by Rob Roberge
“Elaine,” he says. “Had to put her down.”
“Elaine?”
“She was sick—lame to begin with, wasn’t supposed to make it—Brucellosis,” he says.
“A cow?” Sean says.
“She was lame at birth,” he says. “Blind and stupid—dumb for a cow, and cows are not smart animals.” He drinks his beer. “But she was family. The kids loved her.” He takes a breath and lets it out slowly. “Shot her this morning.”
“Why’d you shoot her?” I say.
He looks at me. “She was sick. Suffering.”
“No,” I say. “Why didn’t you put her to sleep? Have a vet do it?” He laughs and looks at Sean. “Your friend ain’t from here, is he?”
“City boy,” Sean says.
“You don’t put them to sleep,” he says. “They ain’t cats or gerbils. And a vet costs a hell of a lot of money.” He’s explaining this to me like I’m a dumb kid, but he’s upset, and I let him lecture me. “Besides, she was family. Wouldn’t be right to have some nobody do it. Family deserves to be put down by family.”
“That makes sense,” Sean says.
I look at her, thinking: it does? How does that make sense?
“I’d expect the same,” Toller says. He points at his chest. “I got a bad heart. Wall trouble. Other organs too. Got spots on the inside that are as thin as wax paper to hear the doctors tell it.”
I’m worried we’re going to get a life story here, that I’ll be stuck to this barstool three hours from now hearing how the country’s gone to hell and the fat cats in Washington don’t give a shit, and all the other crap you hear in bars from strangers. Shit that’s true, but tired. Spent air. I look at Terry and Sean and they seem to be interested so I don’t say anything.
Toller makes circles with his index finger that follow the condensation ring left from his glass. He’s missing the thumb on his right hand. There’s a pinkish yellow indentation where the thumb should be, all lumpy and hard looking. “Had me in for tests a while back. Tubes coming and going. They want me in for more, but it ain’t happening. No way for a man to be.” He takes another deep breath and looks at me. “No. I did the right thing. She was suffering. I’d want the same.”
“It must have been difficult,” Sean says.
He looks at her and seems touched—like he’s met someone who understands him. “It was.”
58
Sean and I run into Money out by the pool. He’s in a reclining chair that Bone’s painted shocking pink. The place is taking on a surreal look—there’s gravel leading up from the driveway to the pool and he’s painted that, too. I’ve seen him do it—-he takes a bunch of rocks and puts them on this chicken wire table and sprays them out. He takes some more, and does another color. The rocks are pink, blue, yellow, and this nice deep sea-green. Looks like we live at Willy Wonka’s factory.
“You can sleep nights,” I say. “That blind cow’s dead.”
“No shit?”
“No shit,” I say.
He gets up on his elbows. “Somebody finally hit it? Wandering out on the road.”
Sean tells him the story. Money looks sad.
“What’s wrong?” I say. “You hated it. Thought you’d be glad.”
“Didn’t know it was a fucking pet. It had a name,” he says. “That changes things.” He points across the road. Toller is out by his barn, digging something. “That farmer John?”
“That’s him.”
“I thought cows were milk and meat and sneakers,” Money says. “Didn’t know you could have a pet cow.”
“ Looks that way,” I say.
“And the man shot it? Don’t they have vets out here?”
“See?” I say to Sean. “Not a stupid question.”
Sean explains the details. “He loved her,” she says. “He had to be the one that did it.”
Money leans back in the chair and closes his eyes. “Glad he don’t love me.”
59
We go 3-2 on the homestand, still without Darnell. He’s got the OK from the doctor to start practicing with the team tomorrow. He’s been doing light work on the exercise bike on his own, trying to stay in game shape. Mobile, the first team we played on the homestand, was in last place and yesterday they picked up Rich Clark in the Galveston dispersal draft. To make room on their roster, they cut Steve Gates, who was once the third-rated shooting guard in the country coming out of high school eight years ago. A hundred schools wanted him—pro scouts drooled over him at the Nike camps. It must seem like a hundred years ago to him now. Gates probably saw it coming—he knew he was done when we traded him. I read it again in the agate type in the transactions section; Mobile (GCL) signed Rich Clark (F) for the remainder of the season. Waived Steve Gates (G). I look at it, thinking, there it is, the end of a career and wonder where Gates is and what he’s thinking.
I look at the standings. We’re 12-8, with an outside shot at the championship round if we can make up a little ground. The season, though, got shortened from 28 to 26 games when Galveston folded and we need, I figure, at least four of the last six to finish second.
60
I keep my eye on Keller during our scrimmage. I called Chucky and a couple of other scouts and word is he’s staying in the minors. Too small and no shot. His quickness, which is his whole game, isn’t much of a factor in the NBA. All the one guards are quick—half of them quicker than Lewie and all of them have better shots. He’s a lifer and I figure he’ll be happy if I offer him a job to stay with me. He’ll get to stay in Sarasota—move to a better neighborhood. His kids can stay in the same school for two years, which has yet to happen in their lives. He cuts down the middle and kicks back out to Money spotted up. Money drains the J.
I watch, thinking about the possibilities for my team—the next team. If I start with Keller, I can build the team around quickness and passing. It can be my team—my players, built around my system, Darnell gets a rebound and kicks out to Hedda, who drops the ball to Lewie in the middle. He runs the break to perfection—hits Hedda on the wing, but she misses a bunny, and there’s no trailer. Darnell stayed at the defensive end—didn’t even bother to follow the play. The second team gets the board and starts up the floor. I blow the whistle and drop my clipboard.
“Darnell. What the fuck was that?” I walk out on the court. “Follow the play.”
He makes this face like he’s sorry, but doesn’t argue. I wonder what I should do—I pamper him and it doesn’t seem to help, I yell and he disappears on me. I blow the whistle and get off the court. “Run the set offense. No transition. We’re fine in transition—I want to see the half court.”
They go up and down a few times. Money’s game is at a plateau. There’s no one here good enough to practice with him, and he’s falling into some bad habits that’ll hurt him at the next level.
“Move left, Kenny. Keep it left. This is practice.”
He calls to me as he runs up court, “You tell my man I’m going left, how the hell am I going to get by him?”
“You’ve told everyone you’ve ever played you were going right,” I say. “Players have two hands.”
He gives me a dirty look. A few plays later, he cuts into the passing lane and takes it up court. He and Darnell run a two-man game on one side. The ball goes into the post, our second team doubles Darnell from the weak side. Hedda’s wide open under the hoop.
“Cutter,” I scream. “See the fucking cutter.”
By the time Darnell does what he should, the defense reacts and covers Hedda.
I stop play.
“What was that?”
“I’m rusty,” Darnell says.
“If you were rusty, that’d be fine,” I say. “You’re not trying and you’re not thinking. See the open man.”
“Woman,” Money says.
Hedda raises her hand like I’ve taken attendance.
I look at Darnell. “Play the game.”
We go for another ten minutes. In a half court set, we run a high s
creen and roll with Darnell and Lewie. Before his injury, this was our second best play—our number one option if Money was cold. Lewie draws the double and kicks back to Darnell, whose got a clear lane to the hoop. Instead of driving, he lets go of a weak set shot—doesn’t even leave his feet—that clangs short. The ball drops five feet in front of him—if he’d bothered to follow the shot, he’d have a dunk—but he makes no move to it, and Childs cuts in and takes the rebound. I blow the whistle.
“Drive the fucking ball. The lane was open. Drive.”
“Ease up, coach,” Hedda says. “D hasn’t played in three weeks.”
“Are you telling me how to coach?” I say. She’s right—there’s no sense in yelling at Darnell. I feel like I used to when Linda and I still fought—when we cared enough to fight. I get into a fight, the minute I raise my voice I hate myself, and I want it over, I think, this isn’t me, this is my father and I shrink.
Hedda holds her hands up like she’s being held at gun point. “Not telling you how to coach.”
I always think I’m wrong when I’m in a fight. The thing is, I’m right here—Darnell’s dogging it, and that has nothing to do with not playing in three weeks—but I still feel wrong. I look down. “That’s it,” I say. “Hit the showers.”
I pull Hedda aside. “Sorry I snapped. That wasn’t about you.” “Didn’t think it was,” she says.
61
I get back to The Palms. It looks more and more colorful all the time. The rocks shine under the sun, the chairs are pink and orange and yellow, the pool water’s clean and clear. It looks edible; like candy. I hear some hammering out back and Follow the noise. Bone’s behind his work shed.
“Hey.”
He’s fastening a new joint on a saw horse. “What’s up, Ben?”
“The place looks great.”
“Some color to an otherwise drab existence,” he says. “I’ve just started. This place is going to be something.”
“What?”
“It hit me that day we talked about all your players being stars once and I said it must suck for them here. Then I realized it sucked for me, too. This place needs to be better. Got me off my ass.” He stands up. does that cracking of his neck. “A big piece of work. Making The Palms a sculpture. A place of peace.”
I look down at the ground. Behind the shed is some Harrington lap cement, some roll roofing, western fiberglass, arrow T-50 staples, and an empty can of Blue Diamond honey roasted almonds. “Lot of work.”
Bone takes a drink of water from a one liter bottle. “Not work. I’m a lucky man, Ben. I can afford to care for this place.”
“Thought you hated Parcell’s money,” I say.
“Never said I hated his money. Said I hated him.”
“Isn’t that the same?”
He leans back against the saw horse. “He’s changed since he bought your team. There’s something human about him—the way he talks about you. I’m not so sure about him.” He holds the water out to me. I shake my head. “Earl, I still hate. My mother married a loser. Uncle ChicKen—though, I don’t know. He’s started treating me like a person—lets me have the run of the place.”
“Still calls you Bernard.”
“Bernard is between us, OK?”
“No problem,” I say. I drop to the ground and lean against one of the rolls of roofing. “So what’s next with the place?”
“A sweat lodge.”
“Those sauna things?”
“Native American sweat hole,” he says. “A spiritual place. I was thinking stone—but glass brick has been presenting itself to me, lately.”
“Presenting itself?”
“That’s what things do. Stone wasn’t presenting itself. Glass brick was. Things present themselves and you watch and listen.” He takes a drink. “You’re not a spiritual man, are you?”
“I don’t think so,” I say.
Bone looks out over the field, squints in the sun. “You’re good, though. You’ve got a goodness. It’s rubbed off on Uncle Chicken.”
“Please.”
“I’m serious,” he says. “You should like yourself.”
“You don’t know the whole picture,” I say. “But it’s nice of you to say that.”
He looks toward the pool. “You like it here?”
“More and more,” I say.
He points at me with his bottle hand, then makes one of those someday-all-of-this-will-be-yours gestures. “A place of peace.”
62
Money and Hedda knock on my door. They’re dressed in sweats—Hedda’s got a ball under her arm. Money holds his keys and wallet in one hand.
“Got an idea for some cash,” Money says. “You in?”
“I need more than that.”
“Pick-up games,” Hedda says.
“The way I got it figured.” Money says. “The three of us hit some night courts at Tampa. Get some 3-on-3’s for a couple bucks a point.”
“Do they know you there?” I say. “No one’ll play you for money.”
“No one knows anyone up there. It’s untapped. I show up with a woman and a old white man in a knee brace, ain’t nobody going to be afraid.”
“We’ll get a nice dinner on the way home,” Hedda says.
“Thing is, you got to wear the full brace,” Money says. “You got to look bad. Can’t be wearing the half brace.”
I look at Hedda. She’s dressed the part—-she wears frumpy sweats that hide an athlete’s cut body. She’s got make-up on—not a lot, but I’ve never seen her wear any. She doesn’t look like a player.
The full brace—I wore it the second time at practice—runs from mid-calf to mid-thigh and has metal supports up and down the sides. It’s hinged at the knee and it makes me run like I have a prosthetic. The metal hinges slice into the good leg when I run—it looks like I took a razor to the side of the left leg.
“You’ve thought this out?”
He smiles, “C’mon. Easy money.”
63
We hit the courts and play a little H-O-R-S-E, a game of twenty-one. Money’s doing a nice job of looking average—he hits less than half of his open jumpers. He still looks like a player—just not a pro. Hedda does a fair impression of a playground player. I lumber around with the full brace, unable to bend all the way, and dribble the ball off my foot a couple of times. It’s sad—I look worse than the two of them, and I’m not acting. I walk over to Money.
“Nice job. Just don’t screw up your shot permanently.”
“Shooting it like Lewie,” he says.
“Good idea,” Hedda says.
“That’s your teammate,” I say.
“No offense, coach,” she says. “I love Lewie, but he couldn’t drop a ball into the ocean off a pier.”
Money shows off his bad form. “When you release, you cross hands, and hold the arm. No follow-through.” He throws up a brick. The ball has no arc and no rotation.
“You got it,” I say. “That’s Lewie’s shot.”
There are twelve courts under the lights. Adult league games are just about over and we should get a few pick-ups soon. We head to the benches and watch the players. Money’s sizing them up.
“Big guy in yellow. Can’t put it on the floor.”
I watch. The courts are beautiful. I love night courts. Asphalt with faded paint in the lane and the three line. Bugs swirls beneath the lights. It’s a real playground court—the backboards are metal and the nets are chains. The ball has that clink and bounce instead of a swish when you nail a jumper. Chain nets cradle the ball.
“Little guy in black,” Hedda says. “Quick.”
“No shot,” Money says.
The games finish and we end up picking a game with three guys from the adult league. Two lanky guys and a little guy around five-ten. We go winners to eleven and they touch the ball maybe four or five times. We win. without trying, 11-1.
“Game,” Money says as he hits a bank from about ten feet.
I walk over to him. “Your plan isn’t work
ing.”
“I can only look so bad,” he says. “We need a higher quality of beef”
We get it. We play a straight game of winners with three guys who were waiting along with us for the league games to end. We play win-by-two, and the first game goes 18-16 to them. Kenny suggests another game and brings up the bet.
“Buck a point?” he says. “Plus ten bucks a player for winners.”
They have one real player—he and Money started to go at it in the first game. I’m not so worried, though, because Hedda can take her man and I’m about even with mine. The real player says, “Two a point. Games to 15. Best two of three. Twenty a player for winners.”
We split the first two games. The third game, they’re up 8-4 when Money puts on a jump-shooting exhibition. He’s in a zone and Hedda and I just give him the ball and hit the boards in case he misses. At 13-8, he finally misses, and I time my jump perfectly. The ball comes hard off the back of the rim and, clunky knee brace and all, I get up for it. I was a shooter and a scorer, but rebounding was always my favorite. There’s a satisfaction to the rebound that doesn’t exist in the rest of the game. I tip it home.
“Game point,” Money says. He tosses in to Hedda on the left wing. She turns and backs her man into the paint. I cut to the foul line and my man doubles down on her. She kicks it out to me, and both defenders run out at me. The other guy face-guards Money—there’s no way they’re going to give him another shot. I pump fake—two guys fly by me—and hit Hedda cutting to the hole. She hits it, and we win.
“Game,” Money says. He heads to the big guy, whose nickname, or name—I’m not sure which—is Rock. “First two games are a wash. We take this by five, plus twenty. Thirty bucks apiece.”
“Quick math,” Rock says. He looks menacing and I think we might be in for trouble. “One more game.”
Money shakes his head. “Got to get home. Long drive.”
Rock nods slowly and doesn’t take his eyes off Money. He takes out his wallet and gives him a hundred.
“Get you change,” Money says and starts to walk to the car.