“Okay!” I yelled. I glanced over at Cal and saw the veins in his neck straining at his shirt collar. But this was my game, too, and this time Cal was going to have to trust me.

I faked to the right and then spun around, reaching in with my left hand. The ball spun away, and I went for it. I got to it a split second before Tomkins did and dribbled it away from him.

“Shoot! Shoot!” They were yelling from the stands.

I had the shot for an instant, but I held up.

“Shoot!”

Their center moved into the lane, and Tomkins was back on me. I moved toward the center with Tomkins breathing against the side of my face. I pulled up and put my back to their center. Breeze’s man saw me turn with the ball and came to cut off the side away from Tomkins. I brought the ball high over my head for an instant, let them reach, and then passed it over my shoulder to where Breeze should have been. I lost my balance as I let the ball go, and the last thing I saw before I hit the ground was Breeze putting the ball softly against the backboard. The buzzer sounded as I hit the floor.

By the time I got to my feet there were a hundred hands reaching out and touching me. People were handling me and hugging me. I looked up at the scoreboard. The score read: Manhattan 92–Harlem 91. Then it changed: Harlem 93–Manhattan 92. We had won!

Everybody was screaming and shouting. I felt somebody kissing me on the cheek, and I turned and it was Ox. What the heck, I kissed him back. Some of the guys were trying to lift me to their shoulders, and I felt myself half being lifted, half falling and trying desperately to stay on my feet. Over the heads I could see Cal; he raised a clenched fist, and I gave him one back. Our eyes met over the heads, and it was a great feeling.

Somebody was pulling at my wrist, and I turned and saw that it was one of the television guys. He shouted at me, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying. He pointed to the television cameras. They wanted to interview me. I nodded my head yes. I turned to see where Cal was; this was his game as much as mine, maybe more.

When I looked back, I didn’t see him at first. When I did, he was headed towards the locker rooms. Right behind him was the bald head of Tyrone, or Jack, or whatever else the creep was calling himself. I struggled to get out of Ox’s bear hug and told him to get the police.

“What?” He looked at me again.

“Get the police!” I screamed in his ears.

I fought my way through the crowds. The television guys were interviewing some of the kids, and the rest were clamoring around, mugging for the cameras. I saw the tournament committee setting up the trophies on the side of the room.