by Paul Volponi
“I’ll put you on the payroll for the game coming up this week,” said Fat Anthony, digging out a wad of cash from his front pocket.
He dropped five hundred bucks into my hand.
I thought Fat Anthony was talking crazy. Non-Fiction could play with any team. They might even beat us, straight up. How could I keep the score down against a squad that good? Who would bet on the Greenbacks and spot Fat Anthony a bunch of points? It didn’t make any sense.
“Yeah, but who’s gonna give—?” I said, before Anthony stopped me cold.
“That’s for me to worry about. Not you,” he said.
To me, it wasn’t like dumping the game at all. I could still play to win.
I’d never held that much money at one time before. And I started thinking—If there were enough paydays like this one, maybe I could move out on my own and get clear of my mom’s husband. I could sidestep all that fighting and yelling and visit Mom when he wasn’t around.
So I swallowed hard. Then I closed one hand tight around the bills and laid the ball into the basket with the other.
A delivery kid rode through on a bike and handed Fat Anthony a brown paper bag.
“I called and ordered us breakfast,” said Fat Anthony. “You hungry, Mustard?”
We sat on a bench, eating bacon-egg-and-cheese sandwiches. I told him everything I wanted to do in basketball, right up to the pros. Anthony listened to every word while he stuffed his face with food.
When he was full, Fat Anthony burped loud and said, “I can handle all of that for you. But first comes the game this week. I’ll let you know how many points you can win by.”
After a while, the park started to fill up with players, and they were almost ready to choose sides for the first pickup game. I was still sitting with Anthony when somebody said, “I got Hold the Mustard for my team.”
That got my blood really pumping.
My shorts didn’t have any pockets, so I stuffed the money down into a sock. I stepped onto the court and turned back to look at Anthony. Only he made out like he didn’t know me anymore.
Fat Anthony never had to tell me how much I could win by. I was there when he suckered Greene into spotting him those five points.
And maybe he suckered me, too.
Junkyard Dog snaps down a rebound. He swings both elbows around to clear out space, and this dude called Kodak crashes to the floor.
But Dog hardly touched him.
Kodak took a flop, pretending he got nailed. He even let loose the air in his lungs with a huh before he fell.
Hamilton calls the foul right away.
“He should get an Academy Award for acting that good!” shouts Mitchell.
They call that dude “Kodak” because he looks like he’s always posing for a picture, trying to fake out the refs. Stove didn’t fall for it, just Hamilton did.
“The ASPCA needs to put Dog’s ass to sleep,” hollers Fat Anthony. “He’s vicious out there!”
Hamilton’s checking to see if Kodak’s okay. But Stove isn’t worried a bit.
“I think this one’s gonna be all right,” says Stove, leaning in.
Dog’s red hot over the call. He keeps barking at the refs till Stove’s got no choice, and hits him with a technical. Then Kodak steps to the foul line and knocks down the free throw.
“Damn Dog! Don’t give points away!” pops Greene.
On the next play, Junkyard Dog clocks somebody for real, and both refs make the call.
“I’m not gettin’ cheated no more!” growls Dog. “You wanna make calls? I’ll give you somethin’ to call.”
Non-Fiction drops home two more foul shots. It’s down to a three-point lead for us, with time running out in the first half.
Mitchell’s talking to Junkyard Dog from the sideline in an easy voice. I can see that Dog’s ready to blow. And if Greene sets him off with his big mouth, maybe that’ll save me. Dog could cost us enough points on fouls that I can play for real. Then maybe he’ll tear Greene a new one, and Anthony, too, before the cops haul him off.
There’s less than a minute left. Mitchell wants me to hold the ball for the last shot of the half. I dribble around in little circles. Then I stand still and eye the guy guarding me, while I pound the rock.
The guy’s zeroed in on my midsection. A dribbler can fake you out a hundred different ways. His shoulders and arms can go right, while his legs go left. But he’s not going anywhere without his stomach.
“Basketball and life are the same—you got to have it in your stomach to get somewhere. And you can’t go anywhere without taking your stomach with you,” Stove once told J.R. and me. “You’ve got to be able to stomach everything you do, or else it’ll eat away at you from the inside.”
The wind kicks up and raises goose bumps on my sweaty skin.
I start my move with ten seconds to go, and don’t even bother to fake. I jet past my man. But before I can turn the corner, a second defender cuts me off. He jumps sky high with his arms and legs spread wide in front of me. I’m heading out-of-bounds. There’s no J.R. to save my ass. So I leave my feet, and just throw the ball up to the basket.
My head’s turned the other way, and I can’t see the hoop. But I hear the sound of the rim being rocked, and the crowd explodes.
I look back and Junkyard Dog’s standing under the iron. He just jammed my pass home, and is pounding his chest like he’s King of the Hill. Everybody’s all over him, and kids are slapping my back, too. But I can’t celebrate anything.
“Who let the Dawg out?” Acorn calls to the crowd.
“Who? Who? Who?” they shout back in rhythm.
Off Dog’s dunk, we’re up 42 to 37.
The game’s half over.
I’m that much closer to winning the championship.
And the bet between Greene and Fat Anthony is dead even.
8
HALFTIME’S WHEN J.R. and me would talk for real. We’d listen to the coach go on about what he wanted to do. But we’d always catch each other’s eye, and wait for him to finish. Then we’d put our heads together and come up with all kinds of plans to win games on our own.
I never trusted anybody more than J.R. He could see things clear and would always tell me the truth. Even if I was playing like crap, he’d say it to my face and wouldn’t cut me any slack.
That’s what I was worried about most when I took Fat Anthony’s money—hiding it from J.R. He might have known I was holding back on playing my best from the beginning. Then he would have been all over me for dogging it on the court.
At least J.R. never had to see me dump a single play.
There are no locker rooms at Rucker Park. Everything’s out in the open, so you got to keep yourself in check. Ballers don’t hide under a helmet or sit in a dug-out. You play in shorts and a tank top, and people can see every muscle twitch. So you can’t let on that you’re tired or pissed off, or the other team will use that to prop themselves up. You got to hide all of that and learn how to front.
Our starters are still standing. Nobody wants to sit for a half hour and have their muscles go stiff. Kids got towels over their heads, too, so they won’t lose that good sweat they got going. Once you stop sweating, everything inside you goes cold. Then you got to start up again, and find another flow, like it’s a brand-new game.
Before Mitchell can say a word, Greene gets in front of the team.
“Blow. Their. Asses. Out. The. Park!” shouts Greene, one word at a time. “Understand? No mercy! Run up the score on these fools. I want this game to be talked about forever.”
Everybody knows about Greene’s bet.
I figure kids on my team will try to add to the score in the last minute, and maybe catch a few bucks from Greene for it. So I might be working against that, too. Part of me can’t wait to fuck Greene on the score. If we win, I want to see him have to fake a smile, holding the championship trophy, because we didn’t cover the points.
When Greene’s finished, he goes off to act like a star with the crowd
. That’s when Mitchell drops his shoulder, like he’s going to throw a punch at us, and starts his own speech.
“Guess what? Non-Fiction thinks they’re tougher than we are. That’s the only reason they’re still in this game,” says Mitchell, grilling our guys. “And maybe they’re right, too. Maybe we’re better ballplayers, but they can whip our ass in a street fight!”
Coaches use that kind of talk all the time to get their team stoked. I don’t think any of our kids really bought it. But the crowd behind our bench can hear every word, and they start making noises at us, like we’re pussies. None of us can stomach that shit. I see in kids’ faces how they’re ready to run over anybody who’d get in front of us. So I guess Mitchell got what he wanted.
Non-Fiction’s pulled so tight around Fat Anthony that I can’t see him. But I know he’s going off with his mouth, because his players are all stone silent, nodding their heads.
The court’s filled with little kids putting on a dribbling show, and Stove’s watching from the sideline. Some of those squirts aren’t even big enough to reach the basket with a shot. But they dribble like they were born with a ball in their hands.
One time, J.R. and me saw a TV special on Pistol Pete. He was one of the greatest ball handlers ever. Pistol Pete was a skinny white dude from the South whose pops was a basketball coach. When Pistol was a kid, he never went anywhere without the rock. He was the first one to get to the yard in the morning, and the last to leave at night. For hours every day, he’d work on his handle. There’s even a film of him dribbling out the window, sitting in the backseat of his pops’s car.
“Nobody in my family’s got any wheels,” complained J.R., after we saw that show. “But I don’t care. I’m takin’ a ball with me everywhere, till I get a handle like Pistol!”
So we snuck a ball into the movies inside a gym bag—the same as Pistol Pete. We both sat at the end of a row and took turns dribbling during the flick. First, some girl cursed us out over the noise we were making. Then her boyfriend came over. He was diesel from the floor up and threatened to slap the shit out of us. J.R. and me just kept our mouths shut and put the rock away. After that, we quit on the idea of copying Pistol Pete.
Before the last little kid leaves the court, Stove grabs him by the waist and lifts him up over his head. Then the kid shoots the ball into the basket. And I think about how many times Stove probably lifted J.R. like that when he was small.
Greene gets the mike from Acorn, and one of his beats starts playing low over the PA system.
“I see the city sent a whole mess of po-lice officers here tonight. And we all know how a whole mess of po-lice can just make a bigger mess out of things,” says Greene, laughing at his own joke. “But that’s the way it is when you throw a party in the hood. The city’s got to keep both eyes on you. Frisking everybody that comes in the joint, like the park ain’t yours no more. See, they got to watch you close. They’re afraid you’ll all get together and figure a way to dig yourselves out the hole they got you in.
“Now, just think about the word ‘po-lice’ for a minute. The ‘po’ part is for poor people. You know like, ‘I’m so po I got to run my game to survive.’ The l-i-c-e part is for lice, like the bugs that get into your scalp. So po-lice are just bugs in the scalps of poor people. That’s why they’re always in your hair.
“But I found a way out of that trap when I hit it big in the music business. I got myself a shitload of money, and I wasn’t po no more. Then I went out and bought myself a big stick—the only kind they respect. I’m not talkin’ ’bout a two-by-four. No. No. I got myself an asskickin’ lawyer to whomp ’em good with. And I wrote a rap about it.
“Pump up the volume on that beat so I can spit this proper.
“Rucker Park, check out this rhyme—
“Boom Boom Boom, it’s time for Cochran,
Boom Boom Boom, it’s time for Cochran,
Boom Boom Boom . . .
I was chillin’ in my ride, cruisin’ up Lex.
Had Shorty in my lap, she was bobbin’ for my Rolex.
Saw that punk MC always stealin’ my rhymes.
Dropped Shorty at the corner and pulled the Tek-9.
That’s when the cops rolled up on me,
like it was Giuliani-Time.
Boom Boom Boom, it’s time for Cochran,
Boom Boom Boom, it’s time for Cochran,
Boom Boom Boom . . .
They slapped the cuffs on me.
They tried to get rough with me.
But I wasn’t havin’ it, so they took a pass.
Now I gotta limp to court ’cause my foot’s
stuck up some cop’s ass.
They say I resisted but their words is twisted.
Boom Boom Boom, it’s time for Cochran,
Boom Boom Boom, it’s time for Cochran,
Boom Boom Boom . . .
The state can indict me.
The DA, she can bite me.
I won’t never cop a plea.
They don’t know how to take me.
All they want to do is break me,
’Cause I’m a gangster with a capital G.
Only one thing I want to know—
How come the judge’s robes are blacker than me?
Boom Boom Boom, it’s time for Cochran,
Boom Boom Boom . . .
They can’t stand a brother my age
makin’ more than the minimum wage.
Boom Boom Boom, it’s time for Cochran,
Boom Boom Boom . . .
I’m not showin’ up with some legal aid.
I got a lawyer gets paid, big-time.
Boom Boom Boom, it’s time for Cochran,
Boom Boom Boom . . .
A jury of my peers?
They’re all upstate doin’ years.
Boom Boom Boom, it’s time for Cochran,
Boom Boom Boom . . .
Johnny shows ’em no mercy,
’Cause the cops don’t curtsy.
Boom Boom Boom, it’s time for Cochran,
Boom Boom Boom . . .
Black enough to fit the description,
Got a pocketful of green for the right prescription.
Boom Boom Boom, it’s time for Cochran,
Boom Boom Boom, it’s time for Cochran,
Boom.”
9
THE CROWD GOES wild for Greene’s rap, stamping their feet till the ground starts to tremble. But none of the cops are clapping, and I know they’d like to shove that mike up Greene’s ass for what he said.
Stove’s eyes are down on the ground while Greene takes his bows.
“Just gimme your gun, Sergeant. I’ll shoot that ass-hole myself!” Acorn tells the cop closest to the court, not even caring if Greene hears him.
“He’s got no respect! No respect for how this game gets put on!” Fat Anthony yells to Acorn.
Acorn takes the mike and waits for the crowd to quiet down.
“We support artistic expression in the community, so props to J-Greene,” says Acorn in a cold voice. “But we also want to recognize that we couldn’t have this game without help from the city and the police department. So a special thanks to them as well!”
We walk onto the court and start to warm up. That’s when Acorn goes behind the scorer’s table and unwraps the gold championship trophy. He pulls back the plastic and the brown paper from it, with everybody watching. Then he puts the trophy on top of the scorer’s table for both teams to drool over.
The trophy never gets put out till the second half because that’s when the championship game gets won. You can’t get lazy and coast to the title—not at Rucker Park. You have to scrap till the last second on the clock to go home with something that important. Just because you smack the other team in the mouth first and get a lead, doesn’t mean they’re going to quit. If you don’t keep fighting hard, they could come back and knock you out.
“Four times I took that trophy home,” Fat Anthony hollers at his squad. “And I tell you, sweet fiv
e is in the air tonight. Take a deep breath with me, everybody! Can you smell it? I said, ‘Can you smell it?’”
Mitchell brings us together at our bench. He’s been laid-back for most of the tournament, but his eyes are locked on ours, and he’s breathing fire now.
“Boys, you see that trophy? I played pro ball in New York for eight years, and maybe you think that’s special. But I never got a chance at winning Rucker Park!” snorts Mitchell. “You know who else never got that chance? J.R. That got ripped away from him with everything else. J.R. would have given anything to run up and down this court, all out! So don’t any of you dog it for a second. Play with everything you got ’cause J.R.’s runnin’ with you out there. I guarantee it! Now take one more look at that trophy, and make damn sure the next time you see it, Non-Fiction’s not carryin’ it off the court!”
Kids are bouncing up and down, and that speech has got my feet moving, too. Only I know that J.R.’s not out here with us. He’s at my crib, standing inside his good kicks, waiting on me to set things right.
Acorn’s telling the crowd who Holcombe Rucker was, and how the tournament helps get kids scholarships to colleges all over the country.
“Holcombe called this game the ‘Ghetto Express’ ’cause it got our kids into places nobody thought they could ever go,” says Acorn. “But he believed in more than basketball. He wanted our kids to study once they got into a school. And he didn’t just talk it, he walked it. Holcombe Rucker enrolled in college himself at thirty-five, and left the Parks Department to become a New York City teacher.”