A squeaky voice crackles as it sneaks through the mesh speakers of the old, black radio resting on the kitchen counter. Joseph Bertrand, slightly embarrassed, slightly amused, vanishes through the dining room, basketball in hand. "I ain't getting paid," the voice inside the black box says, static clinging to its every word. "It's OK, I play for the love of the game."

The song goes on to talk about Rolex watches and breaking ankles. Being a balla and all that.

The author, a Sterling senior now, was in sixth grade when he came up with the untitled rap as part of a school assignment. Bertrand's older brother, Justin, provides instrumental support in the background.

"Your voice sounds a lot different now," Bertrand's mother, Lorita, offers between laughing attacks that seem to almost lean on pain.

The boy shakes his head and cracks another grin.

"Uh huh," he says, now joining mom for a chuckle. "It was just an assignment that me and my brother took a little farther."

He doesn't realize it, at least outwardly, but Joseph Bertrand always takes things farther. Being good isn't good enough. All those 5 a.m. pickup games aren't for nothing, you know. He's not the Sauk Valley Newspapers boys basketball player of the year for the second time in two years for nothing, you know.

Now, though, he's on a roll, determined to tell tales, some taller than others. Drips of yesterdays form a slow trickle, a peek inside the boy everyone seems to love. Or at least like.

"I have a temper, too," he says, almost as a matter of fact.

Mom cuts him off, midsentence.

"Yeah, right," she shoots back.

Follow the creaky stairs up, make a quick right and there are the words again, scribbled, verse by verse, on a yellowing piece of paper taped to a wall in Bertrand's room. On the bottom is the boy's signature. Joseph Bertrand 2003.

Bertrand turns 18 in two days. He's not writing songs anymore. Probably because he's too busy tearing those words off the page, from his mind, and making them real.

He'll head to Champaign in a few months. He's earned a basketball scholarship to Illinois.

This season he averaged 15.5 points, 4.5 assists, 1.6 steals and almost a block per game.

He was nominated for the McDonald's All-America game, the first player to earn such a distinction in the Sauk Valley. He got a stack of gift certificates – about $200 worth – along with his nomination document, which hangs proudly in a clear frame on the wall in the dining room.

"First thing he asked was, 'Do these expire?' " Lorita says.

That's Joseph.

He was named to the second team of the Associated Press' Class 3A All-State squad. He became Sterling's all-time scoring leader – on a slam dunk, fittingly – and finished with 1,438 career points.

Numbers are only a small definition of the kid whose grandfather was the first black man to start a basketball game for Notre Dame. Who left a little place called Sterling during the summer, to play hoops with the big boys from Chicago and the suburbs.

He's the boy they call, "Little Bert."

–

Basketballs, they are everywhere.

Two under the worn-down, light brown coffee table that's stacked with media guides and magazines and a smiley-toothed Tiger Woods staring up from a Sports Illustrated cover. Two more under a matching end table across the cozy room set inside this cozy townhouse on the west side of town. Two more resting by the stairs. Eight, at least, on first count.

There have to be more.

They'll always be more.

Lorita trips on them at least once a day.

"Every time I say let's get rid of them, throw some of them away, he's says, 'No, see this one has a signature on it ... and this one has a special number on it.' They all have special meaning to him."

And so they stay. Ballhog at home, anything but on the court.

Bertrand's eyes seem to see into the future when he's there. He makes those not on his side twist their nerves into knots.

One fidgety Rochelle fan chewed his nails clear to the nub during the regional opener this season, a stunning 77-76 loss for Bertrand and the Golden Warriors. The unhappy ending of what was supposed to be a fairy tale.

"It's only a matter of time. He's going to kill us," the man said. "No way we're going to be able to stop him."

Not many could. Not on the tennis court, where Bertrand once raised his racket and his blood pressure as he hit the youth traveling circuit. Or in gymnastics, when he'd tumble clear across the mat in a single breath. Not on the AAU circuit, where more miles and memories were logged, and lessons were learned.

–

Dolls, they're everywhere, too. Lorita collects them. They give her peace. They are lined up, prim and proper, in neat rows, on another end table in the living room. And on a shelf.

"That's my vice, I guess," she says with a shrug and a smile.

Her virtues, though, are aplenty.

The ones she's most proud of are her sons. How they've turned out after she's raised them without their father, Justin Sr., around for most of their lives. He shows up to games, out of the blue, sometimes. Came to a couple this year.

But Bertrand is numb to it all. He was 18 months old when his parents split, too young to remember much. Now he's too old, and busy, to care.

"I don't know what it is to have a dad," he says, straight-faced. "So I don't think about what it's like. I say hi to him when I see him.

"He's still my father. He's not just another face. But it's not like I'm going to go hang out with him or anything."

Lorita, who braids hair and does extensions, is strict but understanding. She's more protective than most.

Joseph got his license less than a year ago and has yet to drive alone. He's not really all that interested. Girls and goofing off are OK – to an extent.

She insists Joseph wear cornrows – done, naturally, with her hands – because she doesn't care for the size of his afro.

"It's huge," she says. "And it gets all messed up."

–

Paintings, they're all over the place. There's the one with the elephant and the parakeet that hangs on the living room wall. The one with Disney characters, Mickey and Donald and the bunch, that finds itself on Joseph's bedroom wall.

This is the same room Joseph took over the day Justin left for Augustana. Not because it's bigger, but because it made him feel close to the brother he missed. Justin plans to join Joseph in Champaign, either for grad school or to find a job. Mostly, though, to be close to his best friend.

The paintings, they are open time capsules for Lorita, who minored in art in college. But her work, her feelings, right there on the canvas for everyone to see, is anything but minor.

"I considered being an artist," she says. "Then the whole 'starving artist' thing, you know."

The black radio goes silent now. The squeaky voice stops crackling. Lorita's face turns a shade of sad.

"You know, he used to play the trombone," she says. "Because of his long arms. And he took piano lessons – and he was good, played by ear – but him and his teacher didn't see eye to eye so he quit."

There's a first time for everything.