Teammates

by Jeff Roulston

rhythm going because some older guys were running a full-court game. They had to scramble out of the way whenever the bigger, stronger boys flew down the court in their direction and they got more than a few dirty looks.

  So they sat on the edge of the concrete slab and watched. The older boys were good, but they played very rough. A couple of them were big enough to dunk, but wouldn't dare try unless they were alone on a breakaway for fear of getting tackled in the air. Arguments and near-fights broke out every other possession.

  The games were entertaining, but Isaiah and Jerome decided to come earlier the next day in hopes that they'd have the court or at least one basket to themselves.

  A dred with no shirt on forced in an awkward, difficult lay-up with two opponents hanging onto him for a game-winning basket. He let out a yell right in the face of one of them. One of the guys on the losing team grabbed the ball and kicked it as hard as he could, right over the little fieldhouse next to the court.

  "What the fuck," the owner of the ball barked. "Why you kicking my ball?"

  "What you gonna do about it?"

  The guy shook his head. "You guys are fucked," he said, and walked around the building to retrieve his ball. He didn't come back.

  "Good one," the dred said to the aspiring punter.

  "Let's go," Isaiah told Jerome. They got up to leave.

  "Hey kid," the kicker called out to Jerome. "Let me see that ball!"

  Jerome turned around. The kicker was not a small guy, he was one the dunkers, tall and light-skinned with lean, muscular arms. He smiled slyly at the boy and gestured with his hands as if calling a teammate for the ball. Jerome threw it.

  "Fuck," Isaiah said. "Why'd you do that?" Isaiah sat down in a huff while Jerome waited expectantly for the guy to throw it back.

  "We're gonna be here forever now Rome!"

  Jerome realized his mistake. "Just a couple games," the kicker said, dribbling back onto the court. "Run it back," he yelled.

  "We're gonna be here forever," Isaiah said again. "Stupid."

  Jerome sat on the hard cement next to Isaiah, avoiding his friend's eyes.

  After a couple of long games filled with hard fouls and lengthy, passionate debates on the sacredness of streetball anarchy, the one working floodlight clicked on loudly and Isaiah said, "you need to get your ball Rome!"

  Jerome and Isaiah walked onto the court toward the tall, angry, light-skinned guy, who was tossing up free throws while some of the players went to the water fountain. Jerome asked meekly, "Can I have my ball please? I have to go home."

  Kicker let go another foul shot, ignoring the boys. Isaiah ran for the rebound after the ball jingled through the basket, hitting the last remaining link of what was once chain netting. Kicker took one quick step and snatched the ball just before Isaiah could grab it and shoved him away with a palm to the face. Isaiah flew at the man—who was double his age—flailing fists and feet. The man laughed and pushed him away with one hand, but Isaiah kept attacking wildly, landing a kick to the bully's balls.

  As he doubled over, Kicker smacked Isaiah with the full force of his huge right hand, knocking Jerome's friend off his feet. Tears automatically sprouted from Isaiah's eyes and Jerome ran to help him up.

  "Don't fuckin' touch me," Isaiah yelled, shoving Jerome away and bouncing up off the pavement. "Fuck you," he screamed at Kicker, storming away from the court, not bothering to wipe his eyes, Jerome scuttling behind him.

  The next day Jerome's doorbell rang and Isaiah was at the door, standing in the light rain, holding his basketball. He pushed it into Jerome's gut. "My cousin got it back for me," he said plainly, looking back toward the stocky, dark-skinned teenager hovering on the sidewalk.

  "Thanks," Jerome said, smiling at the serious-faced, nameless cousin. He did not smile back, or change his sour expression at all.

  “He's mad at me," Isaiah said. "He's always mad at me. Knock my door tomorrow if it doesn't rain again, and we'll go to the court," he said, and flew down the steps to catch up with his cousin, who was already walking across the street.

  It didn't rain the next day, and they went back to the basketball court. They had the entire thing to themselves until noon, when a few more boys around their age showed up. They played schoolyard games like American, 21, Elimination and 3-on-3 and when there were enough kids they played full-court. Isaiah couldn't handle the ball quite as well as Jerome, and he sometimes missed lay-ups, but he was so quick and his hands so fast that he stole the ball a lot and ended up ahead of the pack for wide-open breakaway lay-ups, and he didn't miss those.

  Jerome couldn't remember how many trips he made to the drinking fountain, but he played so hard and sweated so much that he never even had to pee. They played game after game until the high school kids and older guys came and took over. Jerome clutched his ball tight now, but the long light-skinned guy never showed up.

  They went back the next day, and the next, and soon all the kids in that end of the neighbourhood knew Jerome and Isaiah and fought to be on their team. After practicing most mornings, Isaiah never missed his lay-ups anymore and Jerome could dribble through an entire team and even make jumpshots sometimes. He was easily the best kid his age in the neighbourhood, and only Isaiah could stop him sometimes, because they practiced together so much and Isaiah knew every one of his best friend's moves. The older guys that showed up early would watch the kids play and marvel at the two ten year olds running everyone off the court.

  "They're like Jordan and Pippen," a twenty-something guy with the round gut and shiny head would say in between green bottles of beer.

  One rainy day Jerome was inside when his dad came in from work. “It’s pure police outside," he said. Jerome ran to the living room, jumped on the couch in front of the window knees-first and pushed aside the vertical blinds with one hand. The police cherries were flashing down the street to the right, in front of the townhouses on the other side of the stop sign. When he heard his dad walk into the bathroom and click the door shut, he slipped silently out the side door, pushed his bike out of the gate and rode nonchalantly in the direction of the lights.

  He stayed on his side of the street, pedaling only fast enough to keep the bike moving. There was someone sitting on the round brown-painted bars that encircled the grass like a low fence. The neckline of his t-shirt was stretched out of shape and his hands were behind his back.

  Jerome rode past the scene, maintaining his slow clip. He stopped a few houses down, jumped off and pretended to fiddle with his chain. When he got back on, he rode back in the direction of his house, riding even slower now, struggling to keep his balance.

  He looked closer at the handcuffed guy sitting on the bars. It was Isaiah's sour-faced cousin! The silent teenager looked up with the same expression on his face that he always had. When he saw the boy on the bike, Jerome saw his countenance change for the first time ever.

  It darkened.

  "Why do you waste time talking to these nerds?"

  "They're hoopers," Ice replied. "How are they nerds? Shit, I wish I was still playing ball."

  "None of them are making the NBA, what’s the point?"

  "You're crazy, Rome is nice. He's already getting recruiting letters from colleges down south."

  "Whatever," Ice's older companion said. "He'll end up back here after a couple semesters like every other loser from Toronto, playing at Parkway Church on Mondays, arguing over fouls with high school kids."

  "You are one grouchy guy," Ice rolled his eyes. "Oh well, I haven't been to one of his games yet this year. I'm going today for sure."

  "Yeah, if they let you in the school, you delinquent!"

  They both laughed, but Ice's partner laughed longer and louder. "Shut up you fuckin’ parolee," Ice spat.

  They walked up the circular driveway toward the middle townhouse building almost directly across from Jerome's house.

  "Real talk though, the girls in this neighbourhood need to stop bringing these downtown pussies around the area to steal our fiends.
"

  "Yeah, there's enough love for all of them right here," Ice joked, grabbing his crotch as if he needed the size 40 jeans to hold it all in.

  Ice's partner stopped short and shot him eyes like knives. "This is serious. They're taking money out our pockets," he said through gritted teeth. "So shut the fuck up and knock on Janelle's door. I know that fake thug is there, because that blonde, trailer trash, Michael Jackson-lookin' crackhead bought from him last night instead of me."

  "I think it's the third one still. Not sure though—"

  "It doesn't matter, it'll work either way, just count to ten and go." He circled around the left side to the backyards in between two rows of townhomes. Ice opened the door to the building and walked down the hallway.

  At the third door on the left, Ice waited a couple moments, covered the peephole with his left thumb, and then banged on the door as hard as he could. "Toronto Police," he yelled, trying to put baritone into his voice. "Open up! Police!" He kept banging until Janelle opened the door.

  "Ice? What the fuck," she screamed. A couple of doors in the hallway were opening. Ice pushed past Janelle and ran past the kitchen and through the living room and out the back door, which was swinging wide open. Janelle's drug-dealer boyfriend had burst out the same door and Ice's co-conspirator had been waiting to trip him. He'd flown right off the third step and face-planted on the concrete tiles that make a path to the gate.

  He stood no chance