Home Games

by Benjamin Markovits

  Eventually the bus rumbles onto the highway, and all I can see is the other cars and sometimes a strip of shops by the side of the road. Then we come off the highway and drive through quiet, hilly streets with big new houses on them. Their front yards have fences along the sidewalk so you can’t see in. But Murchison itself, when we pull into the parking lot outside the gym, looks pretty much like our school. It has brick walls and pillars by the entrance.

  The parking lot’s already full, and when we walk in the side door, I can see that the gym is filling up, too. It’s starting to get that hot, loud feeling I remember from the pep rally. My heart beats quicker again, and I can feel my hands sweat.

  In the locker room, I give out the uniforms. Afterward, there’s still one left over at the bottom of the bag: number 22. Mr. Tomski says, “Folks, we got a new teammate. Somebody y’all know pretty well.” Everybody stares at me; nobody says anything. “Against these guys,” Mr. Tomski goes on, “we can use all the help we can get.”

  On the way out to the court, Blake Snyder notices my shoes. He can’t think of anything funny to say, so he just says, “Look at his shoes!”

  A few people laugh, but not Pete. “Don’t worry,” he says, putting his hand on my shoulder. “I don’t think we’ll need you today.” He’s sort of kidding and sort of not.

  The gym has big windows on either side, like a church. It’s five o’clock and sunlight fills them—the baskets come down from the ceiling on poles and cast long shadows onto the court. The overhead lights make shiny patches on the wooden floor. I see sparkles everywhere. It’s hard to focus, and suddenly I remember that my dad might be in the crowd.

  But I don’t get a chance to look for him because Mr. Tomski tells all the players to get into layup lines. We have a couple of balls and take it in turns to dribble up to the hoop and shoot. Then somebody else comes from the other side and picks up the ball and passes it to the next person in line.

  I’ve watched this drill a hundred times but have never gone through it myself. The ball keeps slipping out of my hands; my palms are too sweaty. And I feel clumsy in my heavy school shoes. The first time I try to lay the ball in, it clangs off the bottom of the rim and bounces away.

  There’s a big scoreboard fixed high up against the white brick wall of the gym. The digital clock shows minutes and seconds and tenths of seconds. The last number in the row changes so fast you can hardly read it, the next number moves more slowly, and so on. It’s like a funny kind of domino chain. Just watching it seems to make your heart go faster.

  When the number in the first box goes from 8 to 7, I realize the clock is counting down to the start of the game: seven minutes to go. The bleachers are almost full, though people seem to keep coming in, parents and other kids. A couple of girls sit by a table near the entrance, taking tickets. The referee, in his striped shirt, stands in the middle of the court, testing a bag of balls. But I can’t see my dad in the crowd. Or my mom.

  I see Sam, though. He’s sitting at the end of the first row of bleachers, as if he might want to sneak away later. I try to catch his eye, but he’s sort of hunched over and keeps staring at the entrance. With five minutes left on the clock, Mr. Tomski calls us in to practice free throws. We make a circle around the foul line and take it in turns to shoot. Everyone claps together after each shot—two claps if the shot goes in, and one if it misses. Everybody gets two shots.

  Pete goes first and makes both of his free throws. I’m last, and even before anyone passes me the ball, sweat has started running off my forehead and into my eyes. I try to wipe them dry, but my uniform is made of this cool, shiny material that doesn’t soak up anything. The salt in my sweat stings when I blink it away.

  Standing at the line, I remember what Sam always tells me: Point your elbow at the rim and bend your legs. Follow through. I’m just about to shoot when a big horn sounds, so loud I almost drop the ball. The game’s about to start.

  Twenty-Five

  AFTER THE WARM-UP, I gather all the balls and put them in a couple of bags, then drag them over to the sideline and sit down on the team bench. Usually I sit at the scorer’s table, but there’s an official scorer for playoff games. So now I’m with all the other players, just another kid in uniform. For a few minutes, I look for my dad in the crowd. But instead I see Mom, three rows up on the other side of the court. She smiles at me, the kind of smile you make so someone can see it a long way off. Granma’s there, too, wearing a bright orange sweatshirt with a picture of a hornet on it—the school mascot.

  The horn sounds again, and the ref throws the ball up in the center circle. Breon’s our best jumper, but he’s going against the tallest kid I’ve ever seen. Big number 7 looks red in the face already; his mouth guard makes his lips swell out. His feet hardly leave the ground, but it doesn’t matter: he swats the ball back, and one of the Murchison players dribbles up court. The game has started. Kids are shouting, and I look over and see Mabley standing on one of the bleachers in a row of Hornets fans—she’s painted her face orange and black. Her mouth is a big O, but her voice is just the voice of everybody screaming at once.

  After that I try to concentrate on the game. Murchison has some good players, but nobody as quick as Pete, and they have trouble keeping up with him. Number 7 is a problem, though. It’s hard to shoot over him; and every time one of his teammates misses, he just seems to reach over and tap the ball in.

  Mr. Tomski keeps doing what he said he was going to do—and substitutes players. Everybody except for Pete. When he sends a new kid onto the court, Mr. Tomski puts an arm around his shoulder and says, “The only thing I expect is that you play hard. Don’t save anything for later. There is no later. Later is now.” Then he shoves him out there with a pat on the back.

  I’m so nervous that I sit on my hands just to warm them up, they feel so cold. At least Mr. Tomski won’t put me in the game, that’s what I tell myself.

  At one point, Pete drives hard to the basket. Big number 7 is standing under the rim and jumps up to block Pete’s shot. Maybe if you know him he’s a nice boy, but on the basketball court number 7 looks like a grown-up playing with kids; he looks like a bully. And after blocking the shot, he seems to lean forward a little—and lands on Pete’s shoulder. It looks like he pushes him to the ground.

  Anyway, Pete falls in a funny kind of way, twisting as he falls. The referee blows his whistle, and Mr. Tomski rushes out of his chair and starts to shout. Everybody’s shouting, even Granma. I can see her standing up in her seat.

  For a few seconds, Pete just lies there. Then Breon helps him up and Pete limps over to the free throw line. The ref gives him the ball, and Pete takes a deep breath and turns the ball around in his hands.

  He misses the first free throw. Then he misses the second one. There’s a scramble for the ball, and somebody knocks it out of bounds. Mr. Tomski steps on to the court and calls time-out.

  All the players gather around him in a circle. I stand up, too, and try to push my way in. I can hear Mr. Tomski saying to Pete, “You all right, son?” and I can hear Pete saying, “I’m fine. I just missed a couple of shots. It happens.”

  “Take a seat for a minute,” Mr. Tomski says. “Catch your breath.”

  “I’m fine!”

  “No point playing the hero now. We got a long way to go.” He turns and looks at the players standing in a circle around him. Then he looks at me. “Ben! Check in for Pete,” he says.

  I don’t have time to think. The horn sounds, and I wander onto the court, trying to dry my hands against my jersey. “Wait a minute,” Mr. Tomski calls out. “You have to check in.”

  “What?”

  “You have to check in.”

  “What?”

  It’s too loud in the gym; everybody seems to be talking. The words don’t make any sense.

  Mr. Tomski looks at me calmly. “Go to the scorer’s table and tell them that you’re coming on for Pete Miller. Then get your butt out there.”

  The whole thing lasts about a
minute—I hardly have time to breathe. The ref blows his whistle and suddenly I’m running, but I don’t know where. One of the Murchison players seems to be standing alone under the basket. I can hear Pete shouting, “That’s your man.” He sounds like he’s shouting from the other end of a long tunnel, and then the kid has the ball and lays it in. Everybody starts running again.

  Mr. Tomski calls something out, but I can’t understand him. I feel like I have weights on my feet and can hear my own footsteps—clump, clump, clump—in spite of the noise of the crowd. Or maybe it’s just the beating of my heart, very loud, in my ears.

  For some reason I find myself standing in a corner, alone. And then the ball comes to me. I think, At least I caught it. That’s something. A Murchison player runs at me, waving his arms. I try to dribble but get stuck after one bounce.

  Now there are two Murchison kids trying to take the ball away from me. I hold it like a football and swing my elbows around. Everybody seems to be calling my name or shouting. I can hear them, but I can’t see them; there are too many arms and legs. I throw the ball as hard as I can in the direction of one of the voices, and somehow Daniel Krasnick picks it up and shoots it. The shot goes in. A whistle blows. Somebody taps me on the shoulder. It’s Pete; he gives me a look, twisting his mouth to the side, like, I’m not saying anything. I can sit down again.

  At halftime, I check the stands for my mother, but only Granma’s there in her orange sweatshirt. I want to see Mom, but before I can find her, Mr. Tomski calls everyone into the locker room.

  On the way over, he puts a hand on my arm. “Keep your head next time,” he says.

  “Pardon me?”

  “The game is as slow as you make it.”

  As the manager, it’s my job to make sure everybody has water to drink. But I’ve been worrying about the game and have forgotten to refill the bottles. “Come on,” Pete says, kicking an empty bag.

  “I was playing, too.”

  Pete just stares at me.

  I walk to the sink and run the tap, testing the water to make sure it’s cold. Then I pick up all the bottles and fill them. The first person I give a bottle to is Pete.

  While this is going on, Mr. Tomski checks his clipboard—he has the notes from the scorer’s table clipped under the metal bar and starts reading out the numbers. Pete has twenty points. Everybody else on the team, put together, has eight.

  “You have to start helping him out,” Mr. Tomski says. He’s standing by one of the locker room showers in a puddle of water. His trousers are too long, the bottoms have gotten wet. But he doesn’t seem to care. He’s thinking about what to say next.

  “You know what they’re trying to do, don’t you. They’re trying to bully you out there. But let me tell you something, I don’t care how big they are. They can only bully you if you let them bully you.”

  He calls us into a huddle, and we put our hands together over our heads. “Hornets on three,” he says. “One. Two . . .” and we all shout “Hornets” together on the third count. Even me, though I feel a little silly—I feel like I’m pretending. Then we run on court again and get into layup lines. While I’m waiting for a rebound, someone pulls me aside. It’s my mom, with a plastic bag in her hand.

  “I brought your shoes,” she says. “Your sneakers.”

  I sit down by the side of the court and take off my heavy school shoes. There’s a little blood on one of my socks, but I can’t feel anything. Mom bends down to help me put on the sneakers.

  “I can do it myself!” But my fingers are cold and clumsy; it takes me a while to tie the laces.

  “I’m so proud of you,” she says quietly.

  “Well, you shouldn’t be. I suck.”

  “Who says?”

  “Your boyfriend,” I tell her, standing up, and run off to join the others.

  They’re practicing free throws now, standing around the key and taking it in turns to shoot. Clapping once for a miss and twice for a make. I squeeze into the line—last again.

  Pete makes his free throws, most of the other kids miss one. For some reason, when my turn comes, I don’t care anymore, I’m not nervous. Both of my shots go in, everyone claps twice.

  When the horn sounds for the second half to start, I turn around to look for Mr. Tomski. But he’s standing with his back to us, talking to the referee. So he didn’t see me. My heart sinks, and I walk with my head down back to the bench, with all the other bench players. We don’t have to worry about playing. At least, not yet. We can sit and relax and watch the game.

  On the way, I hear someone calling out to me. “Big man, hey, big man.” Sam walks toward me, a little stiffly, as if his knees hurt. He’s wearing a pair of dark jeans and a button-up shirt. A soft cap covers his shaved head. He looks different—it’s like he’s dressed up for the occasion.

  “You know what to do when someone passes you the ball, right?” Sam says.

  “What?”

  “Just shoot it.”

  For a second, I don’t say anything, and he asks, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  Because everybody keeps telling me what to do, I feel like saying. But that’s not really Sam’s fault. “It’s scary out there,” I tell him eventually. It feels like a confession. “Everything happens so fast.”

  “Let it happen.”

  “What if I miss?”

  “There are worse things,” Sam says. Then he slaps me on the back and shoves me lightly away—toward the court.

  The second half starts, and Murchison keeps trying to push Pete around. That’s their plan. Every time he goes anywhere, someone throws an elbow at him or sticks out a knee. I don’t like Pete, but I can’t help admiring him. No matter what Murchison does, he gets back on his feet and finds ways to score.

  Also, I suddenly want to win—I want the Hornets to win.

  About a hundred kids from our school have made the trip over to Murchison. They’re sitting behind one of the baskets; they have a section to themselves. For the whole second half, all of them stay on their feet; nobody sits down.

  Mabley is there, too. The paint on her face has started to streak, as if she’s been crying—but it’s only sweat. The orange and black have mixed together, she looks like a crazy person. And whenever I look at her, she seems to be screaming. Her mouth is always open. The score goes back and forth; it’s a close game. Murchison gets all the rebounds. It doesn’t matter if they make their shots or not, big number 7 cleans up the glass.

  At the end of the third quarter, Mr. Tomski sends me into the game again, just for a minute. This time when I get the ball, I shoot. Adam Hancock passes it to me out of the low post, and without even thinking I bend my legs and follow through. The ball rattles in. My head feels clear, I can breathe normally. And I want to keep playing when Mr. Tomski pulls me to the side at the next whistle.

  “Come on! I made my shot.”

  “You did okay,” Mr. Tomski says. “Sit down.”

  The fourth quarter starts. Everybody’s standing now, including the Murchison fans. The gym feels as hot as the laundry room in Granma’s house when both the machines are running. Even Mr. Tomski looks red in the face. The noise hurts my ears. Kids stamp their feet on the bleachers, banging them like drums.

  The sun is setting and colors the big church-like windows with an orange glow. Sometimes it’s hard to see against the light—there’s a lot of dust in the air. I feel like I’ve been there for days, stuck in that gym. It’s hard to imagine a world outside, where people go about their business, driving around and picking up groceries. Mowing the lawn.

  With a few minutes left, Breon steals a pass and starts racing down court. I think, maybe he’s going to try to dunk. One of the Murchison kids comes flying in and tries to block his shot. But he misses the ball and ends up falling into Breon, who lands in a weird way—his foot twists, and then his knee buckles, and you can hear him scream. Even over all that noise.

  For a long time, he just lies there. A doctor comes out to look at him—Mr. T
omski has to pull all the players away. “Give us some room,” he says. “Come on, give us some room!” His voice sounds hoarse; his face is shiny with sweat. Patches of black hair are plastered damply against his forehead; the rest are sticking out. But he doesn’t care; he kneels on the floor, listening to the doctor. It’s too loud to hear.

  After a while a couple of men walk out with a stretcher. They pick Breon up and lay him on the stretcher and carry him out. Everybody in the crowd stands up to cheer him—the Murchison fans, too.

  Mr. Tomski follows them part of the way. He says something to Breon, who turns his head and glances back at us. He looks like he’s concentrating hard, like he’s holding something heavy and trying not to let it spill.

  Breon can’t take the free throws, so Mr. Tomski has to send someone else in his place. He puts his hand on my shoulder and says, “Well, kid. Here’s your chance.” I remember to check in at the scorer’s table, and the next thing I know, I’m wandering onto the court. It’s like climbing onto the stage in the middle of a play. The ref hands me the ball; there are kids lined up along either side of the key.

  Sweat keeps running into my eyes. I try to wipe it away, but my hands are sweaty, too, so I bend down and dry my fingers against my socks, which are made out of cotton and not slick nylon like the uniform. Well, there’s only one thing to do. I step up to the line and shoot.

  A little short, maybe, that’s how it feels. The ball hits the front of the rim then the backboard and rolls in. I look up to check the scoreboard against the wall—tie game—and see my mom in the crowd. She and Granma are holding hands. Granma is easy to spot, a white-haired old woman in an orange sweatshirt that looks too big for her. Standing next to her, but a little way apart, is a man in a dark gray suit with a bright green tie.