A.N: Okay this is my first fanfic. I' not sure how good it'll be. Well it's an AU, so hopefully you guys will like that.
Disclaimer: Naruto doesn't belong to me and neither does Full Court Press, which belongs to Mike Lupica. Now let's begin.
Full Court Press
1.
All Neji Hyuuga really knew about Monaco was that Grace Kelly Got old and fat there after she married the guy Neji's mother had always called Prince Reindeer.
Neji's mother could talk about Monte Carlo and Monaco as if she were talking about Long Island City. But then she'd been fixed on the princess for as long as Neji could remember. She would say, "I've always felt a bound. Maybe because we're both the daughters of bricklayers. One of us grew up to marry a Grimaldi and us of married your father, may the sonofabitch rest in peace." Neji never knew what was fact from fiction with his mother, who never stopped keeping scrapbooks of the princess until she died in that car crash on the same road Neji'd driven down from Cannes-the Grand Corniche-which was scarier than the cyclone ride at Coney Island.
When Neji finally found his hotel, the Loew's-Monte Carlo, on his own, he wondered how come more people didn't die on the side of that Corniche. You could be pushing seventy or eighty and there'd be some lunatic right behind you flashing his lights and blowing his horn, waving at you to get the hell out of the way.
Neji couldn't remember what killed Princess Grace, either a car crash or a stroke, but after making the drive himself he saw where it could have been the road that finally blew all her circuits.
He was just going to say a couple of fast Hail Marys that he and the Renault had made it here in one piece. The whole eastern part of the Riviera that Neji'd seen was pretty much what he'd expected from the movies, especially this mother's all-time favorite, the one he'd seen on Turner Classic Movies right before he came over, with the young Grace Kelly giving it up to Cary Grant during the fireworks. Except that even in Monte Carlo, with the drop-dead view of the Mediterranean from his balcony, he noticed they were doing the same dumb-ass thing he'd seen everywhere he'd been the last two weeks, Barcelona, Lisbon, France, even Rome: trying to make it more American than judge shows on TV.
It hadn't taken long for Neji to figure out that Europeans loved pretty much everything American except Americans. The whole continent was full of mean people with accents.
Tonight on the way to Stade Louis II for the game, he'd stopped at a bar Larry Bird had told him about from when Bird was with that Olympic Cream Team back in 1992. The summer Olympics had been in Barcelona that year, but Bird and Jordan and Magic and the rest of them had played a couple of tune-up games in Monte Carlo.
Bird said you had to go into the place on the name alone: Le Freaky Pub.
Neji thought it looked like about nine thousand joints on Second Avenue, just without cable or beer that was cold enough. Jesus, you only had to get thirsty one time over here to find out this was the anti-ice capitol of the world.
He nursed a couple of cold ones anyway, killing an hour or so eyeballing the tall girl barmaid. The rest of the time he tried to translate some of the conversations at the bar without having to run back to the restroom to check out Langenscheidt's Universal Phrasebook. He didn't really drink before he scouted a game, but tonight was a little different; there was as much a chance of his being interested in somebody-else besides Earthwind Morton as there was Prince Reindeer, who was supposed to be in the crowd, running out there and dunking the ball during the pregame warm-ups.
Out loud in Le Freaky Pub, Neji Hyuuga said, "What the hell am I doing here?"
The girl bartender smiled and said, "Pardonez-moi?"
Neji made a motion with his hands, like he was waving off a shot. "No problemo," he said.
This close to the end of the trip Neji decided to come up with his own universal phrases, screw Langenscheidt's.
It was strange though coming halfway across the goddamn world to see Earthwind. When they both had been in the NBA ten years ago, before Neji blew out his knee, all he'd had to do to watch Earthwind play was put on SportsCenter on ESPN. If the Knicks had a game that night, the highlights were always about him. At least before Earthwind tried to put the gross national product of Bogotá up his nose. Now Neji had come to Monte Carlo to see if Lavernius (Earthwind) Morton, playing for the Olympique Antibes in Frances First Division Men's League, had enough left for the New York Leaves to bring him back for one more shot.
"You still any good?" Neji had asked over the phone when he's called from Paris.
"The only things sweeter than myself over here is le poo-say," Earthwind had said. "Myself has done exactly what all those jive counselors told me: replace one jones with another."
"So replaced dope with what?" Neji said.
Earthwind whooped and said, "Some of dem mada-mo-selles, baby."
Neji knew that Earthwind had missed the last couple of games for Antibes, which bothered the shit out of Neji, considering the guys rap sheet with the coke and crack and even heroin, which he's always thought of as the main event. So this was Neji's last chance to get a look at him in person before he flew back to New York to give his report to Jiraiya, the Knights owner.
And if Earthwind was washed up, Neji was going to have to tell the boss the truth: After having been to Spain and Italy and up and down the France, he wasn't even coming home with a decent roll of film.
Oh, there was a couple of guys in Spain that might be able to give the Leaves some minutes and the was a Russian kid playing for Bologna named Arvy Daskylmilosevic, who in addition to having the world's longest name could occasionally shoot threes as if they were layups. But as little as Jiraiya knew about basketball-even though he'd managed to convince himself it was he and Dr. Naismith back at the beginning, cutting the hole in the peach basket-Neji knew he couldn't bullshit him with those guys.
Neji couldn't even do that with himself, not when it came to basketball.
"I'd like you to come back with somebody who can win us some games," he'd told Neji. "But not as much as someone who could sell us some goddamn tickets."
So Earthwind Morton, who was finally clean, was pretty much the whole ballgame. He was the one Jiraiya wanted. People love comeback stories, he'd told Neji. The sportswriters can write the same stories they've already done about the other junkies, and the fans will eat it up.
The p.r. guy from Olympique Antibes, Jean-Claude something, another guy with an attitude when Neji's talked to him on the phone, had forgotten to leave him a ticket. Neji found that out when he'd called over to Stade Louis II in the afternoon, but the concierge at Loew's, Lebortvaillet, had said he'd take care of it, and he did.
Neji over tipped Lebortvaillet when he came downstairs. The guy just took the fistful of those Monegasque coins that were the same as francs, and shrugged. France, Monte Carlo, it didn't matter where you were, it's like they all took some kind of course in not giving a shit.
"Could you tell me how to find the Hotel du Paris, or should I go fuck myself, s'il vous plait?"
The cab to the arena took him through the kind of tunnel where Princess Di had got it, and dropped him on the arena side of the Stade Louis sports complex. The sign outside said it was Antibes vs. Lyon Villeuranne, eight o'clock. Lebortvaillet said that out of respect for the royal family, each team had sent at least five of its best players, and that the rest of the rosters would be filled out with some of the better college kids from Monte Carlo and as far up as Cannes and Nice.
Neji had watched some tape on Earthwind back in New York, but now he needed to see if the guy, even in a charity game, could still do things on a basketball court only one other point guard his size-Magic- had ever been able to do.
The inside of Stade Louis II looked like it might belong to some Division I college back at home. It was about the same size as Alumni Hall at St. John's, Neji's alma mater. Neji's seat in the balcony was bright red. He sat up there sipping the local version of Perrier, waiting for the game to start.
He walked around trying to find a Coke, but the snippy girl at the concession stand acted offended that he'd even asked for one. It was like the variation of the look you got when you asked for directions in Paris or someplace, as if you'd broken a law not knowing if you were on the right rue or not.
"We'ave no Coke for you," the girl said. "We'ave water, wiz or wizzout gas."
Neji knew that one; it meant carbonated or not.
"Wiz," Neji said.
Earthwind, he saw when both teams came out for the warm-ups, had defiantly put on a few since the NBA had kicked him out after he'd failed his fourth failed drug test in two years. They called it a life ban, but you could apply for reinstatement after three years if you prove you'd been a good boy.
It took only the first few minutes of the game for Neji to see that the crazy sonofabitch still had some ball in him, underneath all the tat graffiti and rolls of jiggle and the tits he seemed to have grown while he'd been over here.
Neji knew that most of the playground shuck and jive was for his benefit. When Neji had still thought he could come all the way back from the reconstructive surgery on his knee and Earthwind Morton had been an All-Star with the Knicks, they'd go down to the playground on West Fourth Street in the summer, just wait on the side until it was their turn to get into the game Once they did, they'd play all night. Earthwind wasn't doing anything harder than grass; it'd be a couple more years before he'd upgrade into the heavier stuff. So he was still the fastest big guy anybody had ever seen in those days, every bit as big and strong as Magic at six-nine, but faster, even better with the ball, especially on the run. Sometimes they'd get bored on West Fourth Street, and then they would go over to Penn Station and head down to the Bake League in Philadelphia, and kick some ass down there, on a whim, just for the fun of it.
Now just about everybody was faster, even the white guys in Stade Louis II, but it didn't matter Earthwind was better than all of them. He was doing it up like a Globetrotter for the royals, even giving a high five to Princess Stephanie-the lady next to him pointed out-as he went past her one time.
Another time in the first half, after he made a three from so far outside Neji thought it was a thirty-footer, Earthwind ran by the small press table, grabbed the p.a. guy's microphone, and said, "Yo, all you madames et monsieurs: Where's the damn love here?"
A few minutes into the second half, Olympic Antibes was ahead twenty points and Neji was starting to think about heading back to Le Freaky Bar, or this other place he'd heard about, called DC, when the Antibes coach put in what looked like one of the local kids, a guy about five-ten or five-eleven so skinny Neji thought he might have been a high school kid, wearing an old green Celtics cap pulled tightly down over his eyes, his jersey looking about three sizes too big. Neji looked down at the single program the wiz-or-wizzout girl had handed him, looking to see who No.14 was, the one who thought he was so cool he didn't have to take off his fucking hat.
T. Ama, it said. Neji knew that they let him go in for Black Messiah Lewis at the point. Earthwind stayed in the game but went to center now, where he wouldn't have to run too much more the rest of the night, which Neji thought was good, he didn't want to have to call Jiraiya when the game was over and tell him the good news was that Earthwind could still play and the bad news was that he'd had a fucking coronary.
T. Ama came up the court the first time, before the Villeuranne defense was set, and threw a behind-the-back pass to Earthwind from half-court. It caught the Villeuranne players so flatfooted that even Earthwind, dragging ass the way he was by now, was two steps behind everybody. He had time to mug for the crowd with this wild-eyed, amazed look before dunking the ball.
It was the same as it had always been with him: Hey, look at me.
Except the play wasn't about him.
It was about the pass. While Earth was still playing to the crowd, T. Ama was already back on defense himself, ignoring the way his pass had brought the house down, the Monte Carlo people, who'd been getting bored themselves, back into the game now.
By Neji's count, Ama had five assists the first six times he touched the ball. He hadn't taken a shot yet or come close to driving the ball to the basket. He just stayed on the outside and ran the fast break and seemed to find the right guy in Antibes every single time with his passes. Suddenly the charity game in Monte Carlo was about this skinny kid, whoever he was.
Neji couldn't tell if the kid white or mixed with something else.
It was interesting, though, watching the way the kid somehow managed to keep every body on his team involved-interesting to Neji, anyway. He had played point all his life, all the way back to Christ the King High, and he knew how hard it was, passing out the sugar, making sure everybody was happy, trying to let the hot guy stay hot and not pissing off everybody else. It wasn't just who you passed it to, it was where you made the pass, and when. Mostly passing was about creating angles. Neji knew, because Neji had always known angles, Neji's figured he saw things nobody on the court could see. It was that way even now. It didn't mater if it was college or the pros, how good the game was, Neji always imagined he was still playing the point, that he still had the ball.
It was how he felt now, watching this kid.
Who was he?
The coach, Barone, had enough sense to keep him in there the last couple of minutes. The kid kept making plays. There was another half-court job, behind the back, not just hitting Earthwind right in stride but zipping the ball. The only guy Neji had ever seen who could throw that pass that way was Ernie DGregorio, back at Providence College when Neji was growing up.
There was a no-look to Black Messiah Lewis, back in the game, Neji nearly missed the pass because Ama sold him so well that he was going left with the ball instead of right.
The crowd went nuts again and the kid just got back on defense, ducking his head, just giving a little low-five to Black Messiah as he ran by.
Neji noticed Ama didn't have any tats on his skin that was the color of a light caramel.
The big finish came with fifteen seconds left, everybody was on their feet. Even the Prince, who'd just been sitting there all night like he was asleep. Antibes was ahead by a lot. Barone had taken out Earthwind with two minutes left, but now he put him back in, as a way of getting a curtain call now that the kid had stolen his thunder.
The Villeuranne coach had emptied his bench, but even the scrubs had lost interest by then, so only two of them were at the Antibes end of the court when T. Ama came up court with the ball. Earthwind was with him-somehow managing to bust it down the right, sure that Ama would give him one more piece of cake.
Ama came up the middle at full speed, looking up as he did to get one little check at the clock. When he got to the key, he saw the two Villeuranne guys on defense coming to him, like, the hell with it, they weren't going to be embarrassed one more time before the buzzer.
Ama stopped then, the ball going behind his back. From Neji was sitting, high up in the corner, the play coming toward him, the ball actually seemed to have disappear for a second, except that Ama had both hands showing, and neither one had the ball in it.
For the first time, Neji thought he detected a smile underneath the Celtics cap as the kid quickly looked left, then right, like, Oops, where did the ball go?
He was in a little crouch now, like he was bending over to tie his sneakers.
Somehow T. Ama had balanced the ball on his skinny ass, because suddenly he was ducking down a little more, reaching behind him in the same motion, flipping the ball over his head to Earthwind Morton, who dropped in a layup as the buzzer sounded and then just sat down underneath the basket as if couldn't believe what he had just seen.
Neji looked around to see how T. Ama had reacted, but all he could see was the back of No.14, disappearing through one of the doors that lead back to the locker rooms.
Neji had told Earthwind he'd check him out after the game so they could kick back and talk about old times a little bit, see his head was at. But Earth was down on the court talking to reporters and royals. Acting as if the night was still about him.
Only now it wasn't.
Neji hurried down to the locker rooms, passing a couple of grim security guards, and finally came to the Antibes locker room. He was about to go in when he saw a flash of green down the hall and realized it was T. Ama in his Celtics cap, a big black gym bag slung over his shoulder, a hooded gray sweater over his uniform, heading towards the exit.
"Yo!" Neji called out to him. "Hold on, s'il vous plait."
T. Ama gave a quick look over his shoulder, pointing to himself. Me?
"Yeah," Neji said.
The kid was still in the slouch, like he was going to throw that pass again, looking down.
Neji said, "Parlez-vous English?"
The kid said, "Sure. What about you? English your first or second language?"
"When your form New York, it's hard to tell sometimes," Neji said. "I'm Neji Hyuuga. I work for the New York Leaves."
He paused, then added, "From the NBA? In the United States."
They shook hands. Kind of smallish, Neji thought, delicate almost, but with long fingers, like a piano player's hands.
"What does the T. stand for?" Neji said. "In T. Ama?"
"Tenten," the kid said.
Then the kids gave him a big high beams smile.
"Oh, for God's sake, let's stop screwing around here."
He took off the Celtics cap and untied all the hair underneath, long brown hair, and let it fall down to the shoulders, giving the head a little toss at the same time.
"Long for Tian," Tenten Ama said to Neji Hyuuga. "Except I always hated Tian. My mom liked Tian."
Neji Hyuuga just stared at her.
"You're a girl," he finally managed.
Tenten Ama smiled.
"My whole life, practically," she said.