We gather around for a 10-minute primer on how to step up and sink the big shot. Most of us don't want anything to do with "the big shot." That's understandable, says Bzomowski. But the free throw doesn't have to be a big deal. A free throw is, after all, a free shot: No defense. No distraction. Just you and the hoop.
Successful free-throwers follow a ritual every time they step up to the line. Bzomowski squares his feet, spreading them shoulder-width apart, with one foot slightly ahead of the other. He lines up his shooting hand with the center of the hoop, takes a deep breath, keeps his eyes on the front of the rim, shoots, and follows through. We watch as he swishes a dozen shots in a row. In a charity event, he once sunk 300 free throws in 10 minutes flat.
But for most of us, the free throw isn't nearly so easy. It's the most naked moment in basketball. Action stops, the referee hands you the ball, and everyone -- teammates, opponents, hopeful family members -- waits while you take aim. Consistently sink your free throws, and you'll become a prized teammate. Miss them, and your demoralized team will lose its bounce faster than a Spalding with a stake in it.
The morning session ends with a controlled scrimmage. Bzomowski, who is coaching my team, maps out five plays for us to run. Each play involves a series of screens. None guarantees a gimme layup, but all are designed to make life hard for the defense.
Call our team a work in progress. Jeff Hurwitz, 38, a senior vice president at Covance, complains that nobody sprints down-court to pick for him. I'm mad because the group has yet to figure out that I'm a point guard. Mike Steinberg, 38, a managing director at Nomura Securities Co. Ltd., isn't angry, but he should be: He's one of the better players on the court, but we've largely ignored him. "We need a time-out, we need a time-out!" screams Hurwitz. But in this match, there are no time-outs. Chaos reigns.
After a three-hour break, we're back for more. On tap is a series of one-on-one offensive drills against a "live" defense. The object is not to feed our lifelong lust to be Dr. J but to turn ourselves into a plausible scoring threat. After all, if you're not good enough for the defense to take you seriously, then you're a liability to your team.
We practice hard-crossover dribble drives. Then we switch to fake-crossover drills. In each case, we get three seconds to blow by our defensive partners. Bothered by our flabby efforts, Bzomowski stops the action to show us what we should be doing: He tears past a defender, dipping his shoulder low to draw contact. "The defense is like a door," he says. "Bust it open."
Later Bzomowski stops us at mid-drill and pulls aside the camp whippet, Andrew Feldstein, 34, a structured-finance specialist at J.P. Morgan & Co. "The easiest person for the defense to guard is the guy who never moves," says the coach. "The second easiest is the guy who's always moving fast."
Bzomowski demonstrates how to roll off a pick and then make an explosive, dribble-drive move to the hoop. Rather drowsily, he sets up the move: "It's like slowwwww . . . BAM . . . FAST! Sucker the defender, and then accelerate from zero to 60."
Everyone is dragging. humidity in the gym has reached Amazonian levels. The Gatorade and orange slices have vanished. "Scrimmage time!" cheers Bzomowski.
While Bzomowski maps out a crafty opening play, our squad gathers around Vince Audinot, 42, who is brandishing an aerosol can of stickum. This tacky substance, when applied to shoe bottoms, should help our sneakers to grip the floor. "The stuff works," says Audinot.
It works all too well: We're stuck in neutral. Bzomowski calls a clear out-play for me: I'm supposed to beat Ray Vazquez one-on-one and then either score or pass to an open teammate. But Vazquez stuffs me. On the other end of the floor, Vazquez issues a no-look, behind-the-back bounce pass that results in an easy layup. Departing from camp rules, Bzomowski allows us a time-out.
Teamwide griping erupts, but our coach shuts it down. Bzomowski chastises everyone and then sends us back onto the court with a parting shot: "If the play's not there, call another one."
We run a new double-pick play that's meant to free up Hurwitz for an inside gimme. Astonishingly, it works. Next time down the court, I roll off a pick and break free in the lane. Harking back to the post-up drill, I fake-pivot and, moving the other way, power up with a jump hook. The ball drops through the net. Two possessions later, in a textbook move, Hurwitz hooks his man on an inside pick, fades toward the corner, and drains a 15-foot jump shot.
Suddenly, we're clicking. Six hours ago, we hated one another -- or at any rate, we hated one another's game. Now there are smiles all around. So Bzomowski raises the stakes: The score is 105 to 105, he announces, with three minutes left to play.
But none of us cracks.
We are a juggernaut: We make steals. We execute fast breaks. We sink baskets. We're loose, we're smooth, we're in control. Tomorrow may be different. But today we're a team.
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