Playing Without the Ball

by Rich Wallace

“Forty-two seconds.” We’re still down by five.

  “Okay,” Alan says as we huddle up. “We don’t need a three yet. We need two scores. Take the best shot, Jay, or get it to me inside. After we score, play tight defense. Peter—great play back there—double up on Brian. Let’s go!”

  Peter inbounds the ball to me and Kaipo is in my face. I dribble in, protecting the ball, needing to shoot in a hurry. I give a quick fake and shoot from behind the arc. I can tell it’s off right away.

  “Short!” I yell. Alan gets the rebound and I’m cutting down the lane. He dishes it to me and I duck under Robinson, hitting the layup despite getting whacked. There’s no whistle.

  They call time-out. We’ve cut it to three.

  Brian takes the ball and dribbles outside again. He doesn’t have to shoot; we have to foul. I go for his arm but he darts away, and I run into the short guy setting a pick.

  I finally catch him and go for the steal, bumping him hard. The ref blows his whistle. Brian goes to the line for a one-and-one.

  “How much time?” I holler.

  “Six seconds.”

  Shit.

  Brian makes the first but misses the second. Alan gets the rebound and throws an overhand pass to me at midcourt. I get it and shoot, but it’s way too late and the shot doesn’t come close. So much for an undefeated season.

  We sit in the bleachers after the game. “Not bad,” Alan says. “One loss won’t kill us. We hustled.”

  “I sucked,” I say.

  “You did all right on him.”

  “Bullshit,” I say, shaking my head. “He must have had fifty points.”

  “Forty-five. But you’re not gonna shut him down,” Alan says. “It’s a matter of degree. You hold him to forty and we win that game.”

  I look up at the ceiling. I sucked.

  Beth speaks. “He’s a great player.”

  “Yeah,” I say. Great. But what does that say about me?

  “We’ll get another shot at them,” Alan says. “He was on fire tonight. It won’t always be like that. You know how you get in a groove sometimes.”

  I’m spent physically and emotionally, so I stay in the bleachers to watch the second game. Turns out I finished with twenty-three points, which is my high for the season, but I don’t remember many of them.

  Halfway into the first quarter, Kaipo comes up, showered and changed, and sits next to me.

  “Good game,” he says.

  I smirk. “You pissed all over me.”

  “I was up. I hadn’t had a chance to really play in about two weeks.”

  “What happened?”

  “Ah, it’s been coming,” he says. “No big scene, really. I just told him I didn’t need any more lessons, and if he wasn’t going to play me, I might as well give it up.”

  “And he agreed?”

  “He gave me some shit about accepting my role, but it was pretty clear I was finished.”

  “So here you are,” I say.

  “Here I am. It’s okay. There’s enough talent here. You’re better than half the guards in that league.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Hell, we could put together an all-star team from this league and beat the varsity.”

  “You think?”

  “Definitely. There’s at least four of us who ought to be playing there anyway.” He points at Donny Colasurdo, from the other Catholic team, who’s bringing up the ball. “He could. And you and Alan should be. And I’m sorry, but that kid Ricky should not have my starting job. No way in hell.”

  “That’s obvious.”

  He shakes his head. “Coach did the same thing two years ago when I came along—screwed a senior out of a job so I could take his place. What did I know?”

  He looks out at the court a few seconds, scratching his chin. “See, Ralph doesn’t like coaching seniors. I was his boy when I was a sophomore, too. It’s easy that way. If you win with young guys, everybody loves you. And if you lose with young guys, it’s okay, because you’re building for the future. But his future never gets here because he’s in a constant building mode. There’s always some great sophomore who’s gonna light it up in a few seasons. But Ralph can’t coach, so that kid never develops. And when he gets to be a senior, the coach is already looking at somebody else. He knows if he plays the seniors and loses, he looks like a bad coach, which he is. So he invents attitude problems, says guys like me don’t want it bad enough.”

  He laughs and turns his head toward me. “So screw it. I don’t need that rah-rah shit. Next year I’ll get on the team over at Weston Community College.”

  He slaps me on the back and gets up to leave. “I don’t need an audience, man,” he says. “I just wanna keep playing ball.”

  Not Totally Paranoid

  Spit and I quickly fall into a pattern of finding each other at the end of the evening and spending the night in my room. It’s a good week physically, but something isn’t right. I’m afraid I’m becoming her latest addiction. I don’t want her to become one of mine.

  On Tuesday I go alone to the diner. I haven’t been in here since Brenda left. It doesn’t look like they’ve replaced her.

  I didn’t bring anything to read, so I just look out at Main Street while I eat. This town shuts down at dusk except for Turkey Hill and a couple of drugstores. Summer’s different, with all the vacationers in the area, but nine months a year it’s fairly bleak.

  I ran into Dana today in the cafeteria at school. Sleep has become more of a necessity lately, so I haven’t played on a Tuesday morning in weeks. I was really more interested in checking her out than playing hoops at that time of day anyway, and there’ve been just too many others on my mind to even think about her. Physically she’d be a great match for me, but I think her general maturity might be a problem.

  I don’t know why, but I decide to call my father. I haven’t talked to him in a month.

  He picks up on the third ring. He sounds upbeat, a little out of breath.

  “Just this second got in from the gym,” he says.

  “You lifting weights?”

  “No. Just hanging out. Treadmill. Checking out the women.”

  “Oh.”

  “You doing all right?” he asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Things are looking up?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “I left a couple of messages at the bar. Shorty ever tell you?”

  “He usually remembers about a week later.”

  “That’s him,” he says. “Thought I’d hear from you on Christmas, though.”

  “Me too. Then I got busy.”

  “Yeah? Did you go to your mom’s?”

  “No …. No, I just called her.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So how’d that go?” he asks.

  “Pretty much like you’d expect.”

  “Mmmm. I can imagine.”

  “The usual guilt trip.”

  “I been there, buddy. I been there.”

  We’re quiet for a few seconds. Phone silences, even short ones, always leave me feeling empty.

  “She bitch about me?” he asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “That figures.”

  “I know.”

  “Listen,” he says, “I had my life on hold for almost ten years, Jay. I’m forty years old. I’m losing my hair. I was tired of being alone.”

  “Dad, I know all that. I don’t blame you.”

  “I know you don’t. I would have stuck out the year if I didn’t think you could handle it. But I’m still carrying some guilt about it.”

  “Yeah. Well, she ought to be carrying a whole lot more than you are,” I say.

  “I’m sure she is. Maybe not on the surface, but it’s got to be there somewhere.”

  “Pretty deep inside, I’d say.”

  “That can be the worst place.”

  “True,” I say. “Hey, if I thought she was capable of being a parent, I’d hold it against her for not trying.”
/>   I think he laughs a little. “Sometimes I think you’re more mature than either one of us,” he says.

  I’m not going to argue that point. “I’m doing fine,” I say. “I’m playing a lot of hoops. Staying out of trouble.”

  “Me too, unfortunately.”

  “No prospects, huh?”

  “Maybe a few. More opportunities than in Sturbridge, that’s for sure.”

  “Hey, your wife said you screwed around here plenty.” I’m trying to make a joke. I can tell right away how flat it falls.

  “Well,” he says hesitantly. “She exaggerated that.”

  “Exaggerated it or made it up?”

  “A little of both,” he says. “She wasn’t totally paranoid. Those accusations were … well, they had some merit, I suppose.”

  More silence. He clears his throat. “How about you?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “You seeing anybody?”

  “Um, yeah, sort of.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “It’s not like … I don’t know. Not a complete package.”

  “How so?”

  “I don’t know. I guess … I’m not in love. Not with her anyway.”

  “Hey. Don’t let that bother you,” he says. “I mean, you’re not even eighteen years old yet. You’ll think you’re in love ten times before you even know what it is.”

  “Only ten?”

  He laughs. “If you’re lucky. Hell, if you do figure it out, be sure to let me know.”

  I head for the Y about an hour early on Thursday to shoot. We’re playing the tit team, which we beat by twenty the first time around.

  Spit’s in the gym when I get there, talking to two little girls in leotards. She waves. I pick up a basketball and start dribbling.

  I go down to the far end and shoot chippies, just rebounding and laying it in off the backboard. After a minute Spit comes running down.

  “Pass,” she yells, and I bounce the ball toward her. She grabs it and shoots it over the backboard. “Pretty close,” she says.

  I chase the ball down. “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  “Working with those kids,” she says. “I finished the mural and I still owed like five hours. They were starting gymnastics practice when I was ready to leave, so I asked if I could help out.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Yeah. I’m rusty, but I got up on the beam. The girls are adorable.”

  I shrug. “Do me a favor,” I say. “Rebound for me while I shoot free throws.”

  “Check.”

  Alan shows up about twenty minutes later, and the rest of the team follows soon after. Alan says he and I won’t start, since this is an obvious mismatch and we’ve played nearly every second of every game so far. Baptist-Lutheran is winless.

  So we sit on the bench and watch as we fall behind by a couple of baskets early. No cause for concern, but we’ve got no size on the court, and our opponents are moving the ball around better than usual. Alan tells Beth to call time-out about midway through the first quarter with us trailing 8-4.

  “Peter,” he says in the huddle, “you’ve got to push the ball up the floor. These guys are slow as shit, and we should get some easy transition baskets. Tighten up the defense, too.”

  Beth asks when me and Alan are coming in.

  “Second quarter,” Alan says. “You guys get some work in first. We’ll be fine.”

  But we’re down by eight when Alan and I check in. It’s been mostly amusing, although we figured the others would at least hold them even. No sweat.

  I match up with their best shooter, a junior who can hit from the outside if he’s open. He won’t be.

  First time down I chuck up a long three-point attempt, but it bounces off the rim and they get possession. “Cold,” I say to Alan as we run back.

  “No problem,” he says. “Work it inside.”

  I guard my man tight while they move the ball patiently around the arc. He gets the ball and gives a kind of stutter step, then lofts it over me. It caroms off the backboard and into the hoop.

  I smirk at Alan as he inbounds the ball. “Time for a little run,” I say. I bring it up and dribble in place at the top of the key, between the legs and all. I can take this guy easy. I drive the lane, give a little juke, and send a soft left-hander toward the rim.

  Rejected. Somehow one of their guys gets a hand on the ball and slaps it upcourt. They chase it down and pull back, setting up their offense again. They’ve been practicing.

  Their heaviest guy drives the baseline, and Alan scoots over to cut off the lane. The guy makes a neat bounce pass to my man cutting in, and he lays it off the board for two more.

  I shake my head, but I still give a little smile as Alan passes it in to me.

  I get the ball inside to Alan and he scores easily. Then Danny gets a steal and hits me on the run for a layup. They call time-out. We’re trailing 18-10.

  They slow it down a lot, passing around the perimeter and eating up the clock. I hit a couple of threes and Alan gets some inside points, but they’re still up by five at the half.

  The frustration continues in the third quarter. We’re flat as can be, probably because of the emotional letdown after the near-comeback against Kaipo’s team. And it doesn’t help that I keep throwing the ball away. I’ve always had a habit of telegraphing my passes, but it’s worse when my focus isn’t right. Tonight I just want to get this over with, make one big run to put these guys away, then forget this game ever happened.

  I get a couple of steals early in the fourth quarter and hit a driving layup and a short jumper. Then Alan gets a defensive rebound and hits Peter with a long outlet pass, and Peter gets it inside to me for another layup. That gives us our first lead of the game, 36-35.

  They call time-out. Alan says not to lose the momentum now that we’ve finally got it. “We lose this game, we suck,” he says.

  But suddenly we turn ice-cold again. They change their defense to a box and one, keeping a guard on me all the time and doubling up if I drive. The man on me is deceptively quick I discover after he slips his hand in a couple of times and smacks the ball away. I recover the first time, but the second time they get control and it leads to a layup that gives them back the lead with about a minute to play.

  We call time-out, down by a point. “Hold for the final shot,” Alan says. “Jay, work it in to me or take an open jumper. The rest of you crash the boards. They’ll be doubled up on Jay and me, and one of you might get an easy put-back. Now suck it up or be embarrassed. Let’s go.”

  Alan inbounds to me and I dribble up slowly. They try to trap me at midcourt, but I get around it easily. I whip it to Alan, but he hasn’t got good position, so he kicks it back out to me. I keep dribbling, then take another time-out when the clock gets down to twelve seconds.

  “Okay,” Alan says. “We want to shoot when it gets under eight. We have no time-outs left, so don’t try to call one. Be smart. Twelve seconds is a lot of time.”

  I inbound the ball to Alan to be absolutely safe, and he gives it right back. I drive to the free-throw line, give a quick fake, then unleash a running jumper that circles the rim and falls out. There’s a scramble for the rebound. For an instant Alan has it, but he loses control and the ball bounces toward the corner. Peter grabs it and fires a wild, off-balance shot that doesn’t reach the rim.

  The fat guys go wild.

  We just stand there stunned.

  Ground Zero

  I don’t think I’ve been in the guidance office since I was a freshman, but I stick my head in there between classes on Friday and ask the secretary if I can have a Weston Community College application. I figure I should at least look it over. Keep my options open.

  I mentioned to Alan the idea of possibly playing ball there next year, but he’s already been accepted at Yale. Kaipo’s going, though. And Julie’s there.

  I lean against some lockers and glance at the application.

  This does not look lik
e a great weekend ahead. Spit’s band is playing over at Ground Zero tonight and tomorrow, and there’ll be a DJ at Shorty’s again. It’ll be boring as hell. I’ve been praying that Julie will show up, give me a chance to explain.

  What is it I hope to explain, though? That I wasn’t having sex with Spit. That at that moment of misunderstanding I was innocent of wrongdoing, and was free and clear to pursue any and all possibilities with Julie. Clean as a whistle, I was.

  Spit and I haven’t talked about this. She had promised to talk to Julie, of course, but the chance hasn’t come up. And there have been numerous intervening escapades since then. So I’m not sure if Spit would try to kill me or not. Or kill Julie. But I think the sex thing is fizzling out in a hurry. At least from my point of view.

  “Hey,” somebody says.

  I turn and it’s Beth from the team. “Hi,” I say.

  “What’ya got?”

  I show her the application.

  “You going there?” she asks.

  “I don’t know. I don’t have any idea what I’m doing next.”

  “I don’t envy you,” she says. “Well, in a way I do. You’ll be out of this school in a few months. But I’m sort of glad I’ve got a while longer to figure out what I’m going to do.”

  “Well, I’m in no hurry either. I already got a job. Or I can go to California to be with my dad. Whatever. I was mostly thinking about college so I could play basketball.”

  “Yeah, I can’t imagine you without it,” she says. “Oh, shit. I’m late as hell for class.” She starts running off. “See you Sunday night,” she says.

  We play the Cardinals on Sunday. We need a win pretty badly.

  I don’t see Spit all weekend. Work is as expected both nights, dreary and lonely. There’s never more than twenty people in the bar. Shorty lets me shut down at 11 both nights.

  So Saturday at midnight I go out for a walk, just up and down Main Street once. There are a couple of small groups of kids hanging out, one group huddled in a doorway down by Seventh Street, and the other by the bench near Turkey Hill.

  That night I have that dream I most fear having, the one where it’s resolved in your favor, when she tells you that you’re the one she wants, and for an instant you’re the happiest guy in the world. Then you wake up, look around the room, and for a long, long time you’re the saddest.