The Squared Circle by JAMES W. BENNETT Page B

room held a powerful fascination for Robert Lee, who manhandled the remote like a video game. “Check this out,” he said to Sonny, when he located the late-night triple-X movie channel.
    â€œWho cares?” The restless Sonny Youngblood prowled the room and brushed his teeth three times.
    â€œI know what it is,” said Robert Lee. “You’re all unglued because you got your shot blocked.”
    â€œNobody ever blocks my shot.”
    â€œYou scored nineteen points, am I right? You know what your problem is, Sonny? You’re just not used to screwing up. You’re too good.”
    â€œNobody blocks my fucking shot! The next time I think finger roll, I’ll just dunk it. If I’da dunked it, that never could’ve happened.”
    â€œRight,” said Robert Lee, who had just located a Cuban channel. “Can we kiss it off now?”
    â€œThere has to be another notch in the switch,” Sonny muttered. “There will be.”
    â€œI said, can we kiss it off?”
    The following night, for the Michigan game, the crowd was large, although less than capacity. Rated number three in the country, the Wolverines were heavily favored. During warm-ups, Sonny felt his tension increase when he looked in the direction of Michigan’s senior all-American, Alonzo Lipes. “How good is Lipes?” he asked Luther.
    â€œI played against him in a summer league two years ago,” Luther replied. “Lipes can play.”
    When the teams were at the bench for last-minute instructions, Sonny had to go to the locker-room toilet to throw up. A security man was staring at him until Sonny told him to get out. Scarlet-faced, hanging on the porcelain, heaving up phlegm when it was all that was left in his tract, Sonny missed the starting lineup introductions.
    He was shaky in the early minutes, but it was a disastrous night for Michigan. The Salukis buried them 102–65, in a game that wasn’t even close at halftime. Michigan tried zoning for a while, but zoning a team that counted Sonny Youngblood among its members was a futile proposition. His accuracy from outside the arc was uncanny, while C.J. Moore on the other wing was a deadly perimeter shooter as well.
    When Michigan went to the man-to-man, it merely revealed the Saluki balance. Luther’s power moves underneath demanded double-teaming, which left the six-ten Royer free for a string of uncontested short jumpers in the paint.
    For his part, Sonny was on fire. He led all scorers with a 40-point game. In addition to his breathtaking demonstration of three-point shooting, he ripped home a pair of reverse slams off the half-court trap. Even Robert Lee got enough playing time to root around for 11 points and shake the ball loose several times with his physical, nose-to-nose defense.
    With six minutes remaining, and the lead mounted to 40 points, Sonny caught the substitutes lined up at the scorers’ bench from the corner of his eye. He stole an errant pass and bolted for the Michigan basket. Just this one more before Coach takes me out .
    The frustrated Alonzo Lipes flew at him while Sonny soared at the iron, the ball cocked in both hands behind his head. He powered home his monster dunk an instant before Lipes’s left hand delivered a glancing blow against the back of his head.
    He made his free throw pure to complete the three-point play. As soon as Sonny came out of the game, he went straight to the locker room for more vomiting. It was a different security guard this time. Sonny had the shakes and some uncomfortable palpitations as well. Drained of color and energy, he lay on one of the benches with a wet towel over his face.
    A minute before the game was over, Workman came in and said they wanted him for an ESPN interview.
    â€œForget it,” he told Workman, without lifting the towel.
    â€œYou okay, Sonny?”
    â€œI’m fine. No interview though.”
    There was a big party in the hotel ballroom