by Paul Volponi
“It’s either you, or you know who it is!” demanded Greene, backing me up against the fence with his posse circled around.
The couple of kids hanging around the park all jet.
Greene started rattling off names of kids on our squad, and I was scared shitless.
J.R. and me had covered for each other hundreds of times before on anything that would ever go wrong. So when he got to J.R.’s name, I just nodded my head, thinking that would buy some time till I found a way out.
Then Greene pushed me down on a bench and was pumping me for more when J.R. walked into Rucker Park. Greene hid the knife inside his hand, and J.R. walked over to us blind. My eyes were screaming out for him to run. But he didn’t see it in my face till he was right on top of us.
“I hear your moms went and died ’cause she was too ashamed to look at a piece of shit like you,” snapped Greene, stepping onto the court with J.R.
J.R. looked over at me quick, but I was empty inside.
“I thought that’s how you got sent to that group home!” J.R. shot back.
Greene turned to his posse, slapping his knee and pretending to laugh. Then he flashed them the knife, and rammed it into J.R.’s stomach.
I just sat there frozen with every muscle tied up so tight I couldn’t move.
J.R. was doubled over on the court, screaming in pain.
“You did-n’t see a fuck-in’ thing!” Greene told me, stabbing the air with every syllable.
Then him and his posse took off running and bounced into their rides.
“Mac-key!” J.R. cried one time, reaching his hand out to nothing.
Then J.R.’s eyes closed for good, and I bolted, too, because it was like I murdered him myself.
“THAT WAS A pure hustle play, divin’ for the ball like that,” says Mitchell, getting in front of Greene. “That’s the kind of effort we need. You just gotta use your head more, Mustard.”
My mouth’s bone dry as Stove puts the ball back in play.
Kodak gets hold of the rock, and everybody else wearing a white jersey clears away. It’s an isolation play, and he’s supposed to take me one-on-one.
We’re just a few feet from where J.R. got killed.
I set myself in front of him, bending at the knees. I lift my heels off the floor. I’m up on my toes, and all my weight’s balanced on the balls of my feet.
Kodak juts his jaw to the left, and every part of me jumps that way. I should be watching his stomach, but I can’t take my eyes off his face. That’s what I want to see again when I look in the mirror—a baller on fire, not some rag doll with its stuffing knocked out.
I bite at another bluff, and my body nearly bends in two. Then I jerk my feet back underneath me and chase after Kodak as he blows by. I have to catch him, because there’s nothing left for me if I don’t.
Kodak sprints for the hoop, raising the ball in one hand for the layup. I feel something run up through me from the ground, then an explosion in my legs. I leap forward with every bit of strength I can find. Then I reach across Kodak’s body, and slap the rock out of his hand.
I hear the crowd in my ears and Acorn blasting something over the mike. But none of that matters to me anymore.
Stove blows his whistle, pointing at me for the foul.
I turn to the scorekeeper, lifting one hand up high to show I’m guilty.
Kodak’s headed to the foul line with a chance to tie the game. I keep watching his face. He thinks I’m staring him down, trying to put a chill into him, so he steps to me.
“Peace to your partner who fell on this court,” says Kodak, kissing two fingers and touching them to his heart. “But you were never the player people made you out to be. And you can kiss my ass every time I go by you.”
“Word to yours and mine—I don’t care what I have to do, I’m keepin’ in front of you,” I answer.
Kodak buries the first foul shot, without ever taking his eyes off the rim. He doesn’t move his body out of place an inch, ignoring his players along the foul line who want to slap his hand. Then I watch his release again. It’s identical to the first. Only this time the rock doesn’t go down, and rattles out of the rim.
“Shit!” screams Kodak as our squad grabs the rebound with a one-point lead.
Non-Fiction’s pressing us, and Fat Anthony’s pushing them. I got control of the rock with the clock running down, and the silver watch in Stove’s hand. But I’m in no hurry.
“No laying back!” screams Greene. “Bring it, Mustard! Bring it!”
When the time slips inside of two minutes, the crowd gets on its feet and starts to really make noise. I know Greene and Fat Anthony are sweating out every second, and all they can do now is wait on me to move.
Spider gets up too close, and I rocket past. I sidestep two more defenders and let loose a little teardrop shot. The rock rims out, but I hold my ground and rip down the rebound. I throw my head up in the air, and another dude goes flying for the fake. I lay the ball up, but Kodak comes out of nowhere and gets a piece of it.
“It just won’t go down!” says Acorn.
The rock’s three feet over my head, with Kodak fighting me for it all the way.
That’s when I feel two giant springs uncoil in my legs. I rise up over Kodak and tap the ball into the basket with one hand.
“Hold the Mustard ’cause you won’t need any. That boy’s already spiced up with desire!” echoes Acorn. “Greenbacks lead by three points.”
Fat Anthony calls time-out, ripping into his team.
“Kick his fuckin’ ass out there before I kick every one of yours!” yells Anthony, without stopping for a breath. “The game’s on the line, and you’re gonna let that pissass little nothing turn big!”
But nobody on their squad let me—I stepped up, and there’s no turning back.
Everybody on my side’s slapping my hand. Stove’s telling both coaches there are no time-outs left, and now nobody can stop the clock from moving.
I move closer to our bench, but I won’t step off the court. I want my feet planted where J.R. and me started something together. The other kids stick close to me, and Mitchell moves the huddle out to where I’m standing.
I look Greene in the eye, like there was never a second I was scared of him, and that he’s going to pay for killing J.R.
He tries to turn up the heat by glaring back, but it’s too late.
Whatever’s inside of me is already on fire.
So Greene puts his shades back on and starts jawing at the team.
“You all know what’s ridin’ on this game for me,” says Greene. “Do not fuck this up!”
I hear the words slither off Greene’s tongue, and my eyes get fixed on that kid on top of the trophy.
16
I LOOK DOWN and push my toes up against the line. I see J.R.’s initials on my kicks, and I can feel him standing with me. My body’s straight, and both arms are high over my head. The crowd’s pressed up at Kodak’s back. Stove’s about to hand him the ball, and I’m already jumping up and down, trying to block Kodak’s view.
“Mustard’s not givin’ him enough room,” says Fat Anthony. “My guy’s supposed to get two feet clear.”
That’s when Stove reaches out and puts his hand against my chest. His shoulder moves, but he doesn’t push me back an inch.
“We gotta do the right thing here, Mackey,” says Stove, starting his count.
Non-Fiction inbounds. They keep setting screens to bump me off Kodak, till they finally get him the ball. The clock’s running down, and I know Kodak can’t waste time faking. He looks left, so I figure he’s going right, and I got the sideline there to help me out. Kodak explodes out of his shoes, and I slide right as far as I can. But he jets past through the open space between my foot and the line, flying to the rim.
I hear Stove’s whistle as Kodak scores, and think maybe somebody fouled him going to the hoop. Only Stove’s down on one knee, slamming the sideline with an open hand to show where Kodak stepped out-of-bounds.
The bas
ket doesn’t count.
“His foot never touched the line!” screams Fat Anthony, nearly jumping out of his skin. “What are you tryin’ to pull here, Stove? Are you in on this, too, Ham? Are you part of this?”
Stove brings the rock to the sideline, and I run over to put it in play. Fat Anthony comes up behind Stove, screaming at him. But Stove won’t turn around and follows the play up court.
There’s less than a minute left, and we’re ahead by three points. We don’t have to shoot the ball—all we need to do is hold on to it tight, and kill off the clock. But Greene’s got our kids juiced over the spread, wanting us to score big for him. So somebody hoists up a crazy shot from the corner that misses by a mile. But Non-Fiction can’t haul in the rebound, and the ball’s rolling loose underneath our basket. I’m the first one to hit the floor for it. Only I can’t control it, and now I’m at the bottom of the pile, looking up through arms and legs.
Fat Anthony’s squad finally grabs the ball. I get the last guy off of me, and I’m almost to my feet when Kodak shoves me back down and bolts the other way.
I feel the skin scrape off my knee, and the sting when the air first hits it.
Without me, Non-Fiction’s got numbers, playing us five-on-four.
“We need you back, Mustard!” calls Mitchell, waving me up court.
That’s when Spider gets stripped of the rock, and one of our kids rifles it up ahead to me. I’m all alone. There’s nobody within forty feet of me, and there’s nothing to think about.
I take a few easy dribbles with the crowd screaming off the hook.
“Better hold your breath!” announces Acorn, like I’m about to tear the rim in two.
I go to plant my foot, and I feel my ankle twist. I’m going to fall flat on my face, and a giant gasp rushes into my ears. But I take the weight off my ankle fast, before it turns over, and pull up every bit of strength I ever got from growing up on this court with J.R. And right then, I believe in myself more than anything—that there’s no way I’m going down. My stomach muscles turn to steel, and I straighten myself back up.
I take one last dribble and lay the rock home.
“Hold your breath for sure,” says Acorn. “It’s a five-point lead, and thirty-two seconds to go by the big clock.”
I can hear Greene and Fat Anthony yelling over everybody, with their voices hitting head-on. Non-Fiction’s playing frantic. They miss their next shot, and I drop my body on Kodak’s, so he’s got no prayer of grabbing a rebound.
Our kid puts the ball into my hands, but I don’t want it. I don’t want any part of settling this damn bet, so I pass it off quick.
Both squads come up empty, shooting blanks. Non-Fiction misses their last shot, and the ball ricochets off the iron, right to me. I zigzag past kids with it, so nobody can touch me. And when the clock hits one second, I throw the ball high up to the stars for J.R. to share the championship. But Kodak jumps in front of me, and I bounce off his chest to the ground.
“That’s for you, Hot Dog,” sneers Kodak.
The crowd starts to come onto the court, but Stove’s blowing his whistle, so the cops push everybody back.
“There’s one second left by my watch,” Stove shouts to the scorekeeper. “Mackey to the line. That was a two-shot foul.”
“Yeah! Yeah! That’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout!” hollers Greene, surrounded by his posse. “Those are my Greenbacks! Better start countin’ it out, Fat Man!”
But Fat Anthony’s busy hustling his squad off the court, like the game’s over.
“We’re not finished here,” says Stove, running over to Anthony. “You don’t put your players back on this court, I’ll just give the Greenbacks two points. And I promise you—you’ll never have another team in this tournament.”
Fat Anthony never opens his mouth and pushes five of his guys onto the court.
The crowd’s pressed up along the sidelines, waiting to bust loose, and the cops start a human chain to hold them back.
Every kid in a green jersey is celebrating, and everybody wearing white looks like they just had their heart torn out and shoved back under their nose.
I set my feet at the foul line, and Stove walks the rock out to me. His face is calm as can be. Only his eyes are raging, and we both know there’s more to this than two lousy foul shots.
“Congratulations, Mackey,” says Stove in an even voice. “This is where you always wanted to be—with everything ridin’ on you. Now—juega con fuego. Show me what you’re really made of.”
I look over at the scorer’s table, and Greene’s got the gold trophy in his filthy hands. Then Greene shakes it at me, tilting it sideways, till that kid on top isn’t reaching up to the sky anymore. He’s just reaching out to nothing.
“Make it sweeter for me, Mustard,” says Greene. “Make it even sweeter.”
I take a few dribbles to get my rhythm. Then I run my hands across the seams, feeling for the grips. And I can’t remember when a rock ever felt heavier in my hands.
Fat Anthony’s eyes are nailed into my side. But he’s not grilling me like I better miss these two free throws. He’s looking at me like I fucked him every step of the way tonight. That I was a traitor to both sides.
I let the air out of my lungs, then I bow my head. I raise up with the shot, and the ball slams off the backboard, two feet off to the side of the rim.
“Brick!” screams somebody in the crowd, but Acorn doesn’t say anything.
I step back off the line and look over my shoulder. Greene’s up at the edge of the court, and I stare into his shades. If I was close enough, I’d slap them off his face just to see if his eyes could turn any blacker.
“I see it’s about you and me, Mustard,” says Greene. “Don’t worry, one-on-one’s my style, too. Make the damn shot!”
Stove delivers the ball to me on one bounce, and it sticks in my hands. I close my eyes to shut everything else out. When I open them again, it’s just me and the rim, and I might as well be shooting baskets by myself in the morning.
Inside my mind, I can see my stroke and feel the rock rolling off my fingertips like a feather. I can see J.R. standing inside his good kicks, watching me. My whole life, I wished I could be as strong as him.
That’s when I raise up and fire the rock over the backboard. I watch it sail through the dark sky, till it lands deep in the crowd. Then the cool air slips back into my chest. And it’s like losing a weight from around my neck that had dragged me so far down I didn’t remember how to stand up straight anymore.
I hear Anthony laughing his fat ass off, but I don’t give a shit about him. My eyes are glued to Greene as he steps onto the court, stabbing the air with his finger.
“Yeah! You were the fuckin’ rat!” explodes Greene.
“Murderer! You killed J.R.!” I scream at the top of my lungs.
Greene slams the trophy down, and it bounces two feet off the ground. Then he comes charging after me.
His footsteps pick up speed, and my heart pounds faster. I drive my legs into the ground, waiting on him. Then for a second, I lose sight of him, like I blinked too long.
But it was Stove who cut in front of me.
He hooks his arm under Greene’s neck, stopping him cold in his tracks. Then Stove jerks Greene backwards, slamming him to the ground. His hands are wrapped around Greene’s throat, pounding the back of his head on the concrete, over and over.
“What did you do?” screams Stove, with every crack of Greene’s skull. “What did you do?”
My legs never move. I stay planted in that one spot, like I was a tree with roots running deep into Rucker Park.
The cops surround the two of them, and let Stove get in a few more good licks before they wrestle him off Greene. It takes three strong cops to pull Stove away. But he won’t quit trying to get back at that fuck. And every time Stove spins those cops around, his eyes catch sight of mine.
I know the time’s coming soon when I’m going to have to stand up in front of him and take whatever St
ove’s got for me.
Greene’s laid out on the court, moaning with his eyes half shut. There’s a pool of blood under his head, and two EMTs are just starting to work on him. I look around for his posse, but they’ve all bounced.
I lift my feet from the floor and go to pick up the trophy. I’d rather find it smashed to pieces than see Greene holding it.
The ball’s broke off from that kid’s hand, and the gold plating’s chipped off his shoulder. He’s nothing but plastic underneath. But I guess I always knew that.
Hamilton calls the game a final—Greenbacks 71, Non-Fiction 66.
Then the scorekeeper signs his name at the bottom of the book, closing it shut.
Epilogue
NOW THAT SCHOOL’S started up again, I mostly play ball there—in the gym at George Washington High School. I only come here to Rucker Park on weekends, early in the morning when it’s empty.
I bow my head at the spot where J.R. got killed. Then I start shooting around, trying to find my rhythm. Sometimes when the ball’s going down and everything’s flowing good, I forget about what happened for a while, and it’s almost like I’m forgiven.
Only this Sunday it’s different. Stove just walked into the park.
He leans up against the fence watching me, and my hands are trembling so bad I can hardly keep a grip on the ball.
The morning after the championship game, I was sitting on the steps outside our building when Stove finally got home. He was still wearing his referee’s shirt from the night before. I’d told the cops at the station house everything, and I knew by the cold look on Stove’s face that he’d already heard it all from them.
My mouth started to make the words “I’m sor—”
Till Stove snapped right through that.
“I don’t wanna hear it from you. Not one miserable excuse. And after all I told you ’bout getting mixed up with Anthony,” he said, raising a finger to the sky. “God as my witness—I never want to hear it said out loud again.”
But the story got said out loud a lot, on TV and the radio. It was on the front page of the Daily News, too—BASKETBALL BET BRINGS BETRAYAL AND MURDER.