True Legend by Mike Lupica Page A

each other before.
    The rivalry that was starting tonight.
    No
way
Drew was losing to him.
    He didn’t usually think of basketball that way, thought of it as his five against the other five.
    Not tonight.
    Let’s see who’s king when the horn blows tonight.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    Local TV and the LA papers had started to cover Oakley’s games regularly now, the sportswriters always wanting to know which way Drew might be leaning on college.
    When they came right out and asked, Drew would just say, “Let me enjoy being in high school. My mom keeps telling me it’s all right to run the court fast. She just doesn’t want me growing up too fast.”
    They ate that with a spoon.
    So the media crowd had been big since the start of the season, and so had the home crowds, people wanting to see Drew play, see with their own eyes if he and the hype were both for real.
    Nothing like tonight.
    This huge sound hit Drew when he led his teammates out of the tunnel, biggest sound he’d heard yet in the Gilbert Athletic Center.
    Even Drew Robinson, who could block out everything except the game he was playing, the pass or shot or steal he was about to make—put on what his mom called his “blinders”—felt like he’d gotten gut-punched by the force of the place in those first moments when he was on the court.
    The sound told him how much they wanted him to beat Park, the way Lee Atkins had told him in the locker room.
    Drew saw his mom across from the Wolves’ bench, in the second row where she always was, with Seth Gilbert. They were standing along with everybody else, pointing at him as he got in the layup line. Drew just nodded. It was one of the things the media had picked up on about him, how he never changed expression on the court, how you never knew whether he’d just made a good play or a bad one, whether his team was up twenty or down twenty.
    They said with True Robinson, you could never tell whether he’d just made one of his highlight-reel passes or missed an open jumper. Not that
that
happened very often.
    Behind him in the layup line, Lee yelled, “You better be your
True
self tonight, you hear me?”
    Drew yelled back, “Loud and clear.”
    Drew didn’t let anybody notice, not the crowd or the cameras, but every chance he got, he snuck looks down the court to check out King Gadsen, showboating it up in his own layup line, waving his arms at the Park cheering section to pump his fans up, all the Park kids wearing their black “Sixth Man” T-shirts.
    Every once in a while, King would pull out the front of his black jersey, making the Park kids go even crazier. He was wearing number 23, of course. LeBron’s number. The real King.
    Drew wore number 1. Had since New Heights. His coach there, Coach Adams, had smiled when he handed it to him, not even giving him a choice as he pulled it off the top of the pile.
    â€œJust because you
are
the one, kid,” Coach Adams had said.
    â€œOne what?”
    â€œThe one every coach wants to walk into his gym.”
    Now he was about to show this hot dog King Gadsen that he wasn’t the one around here anymore, wasn’t the one in this league or this rivalry or on this coast or anywhere.
    Before they left the huddle for the tip, Coach DiGregorio leaned over and said into Drew’s ear, “Let it come to you.”
    Meaning the game. They talked about it all the time, how the game would go through Drew eventually, but he couldn’t force himself on it early.
    Not that Drew had to be told.
    â€œI got this, Coach,” he said.
    â€œDon’t let that guy turn this into some kind of playground dumbfest,” Coach DiGregorio said.
    â€œYou know I’m not about that.”
    â€œBut you know he wants to show you up.”
    Drew allowed himself a smile, in here, surrounded by his teammates. “Easier said than done,” he said.
    King made a show of coming over