by Rob Roberge
“How’d you like to prove me wrong?” I say. I owe her this, but it can’t hurt, either.
She stops and looks up. “I’d love to.”
I blow the whistle and turn to Money and Latimore. I call them down to our end of the court, “Two-on-two,” I say. “Darnell. Me and you against Money and Hedda.”
“Me and a bunch of Pygmies,” Darnell says. He rolls the ball he was using over to the sideline and looks at Hedda and Money. “Which of you dreamers is going to check me?”
“Hedda will,” I say. “I’ll take Money.”
“I’ll take Darnell,” Money says.
“It wasn’t a question,” I say. “Me against you Money.”
“You got to promise you don’t bench me when I make you look silly,” he says. He looks at Hedda. “Me and you against the old men.”
“Looks that way,” she says.
We shoot for outs. Money hits five straight and so do I. “We’ll be here all day like this. What say the old men get it first?” I say. I’m thirty-four and I should be winding down a pro career. Darnell’s twenty-eight and he should be starting in the all-star game. Next to these two, though, we’re old.
“Whatever you say, coach,” Money says. “You won’t get it back.”
He tosses me the ball and it hits me that this is my first pick-up game in nine years. I decide to play it safe and throw in to Darnell. He’s on the right wing, about twenty feet from the hoop and I go to set a pick. He fakes right and Hedda stays with him. He comes back left, leads her into my pick. Money, like the lousy defensive player he is, doesn’t tell her.
It doesn’t matter. She makes contact with my chest and fights over the pick, staying with Darnell. Money switches, which he shouldn’t have done, and I‘m free. I roll to the hoop, call for the ball, and Darnell hits me in in stride for a lay-up.
“One-zip, old men,” I say.
I throw in to Darnell on the right side again. I make it look like the same play and come up to Hedda. Money calls the pick, but I don’t set it. I hesitate for a moment and roll to the hoop. Hedda doesn’t switch and Money recovers too late. I hit a reverse.
“Old men making you look silly,” Darnell says.
“Wait till we get the ball,” Money says.
“Not going to get it falling for sucker plays,” Darnell says. He rakes the ball in, tosses it to me on the left wing. Money’s playing me straight-up, backed off a little and giving me the jumper. Darnell brings Hedda to the post, puts her on his back. I think she might front him, but she plays it right and the coach in me wants to give Darnell the ball and see how Hedda checks him. If she can play the post, this is a good test. The player in me wants to take Money to school. I’m a foot behind the three line and Money’s begging me to take it—off me by four feet. I hit the J.
“Three zip,” Darnell says, shaking his head.
“Shit, Money. Check him,” Hedda says.
Darnell tosses in to me. I’m in the same spot and Money comes up tight. I give him a Chet Walker head-fake and he jumps out of the; gym. I take a dribble into the lane, Hedda comes up on me and I give Darnell an alley-oop for a dunk.
“This is sad,” Darnell says. He palms the ball in his right hand, and he puts his left up behind his ear. “You hear that, children? You hear the schoolbell ringing?”
“You haven’t shown us shit, D,” Money says.
I’ve got the ball at the top of the key.
“This is it, old man,” Money says. “I gave you some nice memories, something for your scrapbook.”
“You’re going easy on me?” I say.
“Wrong tense, coach. I was going easy on you.”
I fake a pass and take Money into the lane. He’s still playing me straight-up. He should be playing me to go right. With my knee, I couldn’t take Rose Kennedy into the paint going left and he should have spotted that by now. I’m worried that this kid might never catch on. I work him right and give him a little cross-over in the lane and take a ten foot fadeaway off my bad leg. The shot drops.
“That is one ugly fucking shot,” Money says.
“Super John Williamson made a living with that shot,” I say.
“Super who?”
“Great player. First guy I can remember who got kicked out of the league for getting fat. That up-the-ladder shot was his pet move.”
He gives me the ball. “Ain’t you the historian?” He gets in his defensive stance. “OK. Historian. You try your little Super Fat John Williams’ move again.”
I throw into Darnell and he toasts Hedda. Fakes her to the lane and blows by going right. He ends it with a reverse dunk.
He shakes his head again. “Coach, this is sad. Six-zip. Want to make seven a shutout?”
“Yes,” Hedda says, “You score here, it’s over.” She looks at me and I can tell she’s still pissed.
Darnell throws to me. I fake right, and spin back left. But I’m slower, much slower, than I thought and Money’s waiting for me. He strips me, takes a dribble in the lane and throws it down.
“This shit is over,” he says. “O-VER.” He’s at the top of the key. I get down, knowing he wants the jumper going right. But I overcompensate, and he’s by my left. Darnell switches. Money feeds Hedda for a ten-footer and she hits it off glass.
Money struts back to the top of the key.
“Stop the presses,” Darnell says, laughing. “You scored.”
“One of many to come, D. You ready old man?” he says to me. I nod, play him a shade over to the left. He hits a three with my hand in his face. The kid has a gorgeous shot. The upper body’s straight as a board, the legs go into that weird Barnett tuck. Perfect balance, perfect rotation. I’m tired and winded. The muscles around my bad knee quiver.
Money drains two more jumpers, both squared-up, both with a hand in his face. Hedda takes Darnell off the dribble. She can create her own shot, which is a good sign.
“Six-all, chumps,” Money says. “Do you feel it, coach? Do you feel the momentum changing?” He tosses in to Hedda. I try to check Money, but I want to see what Hedda does with a big man on her. She works Darnell to the post, backs him in and gives him a pretty up-and-under move and hit it off glass. Money worked inside of me—if there was a rebound, it would have been his. He takes the ball as it comes through the net.
“Seven,” Money says. “And counting.”
My leg gets more wobbly and my wind gets shorter. I feel old and stupid. Money plays with me like a playground chump. It’s getting near practice and the rest of the team starts to trickle in. Hedda and Money are up 15-6 and it gets uglier with each possession. Hedda’s holding her own with Darnell and, while I’m impressed with her, I wonder what’s wrong with him. All the tools are still there, but he’s a beat slow, just like in the game the other night. But it’s me, and not Darnell, that got us in this hole.
Money’s out on the wing. He jab-steps me and I can see he wants to go right. The last few, he’s taken me left and he thinks he’s got me set-up. But I try to make him go left. Another jab-step.
“You watching, Coach? This is gonna be pretty.” He gives me an up-fake and I bite. He’s gone before I reach the ground.
We get it back and Darnell hits a few. It’s time for practice and we’re down 20-9. Money has the ball at the top of the key.
“I’m going right,” he says. “I’m telling you to make it fair. I won’t even take you, Coach. I’m going right, you ready?”
I nod and get down in my stance.
“You hear me?” Money says. “Going right. Right by the coach, and right over you, D.” He’s dribbling at the top of the key and he smiles and turns to the team gathered at the side of the court. “Around him,” he says and points at me with his free hand. “And over him.” He points at Darnell. “Everybody with me?”
“So let’s see it,” Morris says from the side.
They may see it all of it, but I don’t. Money’s by me like a blur. By the time I turn, he’s dunking over Darnell. Grace and power—a beauti
ful move.
Money hangs on the rim and does a chin-up. He conies down, and shakes hands with Hedda. He walks toward the locker room.
“I’m so good, even I can’t stop me,” he shouts.
“Five minutes,” I say. “Back on the court in five, Money.”
He nods, gives me a wave without turning around, and heads inside.
Hedda comes over to me. “Well?”
“You looked good.” She gives me an arrogant smile and walks away. “I’m sorry,” I say as she turns into the women’s locker room.
“You, too,” I say. “Five minutes.”
15
By the time I get back home, my entire body aches. What I’d like is a twelve-pack and a Percodan, but I settle for a hot bath. I’m getting adjusted to the water and the phone rings. I decide to let it go. After the third tone, an answering machine—which I don’t have—kicks in, and Rube Parcell’s voice answers my phone.
“Ben Thompson is not in at the moment. Please state your business, time of call and phone number, and he’ll get back to you as soon as he can. If you’re calling about Sarasota Sun tickets, dial 1-800-SARASUN for the most exciting action on the coast.”
I’m still in the tub when Parcell’s voice comes back on the machine.
“Ben Thompson? I didn’t put this in so you could screen me out. Pick up the god damn phone.” He waits a couple of seconds. I can hear the whirl of his new ashtray in the background. “Hell,” Parcell says. “Call me as soon as you get in.”
I get out of the tub and throw some shorts on. Bone’s down by the pool. He’s got some tarp spread—it looks like a flattened out circus tent—and he’s spray painting the body of an old lawnmower. I call his name a couple of times, but he doesn’t respond. I walk down to him.
“Bone,” I say when I get next to him. He’s down in a catcher’s stance. He looks up and turns, forgetting to shut off the nozzle. My leg gets a fine mist of Forest Green.
“Fuck,” I say, moving away from him and shaking my leg like a cat that stepped in water.
He shuts off the gun and stands. “Sorry. I get kind of lost when I’m working.”
I start to wipe the paint off, but all it does is smear it around. I shake my head. “I’ll live,” I say. “I’ve had a lot of paint on me over the years.”
“That’s right,” he says. “I forgot.”
“Was Parcell around here today?”
He nods. “Wanted me to put an answering machine in your room.”
“So you knew about it?”
“Once he got here, I did.” Bone bends down and puts the spray gun in a bucket of water. He rums it upside-down and clears the nozzle.
“And you did it?” I say. “That’s my room.”
“Case you haven’t noticed, I live here for free and I don’t do a hell of a lot. It’s a good deal. Uncle Chicken calls, I got to answer.” He shrugs.
I’m angry enough to hit something, but I realize it’s not Bone’s fault. “OK. Just let me know if you need to get in my room?”
“I would’ve,” he says. “It wasn’t my decision.”
I nod and head upstairs, hoping to catch Parcell before he leaves the office. On the machine are three more calls, all from The Chicken Man.
16
Parcell wants a meeting with me—won’t talk about it on the phone—so I drive north to Tampa. “You’re calling me?” I say.
“I wanted to talk about my team,” he says with a big grin. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Working. With your team.” I take a seat and wince. My knee is stiff and I don’t have any power in it. I want to bend it, I’ve got to grab the ankle and maneuver it into position. It cracks and pops like walnuts in a vise grip.
“Jesus Christ. Did that noise come out of you, Ben Thompson?”
“Played a little pick-up with Hedda, Money and Darnell. Think I put some fluid on it.”
“Get that taken care of,” Parcell says.
“It has been,” I say. “A few surgeries ago.” What it needs now is to be drained. Parcell unwraps a cigar and looks at it. I’m thinking about the needle, four inches long, they stick under the kneecap. They hit the pocket, and suck out this pink mix of blood and pus. It shoots and swirls into the hypo and just thinking about it, I get queasy. I decide to rest it. I shake my head. “I’m out of shape. It shouldn’t hurt like this.”
“Go to one of my gyms,” he says. “I’ll comp it. Anything for my coach.”
“I might” I say. “Right now, it needs rest.”
Parcell lights his cigar. “What do you know about Lewie Keller?”
“Nothing. Who is he?”
“A ballplayer. Point guard. Do you want him?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“You need a point guard. You said so yourself. Now, who are you willing to give up?”
“Slow down,” I say. “This isn’t mail-order. These are players. One, they’re not interchangeable. I don’t need just any point, I need the right one. Two, you don’t trade blind. I’d like to see the kid.”
“Fine. I’ll put you on the plane. Just say when,” Parcell says. Behind him, I can see it’s raining, which it does every day at four o’clock. You could set a watch by it. August. Florida. Rain. Four in the afternoon. It’s always done in less than ten minutes.
I shake my head. “I don’t have a free day. We’re up in Baton Rouge tomorrow night.”
“The Swamp Devils?” Parcell says.
“Dragons, I think.” I shrug. “Could be Devils. We’ve got them in a home and home. Up there tomorrow, back here in three days. I can’t look at the kid. What do you know about him?”
“His agent called me. Said Keller’s quick and a good defender, but he’s stuck behind some other point in Mobile.”
His agent called? He might not even be available. Have you talked to the team?”
“All taken care of. I almost traded for him this afternoon. But they wanted Grant and Latimore. I thought I should talk to you about it.”
I shake my head and look past Parcell and out the window.
“What’s the matter?” he says.
“I can’t work like this. You put machines in my house, you tell me how to run the team.”
“Machines? Hell, boy, it’s an answering machine. You make it sound evil. What the fuck are you? Amish or something? And you’re god damn right I tell you how to run my team,”
I run my hand over the knee. I can feel the swelling, the years of abuse. It’s like I’m feeling every weight, every mile all at one moment. And I thought I wanted more of this game. “I quit.”
“You’re under contract,” Parcell says calmly.
“Sue me. You’ll get a Toyota. I don’t need this shit. Taking basketball advice from Colonel Sanders.”
Parcell looks at me and puffs of his cigar. He’s mad. but he’s holding back. “I’ll forgive that, Ben Thompson, because it’s the first fight I‘ve seen in you. You rent that spine, or is it here to stay?”
“I’m done,” I say.
“The hell you are. Here’s the deal. You call the shots on the floor. You let me know what players you need and I’ll get them and then stay out of it.”
“Too easy,” I say. “What do you get out of this?”
Parcell laughs. “Ben Thompson, I already got it. You fought back. I pushed and you pushed back. That’s all I wanted. For you to stand up and act like a man.”
A quick hustle. And I feel like an idiot. I could still quit, but I got what I wanted. Even if he played me, I got it. I’m thinking of the few times on the court when I knew I was outclassed. The easy route is to walk—the hard one is to stick around and learn something. “Deal,” I say. “But only if you stick to your end.”
“Of course.” Parcell walks over to the bar. “You still need a point guard, and I know of one available. Assuming it’s all right to suggest one to you. How will we get a look at Keller?”
“Terry Willis,” I say. “If che money’s right, I could ask T
erry to take a look.”
“The money’s right, Ben Thompson. I’ll pay Willis more to look at him than I pay you to coach, if that’s what it takes.”
I look up at him. “Really?”
“I get what I want,” he says. “You trust Willis’ opinion?”
“He scouted me out of high school. Played pro. He knows the game.”
“Done,” Parcell says. “We’ll get him some tickets.” He pours himself a drink. “Go home, Ben. You look tired as hell.”
I work my way out of the chair and limp toward the door. The knee makes a squishy noise from the inside with every bend.
“Ben Thompson,” Parcell says. I turn around as I reach the door. “I‘m proud of you.” He smiles and, like a stupid kid, I smile back. “But I was serious about ripping your trachea out. You fuck with me or push the chicken jokes too far and you’ll leave this town on a stretcher.” He gives me a toast with his glass. “But, hell, you’re close to a stretcher on your own. Don’t need my help, do you?” He gives me that wave of his and I leave.
17
It’s too hot to touch my steering wheel when I get down to my car. The rain here, it does no good. It swoops in, makes the world wet for ten minutes, and leaves everything as it was. A tape—Jonathan Richman and the Modern Lovers Rockin’ and Romance—has melted on the dash. I look back up the mirrored glass skyscraper and try to place Parcell’s office. He’s hovering up there on the thirty-third floor, running a good chunk of Florida, and my life. I lose count starting from the bottom three times. The heat makes me dizzy and the sun’s glare off the mirrored glass hurts my eyes. I get in my car and use a T-shirt from the back seat on the wheel. My parking gets validated and I make some turns out of Tampa until I‘m on 1-75 and headed south to The Palms.
The drive takes about an hour and I spend it thinking about whether or not I should have quit. Parcell scares the hell out of me. The recurring trachea theme is disturbing—he’s old enough to have served in Korea—and it’s possible that his toughness isn’t all talk. I decide to try and stay on his good side. I’m still not sure how I got there, but it seems I’m there.
A little after six, I turn off 41 and head home. At the corner where The Bunker sits is the guy I saw playing guitar and singing at the Hob Nob. It’s Billy, The Last of the Six-String Outlaws holding a sign and marching back and forth in front of Terry’s bar. I slow the car down to read it. As the car comes to a stop, he looks right at me, walks toward the car and thrusts the sign forward. I figure it’s one of those “Will Work For Food” signs you see that always leave you flat and helpless and sad.