The Obsoletes

by Simeon Mills

  The team just stared at him.

  But the worst was the silence coming from the Ceiling Fan and James Botty, who were not looking at Kanga but at each other. Whatever my brother had just done, it somehow fit into a previous conversation between the two. James nodded at the Ceiling Fan. The Ceiling Fan nodded back. A new piece of the puzzle, they seemed to be confirming. But just how much of the whole picture had they put together?

  Well, I was putting it together. James Botty wasn’t Kanga’s friend. He was the Ceiling Fan’s spy.

  Kanga jogged back to the team. “I feel better,” he said, grinning faintly, his hands once again at his sides. “But whatever you guys do, don’t go near that trash can, okay? I must’ve barfed up a lung in there.”

  “Well done, Livery,” said Mr. Belt. “All right!” He clapped his hands. “Back at it, you bozos!”

  Back at it, Kanga was. In the final minute of practice, everything came together. Hectorville’s starting five executed a play that resulted in Rye using his elbows to create space, getting a blind bounce pass from Kanga, and scoring a left-handed layup. The Ceiling Fan stormed the court, punching Rye in the chest, grabbing the back of his neck, and shaking him hard. “This is the most persistent goddamn player I’ve ever seen!”

  Mr. Belt quietly approached Kanga and tugged on his practice jersey. “Over here, Livery,” he said. “Listen. You won the vote. Don’t tell anybody, but everybody thinks you’re the best player on the team.”

  “I know,” said Kanga.

  14

  “YOU NEED TO QUIT the basketball team.”

  It was late Saturday afternoon. My brother stood in the kitchenette, shirtless, wearing just basketball shorts and high-tops. He took a long drink of milk as he contemplated my demand. He swallowed. “I don’t think I will. Sorry, brother.”

  “We’re not safe there.”

  “Thanks for the concern. Go ahead and quit being manager if you want. I’ll understand.”

  “James Botty is not your friend. You’ve seen what he does to people. That’s not the kind of person you want to be, Kanga. That’s not the kind of person you are.”

  “I know who I am. I don’t need you to tell me. James isn’t perfect, but at least he’s fun sometimes, which is more than I can say for you.”

  “We can’t trust the Ceiling Fan.”

  “Trust him? Who cares about him? I’m the reason we’re winning. Mr. Belt would fire the Ceiling Fan in a heartbeat if it meant keeping me on the team.”

  “There’s more to him than you know.”

  “There’s more to everybody than we know.” He grabbed my basketball from the kitchenette counter. “Why don’t we take this conversation outside? It’s too stuffy in here.”

  Kanga dribbled out the apartment door and down the hallway. I knew where he was going: the town basketball court. I had to put my concerns about the basketball team on hold, at least for the moment. Kanga could have walked out without saying anything, but he invited me along. Here was a rare chance to bond with him—and maybe even change his mind about James and the Ceiling Fan. I had to take it.

  I followed him.

  Outside, the snow had been rained off the earth. It was cool. The clouds were long, pink hands, pushing away the sun. There was no wind. It was perfect basketball weather.

  Kanga began dribbling down the sidewalk—still shirtless, but I knew better than to try and dress him. The town basketball court was a half mile away, but Kanga preferred to walk rather than bike. He dribbled the entire distance, not once losing the ball.

  The court was across the street from several nice houses. I imagined the families inside sipping tea, peering through their windows, watching our every shot. I had no idea if Kanga imagined the same thing. Probably not. He was used to people watching him play. An audience didn’t faze him. He had eyes only for the rim.

  “Rebound for me,” he said.

  I never should have thrown Kanga my basketball when we were little. Now he assumed my only purpose in life was rebounding the ball and passing it back to him. We’d already done this a couple of times since he joined the team. I hoped getting all those touches on the basketball would magically enhance my own skills, even if I never got to actually shoot it. The fresh air was intoxicating; I almost decided to go shirtless too. I looked at Kanga’s belly muscles stretch and snap and thought better of it. His first shot swished through the net. I grabbed the ball and rifled it back to him.

  “Quit now,” I said, “and you can join the team again next year. You’ll probably be on varsity. The Ceiling Fan will be out of the picture. I know it’s disappointing, Kanga. But as your brother, I insist that you—”

  “Relax.” He swished it again. “There’s no reason for that look on your face. We’re just having a shoot.”

  “You’re having a shoot.” The ball was in my hands. I fought the reflex to pass it back to Kanga. “This is serious.”

  “Okay. But listen, Darryl, can you do me a favor right now?”

  “Promise you’ll quit the team.”

  “Pretend to be Bobby Knight.”

  “Bobby Knight?”

  “Do the voice thing. While I’m shooting. Just pretend to be Bobby, and I’m trying out for the Hoosiers. You’re here to size me up.”

  “And if I pretend to be Bobby Knight you’ll quit?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  I had nothing to lose. When it came to Kanga, I automatically experienced hints of Bobby Knight’s trademark rage and frustration on a daily basis. It would be cathartic to let the General’s voice loose while rebounding for my brother. But more than that, Kanga finally needed me for something. Obsolescence had erased that feeling from my processor. To have Kanga depend on me again? I felt a foot taller.

  I cleared my throat. “I can be Bobby Knight for you.”

  “YES!”

  But Kanga’s elation was quickly tempered by a shiver through his body. We both realized the stakes had just been raised; this was no ordinary shootaround, but a tryout. What would Bobby Knight think of my brother?

  I warmed up with whispers under my breath, unintelligible and harmless, as Kanga took a few tentative shots, uncertain when the Hoosiers’ head coach would actually arrive. I kept him waiting a couple of moments, until suddenly Bobby Knight was screaming:

  “Who the hell are you? You think you can play for me? You’re a wussy! Show me the spider dribble. I DIDN’T SAY LOOK AT THE BALL! This is Indiana. You’re pathetic. Show me the spider dribble for thirty seconds without a foul-up. I haven’t got all day . . .”

  I paced back and forth beneath the hoop, watching Kanga complete two minutes of spider dribbling, both of us waiting for what Bobby Knight would say next.

  “Think you can jump? Show me fifty layups. LEFT-HANDED! And don’t look at the fouling ball. Don’t even THINK about missing a layup. Did I mention this is Indiana? Wussies get killed if they miss layups. That dog gets shot in the head if your ball even touches the rim.”

  A neighborhood dog had showed up. It was wagging its tail, about to charge for the ball. I saw the look on Kanga’s face: utter disgust that something as random as a dog could ruin his chances with Bobby Knight. Before the next layup, Kanga cocked the ball behind his head, as if to smash the dog’s nose. The dog edged sideways off the court. It trotted away.

  “I bet you never even heard of the Mikan Drill. Not up here in Michigan. In Michigan you practice the Wussy Drill. In Indiana we have the Mikan Drill. This drill is how wussies’ arms fall off. You’ll never want to shoot another hook shot in your life after five minutes of the Mikan Drill. Think you can go five minutes? You’ll die after three.”

  As Kanga performed the Mikan Drill (hook shot after hook shot, on alternating sides of the rim, the ball above his head the entire time), a man stopped his car on the street. He looked like an ex-player himself, and he watched Kanga for a moment but knew better than to interrupt this most sacred of drills. He drove off, shaking his head.

  “Can you even
lift your arms? Think you’re some kind of big shot? YOU’RE A WUSSY! Think you can make a jump shot? Even when I point a gun at your mother’s head?”

  This is where my physical body became useful. Bobby Knight had finally ordered Kanga to shoot jump shots. I stood beneath the hoop, ready to rebound.

  “Think you can make another? Take a step back. I DIDN’T SEE THAT STEP! TAKE ANOTHER STEP! Big shot, huh? Make it again. You call that a jump shot? It’s a shot, BUT WHERE’S THE JUMP?”

  Kanga hit five shots in a row. NBA three-pointers. He was standing near the half-court line now. He hit five more. He wasn’t missing. Not today. It didn’t look like he would ever miss again.

  “Three pointers? That’s what you want to shoot? I thought you were a point guard. THIS IS INDIANA! Shooting guards shoot three-pointers at Indiana! Are you trying to change our whole system? You got some nerve, you know that? I bet you can’t make the next one. The day a wussy like you makes nineteen three-pointers in a row, that’s the day my name’s not Bobby— Think you’re hot? MAKE ANOTHER!”

  It was stupid. But I had to wonder: What would Bobby Knight say if I attempted a shot? Not that I would dare. Even if I was the basketball kid, Bobby Knight only knew me as Kanga’s rebounder. I could already hear what Bobby Knight would say about me: Too short, too skinny, too slow, too weak. Socks pulled up too high to cover my pathetic, hairless legs. Too much of a wussy. I got a rebound. I held the ball briefly in my best triple-threat position. I threw a behind-the-back pass to Kanga. The ball rolled into the grass. “SORRY!” I yelled (momentarily myself) and ran to get it. Kanga almost opened his mouth to say something. Bobby Knight barked, “Shut your fool mouth!” I threw Kanga the ball, and he hit another three.

  “Three-pointers are for wussies. ALL Indiana basketball players can make threes. But what about a shot from that CAR over there? That’s right, wussy. I’m talking about the red car WAY down there. Make that shot, it’s Indiana. Not that it’s even possible for a no-good wussy from Michigan . . . I’ll be damned, kid. I thought that car shot was impossible, but you just swished it!”

  Kanga looked tiny where he was, way down the street. Yet while taking (and making) that ridiculous shot, my brother hadn’t altered his natural shooting form in any way. Professional players routinely flung the ball from three-quarters court, but even they had to bend down and heave it with all of their might just to have a prayer at hitting the backboard. Not Kanga. He had raised the ball above his head, gently bent his knees, and let go of it . . . and I could still hear the snap of the net in my ears. But also what Bobby Knight had said: Make that shot, it’s Indiana. Kanga’s hands were open to receive the ball from me again, but the basketball kid in me couldn’t be restrained. I’d been too scared to try out for the basketball team because I only had a 4.9 percent chance of making it. But here was another shot. The chances were probably even less this time, but it was still a shot. A chance. If I didn’t try it, the chance was zero. But if I made it? If I actually sunk the shot? I was holding the ball. Then I was running to the red car. I was going to make the shot. I was the basketball kid, and Bobby Knight would see. The shot’s successful trajectory was a diagram in my processor. I knew the ball’s arc. I knew the ball’s torque. I lined up beside the car’s front bumper. I bent my knees, hips, and elbows at the perfect angles to achieve maximum thrust. I launched the basketball hard and high toward the rim . . .

  It bounced once on the court, then up through the bottom of the hoop.

  I raised my arms in triumph, knowing the shot was a failure, but hoping Bobby Knight had seen something—anything—that was Hoosier material.

  Silence.

  The real basketball kid went to retrieve his ball. He began walking down the sidewalk, back home, too disgusted to even dribble. Practice over.

  “Hold it, wussy. You’re not at Indiana yet. You had a mediocre practice today. WHO CARES? If you ever want to see me again, I need a commitment. That team you’re on now—nothing but wussies. Playing with them is making you soft. Tell me you’ll quit that wussy team Monday morning.”

  Kanga froze. He turned and stared at Coach Knight, unable to speak. Finally, he nodded.

  “TELL ME!”

  “Yes, sir,” he whispered. “I’ll quit.”

  “Might be too late. Might be they already turned you into a wussy. All you proved today is that you can make shots with nobody guarding you. Let’s see you beat somebody. This kid right here. If you can beat this kid, you’re starting for me. But here’s the rule: The kid gets nine points. Game goes to ten. If the kid kicks the basketball and it somehow goes in the hoop, you’re screwed, and HE’S on the Hoosiers. You’ll never wear the crimson and cream. Think you’ll still be your dad’s favorite then?”

  I got the ball first. Kanga knew how unfair this game was, but he offered me one free, uncontested shot, a chance to ruin his audition for Bobby Knight. I lined up the ball. Kanga tucked his hands behind his back. He said, “You’ll miss.” The ball hit the rim. It bounced up. It hit the rim again.

  It missed.

  Kanga’s ball. I sunk into defensive position and felt a truck speeding past me at seventy-five miles per hour. I couldn’t even turn my head quick enough to see Kanga score. He handed the ball back to me, but this time he didn’t let me hold it in the triple-threat position. Kanga stole it, canned it, and handed it back.

  “New rule, wussy. If the kid shoots the ball and it even TOUCHES the rim, the kid wins. That’s the new rule, and if you don’t like it, I guess you’re not Indiana material—”

  “FOUL!” I screamed, interrupting Bobby Knight. My brother and I both had a grip on the ball, swinging around for possession.

  “I didn’t touch you,” he said. “You little wussy.”

  “FOUL!” I screamed again, ready to explode. This was for every time Kanga had stolen my ball when we were little. My ball! And for Mom’s singsong voice: Share it with your brother. No, Mom, I was the basketball kid!

  “You can’t even rebound for me right. And you’re not supposed to talk like yourself. You’re supposed to be Bobby Knight. Next time I come here, I’m coming alone.” Kanga ripped the ball away from me and kicked it across the street.

  “You’re a robot,” I said.

  A look of disbelief spread across my brother’s face.

  “A robot,” I repeated. “Did you hear that, Bobby?”

  Kanga’s eyes grew wide. He shook his head desperately, imploring me to stop speaking.

  “That’s why you’ll never make Indiana.” I was shouting now. “Or anything! Because you’re a robot!” Then Bobby Knight growled to life in my throat: “What’s this kid talking about, wussy?”

  “Nothing, sir,” Kanga answered Bobby Knight. “He’s just my brother. He’s a little liar.”

  “No no no. I think this basketball kid is onto something. You just made those shots because you’re a machine. A thing. A toaster! Ha ha! Indiana doesn’t suit up toasters, wussy . . . SO HIT THE ROAD!”

  Kanga caught me before I could run home. The dog was still watching from a distance. My brother plucked me up and carried me off the court to the nearest patch of grass. The dog skipped away, its head low to the ground as if it didn’t want to witness what was about to happen next. I wouldn’t have screamed, knowing someone in a house might look outside and see what Kanga was doing to me. Might call the police. But Kanga didn’t care. He sat with his butt on the wet ground, legs crossed, and held me tight on his lap. To someone watching from a house, Kanga probably looked like he wanted to read me a picture book. His legs felt just like Mom’s legs. But his arms were Dad’s; he had one wrapped across my chest. I couldn’t move. My hands were just flippers at my sides.

  With his free hand, Kanga began filling my mouth with yellow grass. “I’m not quitting the team.” It was Mom’s soft voice, reading me The Directions. The plug pushed deeper into my throat with each handful. “And I’m not a robot.”

  We were in the middle of town. Anyone could have seen him. But so
mehow Kanga knew that they wouldn’t—or if they did, that they wouldn’t tell on him. And he was right. About everything. Hectorville was his.

  My brother finally released me, letting me tumble into the ring of dirt surrounding where we sat. Kanga had picked all the grass and stuffed it inside me. “That was a final warning. Next time I won’t go easy on you.”

  15

  BY FEBRUARY, Kanga was the most popular kid in Hectorville High School. Basketball had something to do with it, as he now enjoyed universal name recognition among our classmates and teachers. Additionally, an uptick in Kanga’s personal hygiene meant girls didn’t just look at him anymore; they ogled him. But the chief reason for my brother’s social dominance had nothing to do with other people. It was his own shameless confidence in himself, the uncompromising belief that the world owed him.

  How much?

  Everything.

  One look at this new version of Kanga and you knew he wasn’t lifting a finger for anyone but himself until the world paid him in full.

  It was Friday afternoon. Art class. Mrs. Asquith stopped by the table I shared with my brother. “Kanga?” She leaned in close to him. “How are we doing this afternoon? Are we going to draw anything today? Anything at all?”

  Kanga was hugging my basketball, seemingly distraught because there would be no practice today after school. He refused to even look at the blank sheet of paper in front of him.

  Mrs. Asquith slowed her speech. “You can create anything you want on this paper. Anything in the world! What are your interests, Kanga?”

  “Ball.”

  “Excellent! I know you like playing basketball. Let’s make one of those! Now, the beginning of any appropriate ball is to simply draw a circle. Will you commit to drawing a circle? Before I come by again? Just one circle? And I’ll fetch you an orange colored pencil!”