LEN BIAS: CROSSOVER
A novel
By: Michael D. McClellan | September 19, 2010
The pain rolls in, high tide, and I swear I can hear myself cry out in agony. I can also hear voices for the first time, real, honest-to-goodness voices, not just muffled sounds in the distance. There is also an irritating beeping somewhere close by, and the voices seem unconcerned about stopping it. They talk around it, over it, ignoring it completely. Not me. It's all I can focus on, all I can seem to remember. The voices come and go, the conversations shoot across my consciousness and burn out, disappearing as quickly as they had come. It all sounds important but I can't retain it, even though I know I should. Nothing sticks, save for the drone of the machine in the distance.
Progress...
"Dr. Smithson, the patient now opens his eyes in response to painful stimuli. He makes incomprehensible sounds. There is also a decerebrate response in the upper extremities. Six on the Glasgow, upgraded from prior evaluation."
"Increase patient dosage to twenty milligrams of morphine. All other dosages remain the same."
Progress...
I think about Jay. I wonder what my little brother is doing right now. Probably getting ready to play a summer league game. All he thinks about is basketball. He wants to be like me. The Next Great Bias. There's no doubt that he's got enough competitiveness and athleticism to make a name for himself. He's not as big, not as strong, and doesn't play with my controlled rage, but he loves the game as much as I do and he dreams of following me into the NBA. College first, I tell him. One thing at a time. I want him to be a better student that I was, but I see a lot of me in him. Lazy when it comes to the classroom. Smart, but lazy. Just like his older brother.
I hear talk of intravenous "through tubes" and enteral feeding, neither of which mean anything to me and neither of which linger in my mind more than a few seconds. What is this place? I imagine myself under water, staring up at the surface, trying not to drown. How did I get down here? How do I get back up there? At least the pain is gone. Now I'm alone with my thoughts. I see Michael Jordan in his Chicago Bulls uniform, #23, tongue hanging out as he rises up and flushes the ball through the hoop. I see him on TV, pitching shoes. Air Jordans. Everyone likes Mike. Everyone wants to be like Mike. Not me. I want to be Len Bias. I want to give the public something they've never seen before, a 6'-8" dunking machine with impossible range, a once in a generation player with nothing but championships on his mind.
I think about Lefty. He's my second father, the man who saw the potential in me even before I did. I met him playing ball at the Columbia Park Recreation Center in Landover. I was just a clumsy eighth grader at the time, but he encouraged me to keep practicing and to keep playing hard. That left a huge impression on me - I was big for my age, but I didn't feel very good about my game, and I didn't have a lot of confidence in myself on the court. There were plenty of other guys who could shoot better, dribble better, and pass better than me. To have the head coach at the University of Maryland single me out and make a point of complimenting me...
Lefty kept in touch as I transitioned to Northwestern High. He knew my coach, Bob Wagner, and Coach Wagner would frequently take Lefty's advice on how to make me into a better player. Lefty wants to you try this, coach would start off by saying, and he immediately had my attention. He thinks this move will help make you an elite player at the next level. It didn't hurt that I was a quick learner; whenever coach showed me a new move, I would practice it immediately and be ready to use it the next day. Spin moves. Back-to-the-basket moves. Jab steps. Coach also made sure Lefty knew how quickly I was catching on, and both men were hardly surprised when the college recruiters started to line up at my door. Georgetown wanted me. NC State. St. Johns. Boston College. Villanova. It was flattering to get letters and phone calls from coaches like John Thompson and Rollie Massimino, but Lefty had the inside track. Northwestern was a ten minute walk from the Maryland campus, and Lefty would catch as many of my games as possible. By the time I was a senior he was on a first-name basis with everyone in my family. I liked the thought of playing basketball close to home, where everyone could catch the games. It was ACC basketball, the best in the country. So I didn't hesitate when it came time to sign my letter of intent. Maryland was the perfect fit for me.
"Heart rate 126, blood pressure 104/58, temperature 101. Doctor, he's palping at 120."
"One-twenty?"
"Palping at 120."
I think about our practices. Lefty was the first coach to hold Midnight Madness, a season-opening practice held at the stroke of midnight, with admission a single can of food for charity. There were always thousands of fans in the stands at Cole Field House to see us jam. It felt like a street party, with music blaring, a dunk contest on the menu, dancing, singing, socializing, smoke machines, a featured scrimmage played with the defensive intensity of an NBA All-Star Game. Have fun, strut your stuff, Lefty would say, slapping skin with us before we took the floor. Sign autographs, kiss babies, smile for the cameras. It's good for recruiting. We soaked up the street-ball atmosphere because we all knew what the rest of the practices were like. Three hour torture sessions - running, running and more running. Weights. Sprints. Drills. Film. More weights. More running. I hated Lefty's practices - wanted to quit more than once - but I knew he had my best interests at heart. I knew he was going to get the most out of me, that he was going to make me a better player. So instead of quitting I stuck it out. I became bigger, stronger, faster, much more skilled. I could run all day. I wanted to run all day. I started getting noticed, first locally and then in conference, and then nationally. Len Bias, All-American.
"Intracranial pressure is 30."
"Let's increase the intravenous fluids. I want to raise his blood pressure while we're bringing the volume in. How much fluid has he gotten?"
"Eight hundred."
"Up his fluid, both lines."
