean-cut, probably got two parents at home, probably never had to worry about whether he was gonna eat dinner or whether some fool was gonna try to jack him for his sneakers on the way home from practice."
Terry nodded knowingly. They both understood what Len was talking about. Growing up in Baltimore in the early 1980s meant navigating a landscape that was becoming increasingly dangerous as crack cocaine flooded the streets and the city's murder rate climbed toward record levels. For young black men like Len and Terry, basketball wasn't just a game—it was a potential escape route from a world where the alternatives were often prison or death.
"That's why you gonna destroy him," Terry said with conviction. "You been tested, man. You been playing against dudes who treat basketball like life or death, because for them, it is. This Jordan cat probably never played a game where losing meant anything more than disappointing his daddy."
Len wasn't so sure. There was something in Jordan's eyes in the photograph, a intensity that suggested he understood competition on a level that went beyond wins and losses. But Terry was right about one thing—Len had been forged in a crucible that would have broken most players. Every game he'd played since he was twelve years old had been against older, stronger, more desperate competition. He'd learned to use his size and skill not just to score, but to survive.
"You coming to the tournament?" Len asked.
"Wouldn't miss it," Terry replied. "Got some business to handle down that way anyway."
Len didn't ask what kind of business. He'd learned not to probe too deeply into Terry's activities, just as Terry had learned not to lecture Len about the company he kept. Their friendship was built on mutual respect and shared history, but they both understood that they were walking different paths—Len toward a basketball scholarship and a chance at the NBA, Terry toward whatever opportunities the streets provided.
"Besides," Terry continued, "somebody got to be there to watch you put this country boy in his place. Show him what real basketball looks like."
"Different worlds," Len murmured, more to himself than to Terry.
"What you mean?"
"Look at this dude," Len said, holding up the photo. "Clean-cut, probably got two parents at home, probably never had to worry about whether he was gonna eat dinner or whether some fool was gonna try to jack him for his sneakers on the way home from practice."
Terry nodded knowingly. They both understood what Len was talking about. Growing up in Baltimore in the early 1980s meant navigating a landscape that was becoming increasingly dangerous as crack cocaine flooded the streets and the city's murder rate climbed toward record levels. For young black men like Len and Terry, basketball wasn't just a game—it was a potential escape route from a world where the alternatives were often prison or death.
"That's why you gonna destroy him," Terry said with conviction. "You been tested, man. You been playing against dudes who treat basketball like life or death, because for them, it is. This Jordan cat probably never played a game where losing meant anything more than disappointing his daddy."
Len wasn't so sure. There was something in Jordan's eyes in the photograph, a intensity that suggested he understood competition on a level that went beyond wins and losses. But Terry was right about one thing—Len had been forged in a crucible that would have broken most players. Every game he'd played since he was twelve years old had been against older, stronger, more desperate competition. He'd learned to use his size and skill not just to score, but to survive.
"You coming to the tournament?" Len asked.
"Wouldn't miss it," Terry replied. "Got some business to handle down that way anyway."
Len didn't ask what kind of business. He'd learned not to probe too deeply into Terry's activities, just as Terry had learned not to lecture Len about the company he kept. Their friendship was built on mutual respect and shared history, but they both understood that they were walking different paths—Len toward a basketball scholarship and a chance at the NBA, Terry toward whatever opportunities the streets provided.
"Besides," Terry continued, "somebody got to be there to watch you put this country boy in his place. Show him what real basketball looks like."
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THE LAST SHOT
THE LAST SHOT
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Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940184523811 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Dwight Miller |
| Publication date: | 07/03/2025 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 41 KB |
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