by Eric Walters
I dribbled out to the left side. This part of the parking lot appeared to be smoother, with only a couple of smaller puddles. I put up another shot and it banked noisily off the backboard. There was an interesting combination of sounds with the ping of the ball against the ground and the loud crash when it hit the backboard. I deliberately slammed the ball up against the backboard as hard as I could. The crash was like thunder, and it echoed off the motel walls.
I dribbled back to the pretend foul line. I’d play a game of twenty-one against myself, counting my shots. I spun the ball in my hands, bounced it against the ground and then put up a shot—a shot that fell well short of the rim and splashed into a puddle behind the net.
“That was one godawful shot.”
I spun around. It was Terry! He was wearing his track pants and a ratty old sweatshirt, and with his hair mussed up he looked like he’d just rolled out of bed.
“Do you normally shoot that badly?” he asked.
“No, of course not!” I protested. “It was the ball, and the net and—”
“Sounds like lots of excuses. Go get it.”
I ran over and picked the ball up again, shaking away the excess water.
“Pass,” Terry said, holding up his hands in front of him.
I whipped over a chest pass and he caught it. He held the ball up in one hand and examined it closely. “You’re right, this isn’t much of a ball.”
“That’s what I said. If it was a good ball then—”
He put up a shot and it sailed right into the hoop, cutting me off in mid-excuse.
I grabbed the ball, and he held up his hands like he wanted me to pass again. Even in the dim light I couldn’t help but see a smirk on his face. I passed him the ball. He lined up a shot and for the second time it dropped right in. I corralled the rebound and again he held out his hands.
“Pass.”
For a third time I sent him a pass. This one had a little bit too much force and was off target. He had to jump to the side to catch it and he teetered, looking like he was going to fall before he regained his balance.
“You know, it’s a poor workman who blames his tools,” Terry said.
“What does that mean?”
“You never heard that saying before?”
I shook my head.
“It means if it doesn’t drop don’t blame the ball, blame the person throwing the ball.” He put up another shot and this time it hit the rim and bounced up into the air and wide of the target.
“What’s with that rim!” he snapped. “That shot would have dropped for sure if it was a halfway decent…” He stopped himself and started to laugh. “Remember, never blame the ball, but blaming the rim is okay.”
I grabbed the loose ball and fed him out another pass.
“I missed. You shoot till you miss,” he said as he returned the pass to me.
I put up a shot that didn’t drop but at least hit the backboard and rim. Missing wasn’t good, but at least I hadn’t thrown up another brick. The ball bounced over to Terry. He aimed and the shot dropped. I snatched the ball and sent him out another pass.
“I thought you’d be asleep by now,” I said.
“I should be. Four-thirty comes real soon. In fact I was asleep.” He put up a shot that missed. “I got woken up by something.”
Well, that explained his appearance—he had just rolled out of bed! I took the ball and walked over to a place only about six feet from the net. I wanted to make at least one shot.
“Those trucks can be pretty loud as they barrel by here,” I said. I put up the shot and mercifully it dropped.
“It wasn’t the trucks,” he said as he got the rebound and tossed it to me.
“If it wasn’t the trucks then what was it that…?” Instantly I knew the answer to my question. It was me playing basketball.
“But that’s okay. It’s been a while since I played some ball. It’s one of my favourite sports,” he said. “Do you want to have a game?”
“You mean like twenty-one or something like that?” I asked.
“No offence but I know the way I shoot and I’ve seen the way you shoot. It wouldn’t be much of a contest. I was thinking more about a game.”
“You want to play me one on one?” I asked in disbelief.
“I don’t see anybody else around here,” he replied. “Of course, you could just smash a few more shots against the backboard and maybe we could wake up a couple more guys.” He laughed. “Let’s just play a little ball.”
“But will that be okay?”
He shrugged. “I’m bigger, taller, stronger, more experienced and have a better shot. You’ve got two legs. Sounds about even to me. You want first ball?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “You can start with it.”
“Suit yourself,” he said as he took the ball from my hands. “It might be the last time you ever see the ball, though. I used to play for the Junior Varsity team at Simon Fraser University.”
“They have a wheelchair team?” I asked.
“Regular team, regular ball…before this,” he said, touching his artificial leg.
I suddenly felt bad for mentioning it. It wasn’t like we both didn’t know that he had a missing leg, but still, I didn’t like bringing it up.
“Check,” he said and tossed me the ball. I tossed it back. Before I could even think to react he’d squared up to the net, put the ball up and it dropped for a basket.
“That makes one. How about game is ten baskets?”
“Sure, that’s fine,” I said as I grabbed the loose ball.
“And we better make it that the other person gets the ball after a basket,” he said.
“Okay, that’s—”
“That way you’ll at least get to hold the ball a couple of times,” he said and laughed.
Funny, really funny.
I starting dribbling, and Terry came out on me. I faked one way, went the other, and just as I was going by he reached out, smashing the ball and my hand!
“Hey, foul!” I screamed as he scrambled after the loose ball.
“Foul?” He grabbed the ball and looked over at me. “You call that a foul?”
“You hit my hand!” I protested.
“I hit your hand on the ball. That makes it part of the ball. You here to complain or play basketball?”
“Play ball.”
“Then you better cover me or I’m going to go up two baskets to zip.”
I walked over and put myself between him and the basket just as he put up a shot. It clanked off the backboard, spun around the rim and dropped.
“I was hoping this would be a game,” he said. “If you’re not going to come up and cover me you might as well go back to your room.”
His tone of voice, the sort of taunting quality, was starting to get on my nerves. If he wanted a game I’d give him a game.
I took the ball and started dribbling. Terry reached in to try to knock it away again. I spun around so I was backing into him. I faked one way, then the other, and as he lunged forward we bumped together! I turned the corner on him while he stumbled backwards! I went up for an easy layup!
“That makes it two baskets to one and—” I stopped mid-sentence. Terry was on the ground, sitting in a puddle.
“I’m so sorry!” I exclaimed.
“Don’t be sorry,” he said. “You made the basket.”
“I didn’t mean to knock you over.” I rushed over and offered him my hand to get up.
“It was a good play. No foul.” He took my hand and I pulled him to his feet.
“My ball. Now let’s see if you can stop me.”
Terry began dribbling. I had expected him to just take another shot. He moved over to the side. His dribbling had the same strange awkwardness as his run. I jumped forward, trying to separate him from the ball
. We bumped together. For a split second I thought we were both going to tumble over, but we both regained our balance, and as I backed off a half step he moved around me and put up an easy layup for his third basket.
“You should play to win. I’m playing to win. Come on, Winston, don’t back off,” Terry said.
“I was afraid I was going to knock you over again,” I explained.
“And if you did?” he asked with a shrug. “I’d just get back up again. If you haven’t noticed, I’m pretty hard to keep down…or beat. Your ball,” he said as he tossed it to me. “Try your hardest to score, ’cause believe me, I’m going to try my hardest to stop you.” He paused and a big smile crossed his face. “Now let’s play some ball.”
13
MAY 25, 1980
“You going to finish those?” Terry asked, pointing to the last of the fries on my plate.
“No, I don’t think—” He reached over and grabbed my plate. “—I’m going to finish them.”
“Thanks,” he mumbled, and he stuffed a couple of the fries into his mouth. “I’m still hungry.”
“How can you be hungry?” I asked in disbelief.
“I really work up an appetite out there on the road.”
An appetite was one thing, but the way he could pack it away was another thing entirely. He’d already eaten two cheeseburgers, a large order of fries, a huge hunk of apple pie topped with ice cream and a gigantic salad, and washed it all down with a chocolate milkshake.
“In Newfoundland I had a waitress watch me eat and she asked me if I had a hollow leg,” Terry said.
I laughed.
“I told her it was actually metal and fibreglass.”
Doug chuckled and Terry broke into a big, goofy sort of grin. That was good to see, because so far I hadn’t seen either of them smile that whole morning. They hadn’t been talking, either. Okay, maybe a couple of words, but it was like they weren’t saying anything they didn’t really, really need to say. At first I just figured they were too tired or busy to talk. But by the time lunch came rolling around it was pretty obvious that they were fighting. Maybe fighting wasn’t the right word, because they weren’t arguing or even disagreeing. It was more like they were pretending that the other one wasn’t there. This is not the easiest thing to do when you’re inside a little van, no more than ten feet away from the other person. When Terry came in from a run, Doug would sometimes climb out of the van. When they were both sitting in there I could practically smell the tension—that and the portable toilet. And what was up with that toilet? The van never smelled good, but today it just reeked. It made me want to gag.
“Do you have time for a few questions?” a woman asked. She wore a little badge around her neck that identified her as being from a newspaper.
“Sure,” Terry said. “Have a seat.”
“You can have mine,” Doug said as he rose to his feet. “I’ve got some phone calls to make.”
“You always seem to be doing something,” the woman offered.
“Always something,” Doug said, emphasizing both words.
“I should go too,” I said.
I got up and strolled across the restaurant. My father was sitting at a table at the very back. I’d actually wanted to eat lunch with him. I’d been riding in the van all morning and I hadn’t seen him at all because he was driving a rental car. But when I’d said I was going to eat with him both Doug and Terry had insisted that I join them for lunch instead. I think the invitation had less to do with my company, or my uneaten french fries, than it had to do with them just wanting somebody else around so there’d be some conversation.
“How you doing?” I asked as I plopped down on the bench across from my father in the booth.
“Not great. Working on my story.”
“Isn’t it going well?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I’ve got a few ideas, but it’s hard with all these other reporters around.”
“There certainly are a lot more. Even more than yesterday.”
“They get in the way,” he said. “And do you know what’s even worse than a bad reporter?”
“A lot of bad reporters?” I asked.
He laughed. “No, a lot of good reporters.”
“How can that be worse?”
“Because good reporters write good stories. Have you read any of these articles?” he asked, gesturing to newspapers scattered across the table in front of him.
“I haven’t seen a newspaper in days. Besides, the only things I read are the sports and the comics.”
“There’s this one by Christie Blatchford, and another one by Leslie Scrivener.” He shook his head.
“They wrote bad articles?” I asked.
“I wish they had. They both wrote great articles.”
“And that’s bad?”
“Bad for me. You know, there are only so many stories, so many angles to cover any event, and it makes my job harder when other people are covering those angles.” Again he shook his head. “There were no female reporters in my day,” he muttered.
“I thought this was your day,” I said.
“My early days. Back when I started, no self-respecting woman would even dream of becoming a—”
“You mean like my mother?” I challenged.
“You know what I mean. Your mother wasn’t a reporter when I started.”
“That’s right. Was she even born when you started?”
He shot me a dirty look. “Besides, your mother isn’t a reporter, she’s a news producer, a TV news producer. And speaking of your mother, I was talking to my editor today and he told me your mother had called him because she wanted to get in contact with us. She told him she hadn’t heard from us.” He fixed me with an accusing gaze. “You’ll call her, tonight, right?”
I shrugged. “Sure, whatever.”
“I know you’re mad at her, but that doesn’t mean you can just ignore her. It’s only fair that you call and—”
“The way you called when you first left us?” I snapped.
My father put down the paper he was holding. What was he going to say to that?
“I deserved that,” he said. “And you didn’t deserve me not calling. What I did wasn’t fair, and believe me, I’m sorry. Just, please don’t do something to your mother that you know was hurtful to you…okay?”
Now I didn’t know what to say. I was looking for a fight and he wasn’t giving me one.
“Tell you what, I’ll make the call tonight when we get to the hotel. I’ll tell her it’s my fault that nobody called. She’s used to things being my fault so she’ll believe it for sure,” he said, and then he laughed.
I nodded. “You’re right—she’ll have no trouble buying that.”
“But that doesn’t take care of my bigger problem. What am I going to write about today? I have to have something filed by nine this evening if it’s going to be in tomorrow’s paper.”
“That’s lots of time.”
“It’s lots of time when you have a story idea, but I’m coming up empty. I’ve never missed a deadline in my life and I’m not about to start now.”
“There must be something to write about,” I said. I knew that really wasn’t very helpful, but it wasn’t my business to help him do his job, either.
“Nothing much has happened today. What am I supposed to write—Terry’s still running?”
“Well, he is,” I said.
“Maybe he is, but that’s not new, and it’s not called a newspaper for nothing. The public gets tired of reading about the same things every day. And the ironic thing is that each day he runs, the running becomes less significant.”
“Shouldn’t it be more significant?” I protested.
“Not really. The public has a very short attention span, even for things as important as wars, so how long do you think they’re going t
o want to read about Terry running another day?”
“They should want to read about it. What he’s doing is important!” I argued.
“Ah, but that’s what you don’t understand. There’s a big difference between important and newsworthy.”
“You lost me.”
“There are many incredibly important things happening in the world every day. Meetings between world leaders. Scientists making medical breakthroughs. But that doesn’t mean that those things are newsworthy. You’re not the only one who goes straight to the comics and the sports section. Newspapers want news that sells papers. Ever heard the saying ‘It’s the sizzle that sells the steak’?”
I shook my head. He was a wealth of old sayings…I figured that was because he was old.
“It means something has to have a buzz to it, be exciting, to capture the public’s attention.”
“But this story did get their attention. All those phone calls you got…and it brought other reporters.”
“I didn’t say it didn’t get their attention. The question is, how long can it hold their attention? Of course, what will help keep their attention is pictures, either on TV or in the papers. That’s why I have a photographer joining us. I think I’m going to have him get some shots of Terry running up a steep hill—his expression looks so strained, like he’s in pain. Do you think he’s in much pain?”
“I think it hurts. It has to.”
My father pulled out a cigarette from the package on the table. He flicked his lighter and lit up.
“Do you remember when I mentioned how big it would be if somebody found out that Terry wasn’t really running the whole way?” my father asked.
“Of course I do…but you know that isn’t true! You know how carefully they mark the spot, and how Terry steps right on the plastic bag, and about the time it blew away and he ran an extra three miles so—”