Calvin Edwards was a specialist, and his specialty was shooting. He was a true marksman, a sniper absolutely blessed with -- given enough space and time -- a dead-eye shot. Rarely did this equate to glory, but Calvin had no illusions of grandeur. He knew his role and was content with it. God, Calvin believed, had put him on this earth twenty-three years ago to do one thing: shoot.
And shoot he did. In his rookie season, Calvin's field goal percentage was an unheard of sixty-one -- no mean feat for a first-year guard who rarely (read: never) drove the lane. His three-point percentage was similarly outstanding: fifty-three. Non-superstars, especially ones who average just under seventeen minutes per game of playing time, are rarely blessed with complimentary nicknames, but midway through his inaugural season Calvin was dubbed in the press and by fans as "Archer," after the character from the Robin Hood legends.
What Calvin lacked in PT, however, he more than made up for in scoring efficiency. He averaged 14.3 points per game, and the only reason he wasn't given more playing time was determined by two factors. One, he was cursed with legs slower than a senior citizen doing hydro therapy. Two, he was more comfortable launching shots midway between halfcourt and the three-point line; and the fact that he missed less frequently from that spot on the floor than he did from just behind the arc meant little to his coach or teammates. When Calvin hit it was a glorious surprise to everyone but himself; when he missed, people called it an embarrassment to the sport of basketball.
But Calvin knew his purpose. Shoot. Catch and shoot. Create space by any means necessary. Stand and wait for the rock. If need be, stand alone where no defender will dare to come out and guard you. In a way, Calvin Edwards was more automaton than man; and, indeed, he was initially labeled "The Mighty Casey" after a Twilight Zone episode about a robot pitcher. No one believed he was a sound basketball player, and his reliance on his jumper -- didn't teams know what they would get when he was scouted out of Kentucky? -- had most reporters and fans calling him a bust. But numbers don't lie. Ten games into the season, he was being lauded on sports news programs and drive-time radio as basketball's new idiot savant, and after his first season had wrapped (with a heartbreaking 87-81 loss to the Pistons that eliminated the Sixers from playoff contention), he was practically a legend in the city of Philadelphia, the city that booed Santa Claus.
In the first game of his sophomore season, Calvin scored only two points in five minutes (a garbage-time fifteen-foot jumper) in a loss to San Antonio. Back in Philly for the November 2 home opener, Coach Williams had promised Calvin a more substantial role in the offense, a role that, despite Calvin Edwards's outward nonchalance, he inwardly relished.
"Lace those shoes up tight, Edwards, and loosen up your fingers."
Minutes before game time, Calvin's teammate, Blaine Black, the guy Calvin roomed with and sat next to on charter flights and occasionally traded fart scores with, had considerably more sobering news.
"Look, Cal, there's no way we're beating Dallas, but this early in the season who can tell? Just do me a favor, okay? Play smart. I mean, don't do anything that might get us, you, me, we, in trouble."
"What do you mean, Blaine?" Calvin asked, genuinely curious.
Blaine Black sat down on the locker room bench, next to his naive, possibly non-human teammate.
"There's a fix," Black whispered. "The season is long and this one doesn't matter. We have to lose by eight points. My guess is that we'll lose by at least double that, but who's to say. What I'm saying to you right now, though, is that it's best to take the night off from your regular gunslinging antics, Cal. I know Coach is gonna give you floor time, and I'm just worried that you might swing this one. Please, for the love of god, don't. Do not."
"Okay, Blaine. I got it."
"Thanks, Cal. You always listen to reason."
---
There are forty-three seconds on the game clock. With possession, the Dallas Mavericks are leading the Philadelphia 76ers by a score of 98-88. The Sixers have been lethargic all game, save for Calvin Edwards, who is having a career night with 31 points on 11-of-15 shooting (nine treys, two jumpers). Just before the game clock hits nineteen seconds, Calvin Edwards lunges from out of nowhere to knock the ball from Devean George's hands, the ball careening off of George's leg in the process and possession given to the Sixers.
During the ensuing timeout, Coach Williams praises Calvin for his hustle and draws up an out-of-bounds play. Edwards will inbound to Darius Parson. Parson will pass immediately back to Edwards with a prayer that he'll get off a quick shot and cut the score to seven. With no timeouts left, the players are instructed to go for a steal or foul.
"Prove your mettle, Edwards!" Coach Williams shouts as the timeout buzzer sounds and the Sixers walk onto the floor.
Don't fucking do it, Cal, Blaine Black's stare says as he shakes his head and walks backwards toward the opposite side of the court.
---
Darius Parson is not in front of Calvin for the inbound pass. He hasn't run off the drawn-up screen. Instead, he's standing midcourt like a neglected scarecrow, arms at his sides, his head staring up idiotically at the JumboTron.
Calvin spins the ball into his right hand and whips it with all his might at Parson's head. It bounces off Parson's dome and drops like a live grenade a few inches before the halfcourt line. Calvin Edawards is running on legs a chicken wouldn't envy, but he picks up the ball before anyone else, feels its familiar leather, finds its holy seam, and launches.
The crowd erupts. There is no way in pluperfect hell the Sixers are winning this game, but the crowd erupts regardless. Later, a clip of the game's final minute will garner 3,738,493 views on YouTube, and ESPN will declare it No. 7 on their Top Ten Plays of 2011. And that will forever be Calvin Edwards's legacy. Thirty-four points, 12-of-16 shooting.
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Calvin Edwards is not a name most people are familiar with these days. Because most people don't delve into the archives of basketball lore. But, if I were to tell you that Calvin Edwards, drafted out of Kentucky with the nineteenth pick in the 2008 NBA Draft, had his feet cut off by mobsters, would you believe me?
Maybe not. Probably not. But I saw what I saw, and I know what I know.
These days, Edwards is content with his basketball cult status. "I wouldn't change a thing," he told me over barbecue ribs and badminton at his family's estate in North Ridge, Montana. "I never sacrificed my principles. Maybe that's dumb, but for me it was never a question."
I ask Edwards if he might be up for a game of 21, to which he replies, "Only if I can heave shots from halfcourt."
I lose 21-0. Edwards consoles me with this gem: "Yeah, I win, but at least you can still run away if I point a shotgun at you."
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