by Paul Volponi
We should have been winning easy. But the score was tied up.
“You gotta crank it up, Mackey,” said J.R., tightening a fist in front of him. “I don’t wanna lose to these guys.”
Then the one-armed dude scored a basket on me down low that I didn’t try to stop him on. After that point, he turned right to me with the ball tucked under his arm.
“Listen here, man,” he said, stopping the game. “I watched you play for a while before I got on this court. I stepped to you on D ’cause I respect your game, and it was gonna be a challenge. That basket I scored, it means nothin’—’cause you goin’ light. See, you don’t show me any respect by playin’ that way.”
My tongue was cemented inside my mouth, and I just nodded my head. Then he stuck his arm out for me to slap his hand. I brought my arm down fast and heard the smack when our hands hit.
I drained the next shot with him up in my face. We won by a point, and took two more games after that.
I’m not sure how much I’m going to have to disrespect Spider to keep the score right. He’s going to think it’s his two good arms and legs that got me off my game. But it’s not.
Non-Fiction cuts the lead to six points. Spider’s up in my grill, and I jet past him to get the ball. Then I throw on the brakes, so I can get everyone set up and run the show.
Junkyard Dog’s got Bones on his backside down low. It’s a mismatch—Bones doesn’t have anywhere near the size to keep Dog from going where he wants. But the two of them are locked up tight, going at each other for everything. Dog is pushing in with all his strength, and Bones is trying to shove him out the same.
Their expressions are exactly alike—the muscles in their faces and all across their foreheads are straining. That’s how J.R. looked anytime he went after you on the court. It’s what I see in his pops’s face tonight, too.
Dog sticks one arm up to tell me he’s ready for the ball. I cock the pass over my head, and they brace their bodies against each other’s one last time, scrapping for position.
Suddenly every muscle in Bones’s body goes soft, and he backs away. Only Dog is still pushing. It’s one of the oldest tricks in the yard, and something Stove used to pull on J.R. and me. Without Bones pushing back, Dog loses his balance and goes falling backwards to the floor. That’s when I let go of the pass, and it sails out-of-bounds.
“Timber!” screams Acorn. “That was a mighty big tree to cut down.”
The crowd is howling over Dog hitting the deck.
I stare at Stove like maybe he wants to blame me for pulling the chair out from under Dog’s ass. The scorekeeper’s making a mark in his book. I know he’s putting a turnover next to my name for throwing that pass away.
“That should be a foul!” shouts Greene. “He made him fall!”
“Greenie, you think that’s a foul?” roars Fat Anthony. “I think you been rappin’ yourself in the head too long.”
Mitchell’s trying to calm Greene down, explaining why the play’s good. But Greene doesn’t want to hear it.
“That’s punk-ass shit,” snaps Greene as Bones jogs past.
Junkyard Dog’s super-hyped now. He’s got on a frigid ice-grill, and his beams are fixed on Bones. Then halfway down court, Dog’s shoulder slams into Bones’s. But Bones stiffens up on the hit, throwing his shoulder, too.
“Just one time I’ll let that go!” Stove warns them.
There’s almost eight minutes left, and it feels like the time’s moving in slow motion. Kodak’s got the ball for Non-Fiction, and forces a shot up with one of our kids all over him.
“No! No! N—” starts Fat Anthony, till the shot slips through the net. “Yeah, baby! Yeah!”
Kodak keeps his feet fixed to that spot for a second, with his wrist frozen in a perfect gooseneck for everybody to see.
“That’s what coaches call a good/bad shot,” says Acorn. “The only thing good about it was it went in.”
I start back up court with the ball and hear everything break loose ahead of me. So I bend my neck around Spider to see. It’s Dog and Bones. They’re tangled up together, throwing blind punches past each other’s heads.
“Ooooooh!”
The crowd gets louder with every miss, till Dog connects on one. Then the noise jumps to another level.
Dog pulls his fist back from Bones’s temple, looking to nail him again. But Bones shoves both hands up under Dog’s throat, knocking him back. The cops come rushing onto the court, and I can’t tell the refs’ whistles from police whistles.
Bones wrestles Dog to the ground, and Stove gets on top of them before the cops. He’s got an arm over each of their necks and won’t back off, no matter what the cops tell him.
“This is for the refs, not police!” screams Stove from the pile.
That’s when the cops let Hamilton in, and he pulls Bones clear.
The crowd cheers as Stove walks Junkyard Dog back to the bench and hands him to Mitchell instead of the cops.
“They both threw punches,” Stove tells the scorekeeper. “They’re both gone from the game.”
“Why my guy, Ham? Why my guy?” screams Fat Anthony. “He was only defending himself!”
But Hamilton just shakes his head.
It’s almost natural for those two to mix it up. Bones won’t bend on anything, and Dog can’t take it when somebody gets the best of him. So bang! It’s on. But a few days from now, they’ll probably be on the same side in some pickup game, fighting to win together and watching each other’s back.
It’s not that simple for me—things won’t snap back like that. And I can’t get even with anybody, because it’s me who caused it. Maybe J.R.’s pops can get revenge, but I know that’s going to touch me, too.
Stove starts over to me for the rock. I flip it to him, like that could stop him from getting any closer. Then he points to the sideline for somebody on our squad to put the ball back in play. Only I won’t budge, and some other kid runs over.
There’s seven and a half minutes left to play. But that’s game-time. The clock gets held up on every stop in between, and nobody knows for sure how long it’ll take for everything to get decided.
Fat Anthony
Some things you can’t set up. They give them to you gift wrapped. Bones for Dog—that’s a trade I’ll take right now. They lose twice as much as we do ’cause they got to lean even more on Mustard.
Down by just four points—I can feel the momentum switching to us. I’m gonna win this bet and the championship, too. I see it comin’, so let me tell Father Time on the clock to cool his heels, and let it flow natural.
Monty’s been down with me forever. I never talk to him and he never talks to me. The money just shows up in his pocket come tournament time. Monty wraps the plug to the clock around his leg nice and tight. Then every time he leans back, the plug edges out of the socket and cuts the juice. I can get an extra eight or ten seconds a minute that way when we’re on the wrong side of a score. But things are lookin’ good now, and I’ll give him the sign to back off.
That’s right—look at me, Mustard.
Fuss with that damn Spider, too.
Let me fill up your mind till there’s too much to think about.
14
SPIDER’S HAWKING ME all over the court. He thinks he’s the shit and that he’s got my number. I hate that everybody else is probably thinking that, too. He’s way up in my face, and I finally shove him off to get free. That’s when Stove blows his whistle and shoots an arm straight out to show everybody what I did.
“Good call, ref! Good call!” yells Fat Anthony, clapping his hands. “That Mustard must be piss-yellow now!”
Spider takes the ball out on the sideline next to Fat Anthony, with me guarding him. I can see the sweat on Anthony’s neck and the flesh flapping under his chin when he opens his mouth. Then Fat Anthony lifts his eyes up to mine. He knows exactly what I am inside, and how it took just five hundred bucks for me to sell out my team.
“Better not let your daddy down,
” says Fat Anthony as Spider inbounds the ball.
Stove waves both arms over his head, stopping the clock.
“Don’t you talk to a player on another team,” says Stove, straight to Anthony’s face. “I’m warning you, I won’t let you disgrace this game.”
“I’m talkin’ to my kid! You hear me? My kid!” explodes Fat Anthony. “Don’t get between me and my players, Stove!”
“You get a second technical, you’ll be out of this game,” Stove warns him. “I’ll make you leave the park.”
Greene’s going ballistic from our bench.
“I already showed you once how I set traps for rats, Fat Man,” snarls Greene. “Keep away from my boyz, ’cause next time I settle up with you!”
His words rip right through me. I’m shaking all over, and if I could, I’d curl up on the court, crying my eyes out like a little baby.
Stove steps back from Fat Anthony to look at me good. I know he heard everything out of Greene’s mouth, and I can see his eyes turn to fire.
I wish I could jump into Stove’s arms. I’d hug him tight and bury my face in his chest. I’d tell him how he’s been like my second pops. That J.R. was my blood brother, and I’ll never have another friend like him. But he’d probably spit in my face and tell me how he hated my guts. That I don’t deserve to call anybody family.
“Let’s finish this!” demands Stove, emptying his lungs into his whistle.
Non-Fiction brings the ball up court, and my mind’s everywhere but on the game. Spider’s cutting back and forth, and I just follow him. I’m almost numb inside, and only my legs are still strong. So I keep on running, trying to hold my balance.
Kodak nails another tough shot, and our lead’s down to two points, 65 to 63.
Spider’s set in front of me, and I want to slap the confidence right off his face. I throw my feet into high gear. He bites hard at every fake, and the crowd roars as I make him dance.
“Spider needs a new pair of socks,” says Acorn. “He just got juked out of his.”
I blow by him and miss an easy layup.
I can’t look anybody in the face, so I watch the ball get passed around, and the seconds slip off the clock.
The next time Kodak touches the rock, he dribbles straight into the teeth of our defense. There’s nothing in his eyes but basketball. No fear. No thinking. Nothing. And I’m jealous to my bones. Then Kodak plants a foot and pulls up. The defense slides past him, and he lets loose a one-handed floater that finds the bottom of the basket.
“Good gracious! That boy’s in the Zone!” blasts Acorn. “This game’s all even.”
The Zone’s a place where your mind and body are on the exact same wavelength. You make moves without thinking about them, and everything’s natural and pure.
A thousand things can creep into a shooter’s head and screw him up—the defense, the crowd, or anything you carry onto the court with you. You start thinking about every part of your stroke and get thrown off. But when you’re in the Zone, you might as well be on the court alone, because nothing can get close to you. It’s just you and the basket. There’s no pressure, and everything just flows like it’s supposed to.
But I know I’ll never find that feeling again. Not on a basketball court. Not anywhere.
It’s crunch time, and kids on our squad are looking for me to take over.
I pass the ball off to one of our guys, then he pushes it right back at me. It happens again with the next kid, and I feel like I’m playing Hot Potato.
One of our kids steps up and sets a solid screen on Spider. I pop free, with a wide-open shot staring me in the face.
“That’s automatic!” somebody screams from our bench.
I raise up to shoot, but none of it comes natural. It’s like there’s a hundred pieces to my stroke, and I got to build one on top of the other. My eyes are zeroed in on the front of the rim. But just before I release the rock, everything I’ve done flashes through my mind in fast-forward. Then, before I can blink, it’s gone with the shot.
The ball hits iron and goes straight up in the air. Everybody’s fighting for position, and Kodak presses his body up against mine to block me off from the basket. When the ball can’t go any higher, I see the seams stop spinning. It floats down, and falls through the heart of the basket, without even jiggling the net.
We’re back in front by a basket, and Mitchell’s chasing me down the sideline.
“Mustard! Mustard, stay on Kodak!” he yells. “Be the stopper!”
I stay in front of Kodak and try to cut him off from the ball. If he’s in the Zone, I don’t want him bringing that at me, because I got nothing inside me to stand up against it now.
Non-Fiction misses their next shot, and I chase down the rebound. Spider comes flying at me, and Kodak, too. They’re both right on top of me, with their arms straight up. I’m trapped in the corner and can’t see past. I bring the rock into my stomach to protect it. It feels like it weighs a ton, and it’s all I can do to hold on. Then I feel myself falling out-of-bounds.
“Time-out!” I scream.
I hear Stove’s whistle and drop the rock to the floor.
The clock’s frozen solid with three minutes and three seconds to play.
Our kids are clapping for me, and Mitchell comes up the sideline to meet me.
“Heads-up play, Mustard. You saved us a possession,” says Mitchell, walking me back to the bench.
“The championship and more!” says Greene, putting a fist into the chest of every kid coming off the court.
But when it’s my turn, I close my eyes and try to shut out every word. Then I feel the bump from his fist, and it’s like getting shoved out of a nightmare into something even worse.
Mitchell’s telling everybody what he wants us to do. Only I’m still not listening to anything outside of my heart beating.
Junkyard Dog squeezes my shoulder, like everything he ever wanted was riding on me now. I look down, and J.R.’s initials are staring back at me from everybody’s kicks. Then Mitchell breaks the huddle and looks me in the eye.
“Mustard, all the real hot dogs are sitting in the stands wishing they were playing for the championship,” he says. “You’re a leader. These kids look up to you ’cause you got the guts to go out there for you and J.R.”
“And don’t let that fat fucker get in your ear,” says Greene, getting in front of my face. “I’m countin’ on you to be my boy.”
I look into Greene’s shades and see my reflection—one in each eye. I don’t know which one is Mackey, and which is Hold the Mustard. I don’t know how they got split like that, or if they were ever both the same. I just know that I can’t stand the sight of either one of them.
Stove comes back from the scorer’s table holding a silver stopwatch. Then he calls Fat Anthony and Mitchell together.
“Coaches, I’m not confident in the way that clock’s been moving,” says Stove, showing them the face of the watch in his hand. “I’m gonna keep the time on the court, too, to check it. I just want you to understand that in the end, my time’s what we’re gonna live by.”
I step back onto the middle of the court, but nothing’s changed for me. None of the clocks have moved a second, and it’s like I’m still trapped in that corner of the court.
15
I’M SHADOWING KODAK when a Non-Fiction player throws a pass away. The ball’s headed out-of-bounds, and Kodak’s streaking to save it. I stick right with him, and the scorer’s table comes up fast.
I’ve been holding something back ever since that morning I took Fat Anthony’s money. First I held back on J.R., thinking I could hide it from him. Now I’m holding back the truth from Stove and screwing over the team. Only I can’t play that line anymore.
Kodak dives across the table for the ball, and so do I.
I don’t care if I break a leg or crack my skull wide open. It’s better than being backed into a corner with no way out.
The scorekeeper grabs his book off the table.
K
odak reaches the rock first, slapping it backwards. It hits square in my hands and I shove the ball back off Kodak last. Then I go crashing through the trophy and land upside down on the ground with it cradled inside my arms. The marble bottom’s jabbing me in the stomach, and the gold ball that kid holds is pressed up against my throat.
I swallow hard, and feel for every part of me. But nothing’s broken.
Then I get pulled back up to my feet and hear all the arguing.
Hamilton’s saying the ball was off me last. That the rock belongs to Non-Fiction. I know he’s wrong, and maybe Fat Anthony finally got the call he’s been working Hamilton for all game.
“Thank you, Mr. Hamilton. Thank you,” says Fat Anthony. “That’s what we need here—a sharp set of eyes.”
Kodak’s already back on the court. And when Stove sees I’m still in one piece, he yanks the trophy away from me, setting it back on the table right.
Mitchell and Greene are both blowing a fuse.
“Christ, Hamilton! You couldn’t see that from the other side of the court!” argues Mitchell. “Stove, you were closest to it. Why didn’t you make the call?”
“It’s more bullshit! That’s why!” shouts Greene.
Then Greene turns away from the refs. I watch his whole body start to coil. He rips his shades off and stares straight at me. His eyes are blacker than anything I’ve ever seen, and they drill two holes into the deepest part of me.
“What are you jumpin’ over tables with that joker for? The ball was gonna be off them,” hisses Greene. “What, you wanna be somebody’s hero now?”
My heart’s beating wild. I can’t control my breathing, and if I wanted to run, I couldn’t.
THAT’S HOW I felt when Greene put the knife to my throat in the park—that day we were supposed to play his squad for the first time. It got back to him that Fat Anthony had a kid on the Greenbacks in his pocket, and that the bet was in the bag.