Playing Without the Ball

by Rich Wallace

  “Kind of heavy,” I say.

  He looks around, then leans over to me. “The tit team,” he whispers.

  We both laugh. “I guess the competition won’t be much in this league,” I say.

  “Don’t be too sure,” he says. “There are some good players. Especially on the Catholic teams.”

  “They got more than one?”

  “Yeah. Two Catholic teams, us, these guys on the floor, the First Presbyterians, and New Covenant.”

  “Who we got?”

  “You, me, maybe Anthony. Peter Croce. Two freshmen I don’t know very well.” He counts to six on his fingers. “Robin Jacobsen and Beth somebody.”

  “Two girls?”

  “Yeah. They’re good.”

  “They look good?”

  “You don’t know ’em?”

  “No.”

  “You’ll see.”

  Okay, I recognize them. They’re juniors. Robin is definitely somebody I’ve noticed. You can’t help but notice her. Her pieces fit together well without any imbalances.

  Beth is not bad either. She’s a little shorter than Robin, a little less drool-inducing, but certainly cute.

  When everybody’s arrived, we sit in the bleachers and Alan steps out in front of us. “This is my team,” he says. “It’s not a democracy. I’ll try to have everybody play at least a quarter of every game, but my intention is to win. Tonight is our only official practice. The games start Thursday. I’ve got schedules here. We’ll play games on Sunday nights and Thursdays, and Reverend Porter is getting us T-shirts. Any questions?”

  Beth raises her hand. “Who is that?” she says, pointing at me.

  “A ringer,” Alan says. “Jay’s coming to our church now. He’s very eager to get involved in the youth group, and I thought the basketball team would be a good way for him to get started.”

  Beth smirks. “I’m sure.”

  “He’s very devout,” Alan says, failing to hold back a smile.

  Robin turns and gives me a long look. She isn’t glaring, but she isn’t exactly glowing with warmth either. We get up and take the floor. Alan tosses me the ball and I shoot a long-range jumper, which hits the side of the backboard and bounces out of bounds.

  We run through a layup drill, and it’s obvious after about fifteen seconds what kind of team this will be. This kid Peter handles the ball well, and he at least can shoot a layup. He looks pretty wimpy and won’t get many rebounds, but he won’t be a total liability.

  The two girls are athletic and should be okay, especially if the other teams have girls, too. The two freshmen—Randy and Josh—are awkward and slow. And Anthony says he only showed up so we would have an even number to scrimmage. He’ll only play in games if we get desperate.

  With Alan playing inside and me bringing up the ball, we should be all right on offense. We can probably work some kind of zone on defense to minimize our weaker players.

  I get a clearer picture when we scrimmage. I cover Alan, and I’ve got Anthony, Robin, and Josh on my side. Every time I pass to Anthony, he tries to drive to the hoop. He can always get inside Peter, but Alan cuts off the lane and either blocks the shot or keeps Anthony from shooting altogether. If he passes to Josh, it’s as good as lost. He’ll either dribble it off his foot, telegraph his pass and have it stolen, or throw up a shot that doesn’t come within six feet of the rim.

  “When you get the ball, just wait for me to come take it,” I finally say to Josh. He nods several times.

  The best option is to pass it inside to Robin, who can shoot over Beth and makes most of her layups. And when she doesn’t have a shot, she knows enough to pop it back out to me.

  Alan and Peter work pretty well together, and Beth is all right, too. So the strategy here will be one of avoidance—keep the ball away from the klutzes.

  It ought to be interesting, at least.

  STURBRIDGE UNITED METHODIST

  Th Dec 9 vs. St. Joseph’s Bishops, 7:30

  Su Dec 12 vs. New Covenant, 5:00

  Th Dec 16 vs. St. Joseph’s Cardinals, 6:30

  Su Dec 19 vs. First Presbyterian, 5:00

  Su Dec 26 vs. Baptist-Lutheran, 7:00

  Su Jan 2 vs. New Covenant, 7:00

  Th Jan 6 vs. Bishops, 6:30

  Su Jan 9 vs. Presbyterian, 6:00

  Th Jan 13 vs. Baptist-Lutheran, 6:30

  Su Jan 16 vs. Cardinals, 6:00

  Su Jan 23 vs. New Covenant, 5:00

  Th Jan 27 vs. Cardinals, 6:30

  Su Jan 30 vs. Baptist-Lutheran, 7:00

  Th Feb 3 vs. Bishops, 7:30

  Su Feb 6 vs. Presbyterian, 6:00

  All games at the Sturbridge YMCA

  Introspection

  Monday is exceptionally slow—there’s just two guys at the bar, and they don’t seem to have any interest in eating. So I sit at a table and watch Spit’s band practice.

  The band is three guys and Spit; a drummer and two guitarists. They’re working on a new song; she keeps telling them to slow it down, that this one isn’t like the others.

  “Tease it a little,” she’s saying. “Build to a climax; don’t just bang it out.”

  She sees me sitting here and smiles. “How’s it sound, Jay?”

  “Good,” I answer.

  “No,” she says. “It sucks.” She turns to the bass player, Kevin, who’s got long curly hair and a big gut. “Don’t come in right away,” she says. “I’ll give you a signal. I’ll pump my fist or something. I’ll wiggle my ass.”

  She nods to the lead guitar guy, Sam, and he hits the opening chords. She starts singing, soft and slow:

  Staring out the window

  Never even blinking

  I may look introspective

  But I was only thinking

  There’s more. She goes through the song a couple of times, then she says to take a break. She comes over to the table and sits down.

  “How’s life?” she asks.

  I look at her sort of brightly. “Good.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  She drums on the table with her fingertips. “That was kind of funny the other night.”

  “What was?”

  “You know,” she says. “The other night. When you were sort of like, jealous.”

  “Was I?” I try to control an embarrassed smile, but it doesn’t work.

  “I don’t know.” She gives a half laugh. “Were you?”

  I shrug and blush and laugh about the same way she did. “You know how Saturday nights are.”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “And Friday nights. And Tuesdays …. Holidays. Weekdays. You know.”

  She slides her fist across the table and bumps my arm. “My heart’s bleeding for you, babe.”

  “Oh, so I’m the babe now, huh?”

  “Hey, you got a pulse? You’re my man.”

  Our eyes lock and we’ve both got silly grins. I shake my head slowly.

  “Believe me, Jay, a friendship’s so much better than a relationship,” she says.

  “I guess I don’t know much about either.”

  “We’d drive each other nuts,” she says.

  “Probably.”

  “And you can find somebody a lot less neurotic than I am,” she says, rising from the chair. She grabs my arm. “Now get your butt up here onstage with me. Let’s hear what you can do.”

  I plant my feet. “I can’t sing, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Anybody can sing.”

  “Not in public.”

  “What public?”

  I look around and roll my eyes. “I don’t know your songs,” I say.

  “What do you know?”

  “The Gilligan’s Island theme.”

  “You know Dylan?”

  “Some.”

  “‘Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door,’” she says. “Four words. That’s the whole chorus. I think you can handle that.”

  “Wait. That’s technically six words. ‘Knock, knock, knockin’ on Heaven’s door.’”


  “There, see, you know it already.” She turns to the guys in the band. “We got a special guest, boys. Direct from Shorty’s kitchen.”

  So I do it. There’s no audience, no pressure, and all I have to do is join Spit on the chorus. My armpits start dripping immediately, and my voice cracks on the first “Knock, knock, knockin’,” but I get through it all right; I survive.

  Spit claps for me when we finish, and I shake my head and laugh.

  “I’ll get you up here some night for real,” she tells me.

  “No way.”

  “Yes way.”

  “We’ll see,” I say. Then I head for the kitchen. I feel lighter all of a sudden. I feel good.

  Gatorade

  The season runs for fifteen games; we’ll play every team three times. There are three games every Sunday evening and two on Thursdays, so you get a bye every third Thursday or so.

  We show up at 6 to watch the first game: the St. Joseph’s Cardinals against First Presbyterian. Alan hands out our T-shirts; they’re yellow, with STURBRIDGE UNITED METHODIST in blue block letters on the front.

  St. Joseph’s is in plain red T-shirts, but the Presbyterians have lime-green tank-top jerseys with PRESBYTERIAN in black script across the front. They also have a coach, somebody’s father.

  About fifteen people watch the game, mostly parents and little brothers and sisters, plus Father Jim from St. Joseph’s. “Basketball’s a Catholic sport,” he says to one of the parents.

  It would be hard to argue with that based on this game. They take a 10-0 lead right away, and win by about thirty. We play the other Catholic team next (St. Joseph’s Bishops).

  Alan puts us through a layup drill. He keeps saying things like “crisp passes” and “intensity.” There are seven of us suited up; Anthony says he’s only here for moral support.

  We huddle up before the game and Alan details a strategy of sorts. “Jay, you cover Robinson. Wherever he goes, you go. I’ll control the boards, you get open for the break. You other three—Peter, Robin, and Beth, you’ll start—play a triangle zone with Peter at the point. Robinson’s their only real shooter, so you three collapse inside a bit and clog the lane. Then just get out of the way when we get the ball. Get upcourt, I mean, and get open.”

  We put our fists together and shout, “Let’s go!”

  It feels strange trying to get up for a game like this. But it’s basketball. It’s my only option.

  Alan wins the tap and I get the ball, dribbling slowly across the midcourt line. Kyle Robinson’s guarding me. He’s a senior, too. Tall and quick; a receiver on the football team and a hurdler in the spring.

  There’s more noise than I expected—the bleachers are half full. The other Catholic team is sticking around to watch, and there are quite a few parents.

  I’m at the top of the key. They’re in a man-to-man defense, and Alan is the only one of our guys trying to get open.

  “Move!” I say, and Beth at least comes toward the ball. Surprisingly—maybe by accident—she sets a pick, and I drive past into the lane. I go up, find a hand in my face, and dish the ball off to Alan. He dribbles once and lays it in the hoop.

  Nice. They come up and work the ball around the perimeter. They don’t have a big man, but all five guys on the court are athletic. Peter gets burned badly, and his guy drives to the basket, but Alan slaps the ball out of bounds on the shot.

  They inbound it, and a forward hits a short jumper to tie the score.

  It’s clear that Alan is going to dominate inside, so they’ve already adjusted their defense. The guy on Beth is leaving her uncovered outside, helping out on Alan instead. So I pass her the ball in the corner and cut to the hoop. Robinson darts over to her, and she tries to get the ball back to me. But he’s got quick hands and snatches the ball away, then ignites a fast break that leads to another basket.

  “My fault,” Beth says.

  “No,” I say. “That’ll work. Bounce passes, though. And quicker.”

  I get it inside to Alan for another layup, then steal the ball from Robinson and take it to the hoop myself. They miss a jump shot and Alan gets the rebound, fires it to me, and I take it up and hit a sixteen-footer. They call time-out.

  “Not bad,” Alan says in the huddle. “Let them keep it out on the perimeter if they want to. Make ’em shoot. And move it around on offense. When you get the ball, get it right back to Jay or work it inside to me. Let’s go.”

  They keep it close through three quarters, mostly because Robinson keeps hitting three-pointers and we keep making dumb turnovers. I’ve dribbled the ball off my foot twice.

  We’re up three early in the fourth, when we finally get our fast break working consistently. Alan gets three straight defensive rebounds, hitting me on the perimeter each time, and I take it full court for a pair of layups and an easy dish to Alan trailing me for a third. The excitement level picks up; our defense gets tighter. We move the ball around, out-hustle them down the stretch, and win it by nine.

  We give each other a bunch of high fives when it ends. It’s nice to be 1-0. There’s something at stake here, I guess.

  Robin is hugging Alan, and I inch over to see if I’m next. She looks at me and gives a tight smile, but she goes straight for Beth.

  I walk off and check the scorebook. Alan and I each finished with eighteen points. Peter, Beth, and Robin had one basket apiece. Good effort. I’m up. I played well. I made an impact.

  I hurry downstairs to the locker room to dry my face on some paper towels. When I come up, the gym is empty. Everybody from my team is already gone. Back to the church, I guess. Am I supposed to follow?

  I look around, grab my sweatshirt. They can’t have gone far. I walk out into the dark, down the steps. People are milling about in the parking lot, talking by their cars. There are a couple of groups of kids about half a block away, walking toward Main Street.

  I start to follow. I think I hear Robin and Beth laughing up ahead, joking around with the guys on the team. Robin, especially, looked great tonight, with ovals of sweat on her back and her chest. I get within forty feet of them and think about calling for them to wait, but then I get cold suddenly, sort of numb, and I turn up East Street, away from the direction they’re going.

  I fit in all right with that group on the basketball court, but I don’t feel comfortable around them otherwise. Alan, maybe, but I don’t know about the others. Attractive girls and church people are two groups I don’t have much experience with. It’s worse when they’re one and the same.

  I circle around the block and walk up past the hospital and the elementary school toward the supermarket. I go down the hill through the parking lot and start making a list in my head: oranges, carrots, a jar of olives, cookies. I only have a tiny refrigerator with no freezer, so I can’t keep much around.

  There’s one of those twenty-five-cent fire engine rides for kids going back and forth outside the store, only nobody’s riding it. It’s moving kind of jerky and going whump … whump … whump.

  I go through the automatic door and between two checkouts and drift over toward the fruit. This is an old store—the aisles are narrow and everything’s tinged with gray. They’ll be closing in a few minutes; an older guy is mopping the floor behind the deli counter.

  I hesitate by the magazines and scan for anything interesting. And I spend a couple of minutes over in the fruit and vegetable area, sort of blending in with the produce. But then I just get the stuff I need and a bottle of Gatorade in the original urine color.

  When I come out, there’s only one light on in the parking lot and the fire engine is still going whump … whump … whump.

  So I head for home.

  Sort of Pulsating

  Monday I get another letter from my father. It’s a fat envelope, but my father isn’t the type to write a lot. He’s included a menu, just a photocopy, from the place he hangs out in near the beach: a steak-and-pasta restaurant. They have a different dollar-beer special in the bar every night of the week.
He’s hand-written a note across the top: “Just like Shorty’s, only a hundred times better!”

  There’s also an article he tore out of the Los Angeles Times about pickup basketball in Venice.

  I take the letter to the diner. I hesitate in the doorway. Brenda—that newer waitress—is working the side to the left, so I take a booth down there. She comes right over.

  “Hey,” she says, recognizing me.

  “Hey.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Nothing. Need dinner.”

  “You wanna see the specials?” she asks.

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll get you a menu.”

  She brings it and a glass of water. “I’ll give you a minute,” she says.

  I decide on roast chicken with gravy.

  I unfold the letter. My dad says he’s getting in shape by walking and running a few miles every day, and he joined a gym. He says he thought he was in pretty good shape, “but out here EVERYBODY’S in great shape. You should see the chicks.”

  Yeah, I should. But I’ve heard all this from him before. There’s a lot of stuff my father never got out of his system.

  I catch Brenda’s eye when she brings the food. “Your boyfriend make that?”

  She rolls her eyes, glances around. “That asshole.”

  I give kind of a consoling smile. “Something wrong?”

  “Jerk packed up and ran back to his girlfriend in Philly. The dumb shit.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “You’re staying?”

  “I’m not going back there.”

  “No. So when did this happen?”

  “Last weekend. The bitch called him up. I got pissed. He said ‘screw you’ and he left.”

  “Just like that?”

  She shrugs. “We’d been fighting a lot. This is like the third time we broke up. And the last, believe me.”

  I start poking at the chicken with my fork.

  “I’d better let you eat,” she says.

  “It’s okay.”

  “No.” She looks around again. “I gotta work.”

  So I eat. I read the Venice article. The author is trying to be hip, trying to give an insider’s take on the street ball scene out there. Trying to act like he’s humbled by the athleticism on the court, but letting you know he thinks of himself as a pretty bad dude, too. What bullshit.