by Paul Volponi
History was J.R.’s favorite school subject. He even got an A on a paper he did on Holcombe Rucker one time. His pops would bring him home stamps from the post office with pictures of people we’d never heard of. Then J.R. would look up what they did. And every time somebody talked to us about a college, J.R. asked if he could study history there.
I step onto the court and take one long breath. I look straight up, so I don’t have to face anybody. The stars are just starting to shine in the sky. I can’t tell one from the next, or which one J.R.’s mom taught him how to wish on. Then I feel the pressure building up inside my chest, till I can’t take it anymore. So I bring my eyes back down to everything around me. I empty my lungs and start to breathe again.
Both squads switch hoops for the second half. Now we’re shooting at the basket Non-Fiction was gunning for, and guarding the one we were trying to score at. And if I closed my eyes and spun around in circles, it wouldn’t matter which basket I was facing when I opened them again. I still got work to do for both sides.
We won the opening tap, so Non-Fiction gets the ball to start this half. They inbound the rock and come right at us. Fat Anthony calls out a set play. Their ball handler comes free around a pick. He drives for the hoop and lets go of a shot. Then out of nowhere, one of our kids pops up and slams the ball back down his throat.
“Dinner has been served!” crows Acorn over the crowd. “And the menu reads, SPALDING RUBBER—OFFICIAL SIZE AND WEIGHT.”
Without thinking, I turn to J.R.’s pops. I bring my hand up to my forehead and wipe away the sweat. Stove taught J.R. and me that move as a salute to a monster blocked shot.
“Wilt Chamberlain was over seven feet tall. He was the most famous player in the world and even scored a hundred points by himself in an NBA game,” Stove told us maybe fifty times. “But a bald-headed guy off the street named Jackson stuck Chamberlain’s shot to the backboard in the tournament. It sent chills up my spine to see. But Jackson didn’t whoop it up or anything. He just wiped the sweat off his head, like it was nothing.”
A park player pinned Chamberlain’s shot and didn’t crack a smile. That’s something special. So anytime we saw a block that good, J.R., his pops, and me would wipe the sweat from our heads, too, out of respect for what that dude Jackson did.
But Stove’s hands are down at his side. He’s looking at me like I lost my mind. That he couldn’t celebrate anything with me, not after I fed him that bullshit story about how J.R. got killed.
I hate the way Stove treats me now, like he’s waiting for me to step up. I wish he’d just slap me in the mouth and call me a liar. That way I could hate him, too.
Non-Fiction scores a basket, and I walk the ball back up court. Fat Anthony’s staring right at me, and Stove’s looking at Anthony and me together. For a second, I can’t juggle anything else inside my head except the two of them.
I go to plant my foot, but the ground isn’t there.
That’s when I see a white jersey flying at me. I try to get my balance back, but I can’t. The guy’s right on top of me. I see his hands flash past mine. He picks my pocket clean and streaks the other way with the ball. I’m left there frozen in front of everybody, with nothing.
“Lord! Lord! Call the cops! There’s a thief in the park!” blasts Acorn.
I hear the guy’s footsteps going the other way. He’s long gone. I only turn back around to chase him because I have to. And I won’t look up to watch him score.
Our lead’s down to one point, and Greene’s having a shit fit on the sideline.
“Mustard, use the sight God gave you!” screams Greene, lowering his shades so I can catch a glimpse of his eyes.
I never spent a dime of Fat Anthony’s money. It wasn’t like I could throw a party without J.R. asking how all that cheddar got into my pockets. So I kept the cash in my clothes drawer, inside a balled-up pair of sweat socks.
Before J.R. got killed, I took the money out and counted it every night. I’d feel it in my fingers and snap the bills down into a pile, dreaming of my own apartment. Then I’d push the edges tight on every side, till it was all even. But I haven’t undone those socks since.
I came home from J.R.’s funeral and locked the door to my room. I laid on the bed, playing catch up against the wall with those socks. I could feel what was inside them, and hear the sound of the money every time they hit. I wanted to bury those socks inside that wall. So I started throwing them harder and harder, till my arm went numb. But I couldn’t break through, and they just kept bouncing right back.
Even my mom’s husband came to the funeral, and didn’t say shit to me that whole morning. But after we got home, I could hear his mouth starting up from the hall.
“Your son’s got too much free time on his hands,” he told Mom. “All this basketball’s nonsense. He needs to see how the world really is, and work.”
I wanted to go out there and throw Fat Anthony’s money in his face.
“Leave him alone!” Mom took up for me. “He’s been through enough today!”
“I’m the one that supports this house! You don’t tell me what to do!” he popped off at her.
So I charged off the bed and put my foot into the door, wishing it was his pathetic ass.
He got right up on the other side, screaming, “You’ll never be man enough! Never!”
Then I slammed my fist against it where I figured his face was, squeezing that sock tight inside my other hand. But I was worried that bigmouth bastard was right—that maybe in my whole life I’d never be man enough.
The next time I touch the ball, I don’t even look at my teammates. I blow by my man, and can an open ten-footer. Then I strut back up court, like getting stripped by that guy didn’t mean a thing to me.
Non-Fiction’s running screen after screen, and we have to keep switching men on defense to pick up for each other. Somebody steps in front of me, blocking me off. So one of my teammates slides over to guard my man. Then I find the guy who’s left open, and get my ass there quick. It’s like playing musical chairs when you were a little kid. Only the music comes from your teammates talking.
“Slide!”
“Pick!”
“He’s mine!”
“I got your man!”
Somebody else’s man breaks free. I know I can get there. But I pretend I don’t see him and stay glued to the guy I’m guarding instead.
“Credit that bucket to teamwork,” says Acorn. “The tight-fitting parts of the Non-Fiction machine.”
All the way up court, our kid’s cursing himself out for getting bumped off his man and letting him score. And for me, listening to that kid’s like getting kicked in the ass, over and over.
Fat Anthony’s eyes are drilled into mine.
I just wish Anthony had some kind of X-ray vision. That way he could see inside me and know for sure exactly what I was going to do. Then I could look at his face and know how far I was willing to fuck my teammates.
10
NON-FICTION LOSES THE ball out-of-bounds, and I sprint to the sideline to put it back in play. Stove walks it over to me slow. He’s squeezing the ball between his hands, like he could pop the air right out of it. Then he leans over to me so nobody else can hear.
“You’re watching Fat Anthony more than your own coach,” says Stove, handing me the rock. “What’s up with that, Mackey?”
My brain goes blank, looking at him.
I watch Stove slice the air with his hand as he starts to count. I’ve got five seconds to get the ball inbounds. There’s a kid wide open in front of me, waiting.
“Three,” says Stove, slicing the night air again.
Only I can’t let go. I lost my best friend and my second pops.
“Four,” Stove says louder.
I see the panic on the kid’s face and finally pass him the ball.
Then Stove stares me down all the way up the court.
He knows I’m down with Fat Anthony, and playing against the points. Stove’s seen my game a million t
imes and can probably tell every time I held back tonight. He must think I’m the worst little shit that ever lived. And he might have it figured out about J.R., too.
I take the ball and spin right, then left. I freeze the guy in front of me with a shoulder fake, leaving him flat-footed. A second defender rushes over to help out. That leaves a green jersey open in the corner, but I wouldn’t pass the ball off now for anything. I drive to daylight through an open seam in the defense and lay the ball in the basket.
We’re back up by five points, 50 to 45. And I shoot Stove a look, like he’s wrong about everything.
Our next time up court, I let somebody else handle the rock. I run the baseline from side to side, making cuts and trying to get free. I lose my defender and take the pass. Then I put up a shot that bounces high off the front of the rim. My eyes are on the ball, and I go flying in for the rebound. I want to show Stove how hungry I am to win. But this kid named Bones throws his body in front of mine, blocking me off from the ball.
Bones is just six feet tall, and maybe a hundred and seventy-five pounds when his jersey’s soaked with sweat. But most of that is pure heart. He takes every good angle there is and sticks himself in front of anybody looking for a rebound. And once Bones gets square in front of you, it’s like trying to get past a living, breathing wall.
Anytime I chose up sides at the park, I’d pick Bones for my squad, right after J.R. That way I wouldn’t have to play against him.
“I hate when he drops his bony ass on me. It means too much to him. It’s like he’s tryin’ to stop you from rob-bin’ his house,” J.R. complained one time after a pickup game. “But that’s all Bones has got. He can’t dribble. He can’t shoot. He’s not even a real player.”
“The hell he ain’t!” said J.R.’s pops. “Maybe Bones hasn’t got half the raw talent of you or Mackey. But he’s got what counts beating in his chest. Juega con fuego—he plays with that fire in his soul. The day you can get past what he throws down, you’ll be something to deal with. And you can lift all the weights you want. You only get strong like Bones from the inside out.”
Non-Fiction rebounds the rock. I’m tangled up with Bones, but I won’t quit. I bang up against him with all my strength. I keep trying to get past, till Bones backs off to follow the ball the other way.
Stove’s running a few steps up ahead, chasing the play. He balled with J.R. and me lots, till we were maybe fourteen. When Stove was on our squad he was all right, playing hard to win. But when he was going up against us, Stove would do whatever it took to stop us cold.
I remember when Stove got the transfer he was praying for and started delivering mail to our neighborhood. All summer, he’d move double-time through the morning. Everybody we knew got their mail by noon. Then Stove would ditch his cart and postman’s shirt at Acorn’s barbershop. He’d take a long lunch at the park and play pickup games in a white tee and those long gray pants with the black stripe down the side. He’d ball all the way up till four thirty, when he had to be back at the post office. And he was almost at the park as much as J.R. and me.
“It’s like your pops is one of us,” I told J.R. back then.
“Not to me,” answered J.R. “Even when we’re playing ball, he’s still my pops.”
Once, while he was still on post-office time, Stove sprained his ankle bad on the court. But he knocked out a plan on the spot. Real fast, he sent me to Acorn’s for his shirt and cart. I ran full speed both ways. On the way back, I was hoping the cops wouldn’t stop me, thinking I mugged a mailman. Then J.R. helped his pops limp back to his route, while I pushed the cart along next to them. When we got to the right corner, Stove called in from a pay phone for somebody to come get him. That way he could explain it better to his boss, like he’d got hurt on the job.
Now Stove’s got himself a second wind. He’s running as fast and strong as I’ve ever seen him. He’s moving around the court like nothing could spot him from finding out the truth.
Junkyard Dog goes sky high over Bones for a rebound. Then he spins around and hits me with a pass. Up ahead, one of our kids is streaking alone to the basket. The ball’s barely in my hands, and without thinking, I gun the pass to him. The kid catches the ball in stride and lays it in.
“Greenbacks by seven. That’s the biggest lead of the game,” announces Acorn.
I can hear Greene whooping it up, and part of me wishes I could dig myself a hole right here on the court. I’d jump in without thinking twice. Then I’d keep on digging straight down, till I came out in China.
Non-Fiction gets the ball inside and misses an easy layup. The rock just rolls around the rim and won’t fall home, like there was an invisible lid on the basket. The guy who missed the shot’s running back along the sideline, and Fat Anthony tries to kick him in the ass as he runs past.
I catch the ball with Kodak on me and back him down under the basket. Then I slam both shoulders into him hard. Kodak goes down like a shot, even before I really hit him. I turn and score, waiting to hear a whistle. But Stove doesn’t call me for the offensive foul, and neither does Hamilton.
The crowd lets out a long “Oooooooooh!”
The hoop counts, and we go up by nine points.
Kodak’s flat on his back, cursing.
Fat Anthony calls time-out so he can rip into Hamilton.
“He told you not to make those calls anymore. Ain’t that right, Hambone?” screams Anthony, pointing at Stove. “You couldn’t be that blind on your own! Nobody could!”
I walk back to our bench through all the noise and hear footsteps flying up from behind. Then I see his shadow come through mine on the floor, and I flinch.
It’s Greene.
He wraps both arms tight around my stomach, and everything inside me freezes solid. Then Greene lifts me off the ground, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. My feet are reaching for the court, but it’s not there. My head’s raised back, and all I can see is the dark sky. It’s like I lost my whole world. I’m stuck inside Greene’s arms, and there’s no place left for me anywhere.
Greene drops me back down. My heels hit hard, and I feel a knot in my stomach where his hands shoved into me.
Everybody’s running up to slap my back, but I won’t take my eyes off of him.
“I love how you drilled that faker,” says Greene. “Posers aren’t entitled to shit in this world. I hope he never gets up off the fuckin’ ground.”
Stove
It’s just a damn game, and I’m not going to make that call. Anthony can howl all he wants about it. I’ve got to push people to the limit if I’m going to find out who killed my son.
I don’t care how many shots Mackey makes. I know he’s in Anthony’s pocket. I’ve seen Mackey have big games before. It didn’t matter if it was in front of two hundred people in a high-school gym, or just a couple of kids playing pickup in the park. Mackey couldn’t keep the light from pouring out of his eyes. He’d try hard to fight back a smile. But the muscles in his cheeks would always win out.
That’s not Mackey out there. That’s not even Hold the Mustard. It’s some kid I hardly know trying to get out from under a mountain of shit.
I know how bad Mackey’s hurting over J.R. He was there. He saw J.R. get stabbed to death. And after that, I don’t know how Mackey could open his eyes again. He wants to push it as far away as he can. But I can’t live with that. And until I find out for sure, I’m not gonna let Mackey out of my sight.
11
FAT ANTHONY’S SQUAD scores and cuts the lead to seven points. We fast-break the other way, and I get the ball in the middle of the court. I got a teammate open on each wing. Only one of them’s this big, muscle-bound dude with hands like stones.
I look hard to my right. When the defense bites, I go to pass the ball off to my left. But I hesitate for a half-second, just enough to throw the big dude off stride. Then I push the ball into his palms, instead of laying it on his fingertips. He can’t control the rock, and loses it out-of-bounds.
He slaps
his hands together hard, and I can feel the sting.
“My bad!” he says, pointing at himself. “My bad!”
Mitchell and Greene are all over him for blowing an easy layup.
“That was a gift!” screams Mitchell. “You’re either the kind of player who can win a championship or you’re not!”
“No heart!” growls Greene. “He’s hollow inside, like the Tin Man!”
And deep down, I know all of that should be for me.
The guy I’m guarding cuts across the court at full speed, and I’m right on his tail. I look up and see a shoulder from one of Fat Anthony’s goons. But I can’t slow down, and I plow straight into it, face-first.
I feel my jaw and neck snap back. My feet are off the floor, and a jolt shoots down my spine. My eyes go back inside my head, and for a second, there’s nothing but bright light.
When my eyes start to focus again, J.R.’s standing right in front of me, wearing our high-school jersey. He’s breathing hard, and the sweat’s rolling down his brown face.
J.R. puts out a hand to pull me up off the court. I try to reach for it, but my arms are too heavy to lift.
I don’t care if J.R. knows it all already. I have to tell him everything I did, and how I never meant for him to get hurt. I try to explain. But my mouth won’t move.
J.R. bends all the way down to lift me up. That’s when the feeling starts to run through my body again, and everything is all needles and pins.
Then my eyes start to focus for real.
It’s Stove standing over me, not J.R.
“Mackey, are you all right?” asks Stove, tugging me to my feet. “Mackey?”
I turn around, looking everywhere for J.R. I know he’s not really here. He’s dead and buried. Still I look in every shadow and corner of Rucker Park for him just the same.
“Do you hear me, Mackey?” asks Stove, with his hands around my shoulders.
I back up out of his grip, taking a few shaky steps. And I don’t know if the pain inside me is from the hit I took, or because I can’t stand myself anymore.