Hooper

by Geoff Herbach

  I call Barry to tell him I’m sick. He’s disappointed he can’t come for breakfast.

  I lie down. Renata leaves. I eat everything in the house. Then I sleep on the couch while ESPN plays in the background. I have my Warsaw apartment dream two times, black ink flooding through the window. Screaming for my dad. The last time I am engulfed. The last time I choke and begin to die but then wake with a start.

  I am so happy to find myself on Renata’s couch with Renata’s TV playing NBA highlights. I choose this over being Polish. When people ask me to talk about my life in Poland, I can’t say anything at all, because what I think of is dying. I love Renata’s couch and her TV.

  THIRTEEN

  KASE AND CARLI

  Thursday and Friday morning, Barry comes for breakfast and that is good, but nothing else is good. I leave the house and am drowning in tired. I don’t know what to do with myself at school. I try a little in classes, but when I’m so tired readings make no sense and teachers talking make no sense, and class discussions with other kids make no sense, so what’s the sense?

  There is no basketball.

  I walk down the halls looking at the floor. I become an easy target.

  On Friday afternoon, Kase Kinshaw slides up behind me while I walk. He kicks my right foot into the back of my left ankle. I drop the books I am carrying all over the floor and stumble into a girl I don’t know. My elbow hits her ear, and she grabs her head and starts to cry.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. I’m not even sure what has happened.

  But then Kase hisses, “Everybody says you’re such a great athlete, Duh. But you can’t even walk.”

  I tense. Adrenaline courses in me. I move toward him. The bell rings. I blow out air on his face, which is not much below mine. He is a football player. He is on defense in hockey. He probably weighs more than me by forty pounds. This brawl would be ugly. And I am okay with that, except I can’t have a brawl, because . . .

  Kase whispers, “Watch out for me, Duh.”

  The rest of the day, I can’t think of anything but Kase Kinshaw. My chemistry teacher, Mr. Burton, asks me to stay after class. He says, “This material is difficult enough when you’re paying attention, Adam. If you let your eyes glaze over like that, you’re not going to pass. Do you understand?”

  I nod, but I am not really understanding. I’m thinking how Kase Kinshaw could be hiding anyplace and I can’t fight him.

  Barry has gone to his job after school. He isn’t waiting for me in the parking lot. I creep through the halls, wary of any movement that might tell of an attack.

  When Carli Anderson comes around the bush outside school, I jump and am ready to punch and run.

  “Dude, did I scare you?” she asks.

  “No,” I say.

  “Did you talk to Mayberry Cliff?” she asks.

  “Who?”

  “He called my dad last night.”

  “Oh,” I say. I press myself against the school’s wall. I stare at the front door.

  Then she raises her arms. She says, “Check it out. No crutches. I can start to shoot next week. We should shoot. You’re about the only person in school who could even hope to compete with me. I mean, after I’m all healed, which is going to be soon if I have anything to do with it.”

  I swivel my head from side to side, scoping for danger.

  “What are you doing?” Carli asks.

  Greg Day comes out a side door. He waves at Carli. She waves back.

  “Hey, man,” she says.

  I nod at Greg. I have seen him with Kase many times. But Kase doesn’t follow.

  “Do you have a car?” I ask Carli.

  “Yeah?” she says.

  “Can I have a ride?” I ask, looking over her shoulder.

  “I guess,” she says. “What’s up?” She looks over her shoulder, too.

  In her car, Carli Anderson talks a million miles per hour. It takes me a few seconds to listen, to stop scoping for trouble. When I do listen, I find out many amazing facts. One, Carli was ranked a top-ten state recruit in basketball after her sophomore year. Two, she would try out for the junior national team this summer, except last September, not long after I moved to Northrup, she tore her ACL playing for fun against college boys at the Trinity College gym. Three, she thinks I am the boy version of her, because Northrup girls’ basketball sucked until she was a sophomore and then, because of her, they nearly made it all the way to state. “The first time I saw you messing around in the gym in the fall, that’s what I thought. He’s going to do for the boys’ team what I did for the girls’,” she says. Four, her dad is the men’s coach at Trinity College, so that’s why he’s interested in me. “Seriously, Mayberry Cliff is going to call you, okay?”

  “Uh-huh,” I say.

  I act like none of this is amazing. I take it all in stride. I don’t want to show her that she is making my heart leap in my chest. I don’t want her to see that I have no clue who Mayberry Cliff is and have no idea why he would call me.

  She knows more. Her little sister, Caitlin, is friends with Margery and Regan, so she knows that Renata spends time with Professor Michael. “Do you think they’re doing it?” she asks.

  “What?” I say.

  “Just joking!” She laughs. “He’s a great guy. He and my dad are buddies. And, oh man, his ex-wife was a total loon, too. Those girls could use an actual mama figure. Probably a brother. We’re all glad you guys are here.”

  “I think they’ve been on two dates?” I say.

  “Mike and your mom? No, more than that,” she says. “She’s wasting your inheritance on condoms!”

  “Condoms?”

  Carli is glowing. Her face is red. Her eyes are teary. “Oh shit. I’m sorry. I’m just joking. It’s probably not cool to joke about parent sex, huh?” Even as she drives, she turns to me and her smile is so big across her face.

  And I laugh, even though I don’t laugh. Not ever. “Yes. Please shut up about condoms.”

  “I’ll try,” she says, beaming. She is so pleased with herself.

  I am pleased with her, too. We pull in front of my house, and I don’t want to get out. But I open the door and step onto the icy pavement, because what else can I do?

  Carli leans toward me. She says, “Adam.” She doesn’t say anything else, but she seems very serious. She stares at me with her green eyes that seem Polish to me.

  “What?” I ask when I can’t take the pressure anymore.

  “Listen,” she whispers. “I will beat your ass in one-on-one by the end of this summer.” Then she talks very fast and louder. “So you better get in shape, boy! It’s not going to be like the weak shit you play in your high school games, either. I’m coming for you!” She points.

  Oh boy. Oh man. I like her coming for me. How much better to have Carli Anderson say this than Kase Kinshaw?

  “I’m ready when you are, bro,” I say.

  “Bro?”

  “Dude,” I say.

  “Okay. You better be ready.” She says this softer.

  “Okay.” I shut the door.

  And then she’s gone, and I feel a big empty space in the world that she had just filled up.

  FOURTEEN

  THIS NOISE

  It is Saturday afternoon. Some things have happened.

  First, Professor Michael (he says call him Mike), Regan, and Margery eat Friday dinner with us. Renata makes kielbasas and potatoes and cucumber salad and sernik (a cheesecake), many of my favorite Polish foods. From Carli I am in a good mood. From the food I am even better. After, while Professor Mike and Renata talk in the kitchen, I play that I am a great dragon and Regan and Margery defeat me with magic and violence. Regan leaps from the back of the couch onto my gut when I am lying on the floor, which does hurt, but is so explosive an act it makes me laugh. Margery cups my head and says I am dying honorably.

  Second, Renata, Barry, and I attend the girls’ dance recital on Saturday morning. The floors of the studio, in an old brick building downtown, are wood and sh
iny. The walls have mirrors. The room is filled with families and many little girls in puffy costumes. An old lady plays bad piano to get things started. The little girls run and jump. I have never been at a dance recital, but this is a fine one. By far the best dancers in the whole show are Margery and Regan. They jump the highest and they mess up the dance and they don’t seem to care about anything except for the parts where there are kicks and fast spins. When their part is over, Regan slides on her stomach to leave the dance space. Barry whoops and applauds loud. Professor Mike leans and whispers, “She is too old to behave like that. See what I’m saying?” But I think she is only eight. Is that too old? I don’t care what he thinks, because Regan is excellent. Barry agrees with me.

  Third, we eat tacos for Saturday lunch. Tacos are now my favorite food, even more than meat pierogi. We all eat too much. Renata and Professor Mike go to the study to talk. Barry falls asleep on the floor of the living room. The girls fall asleep on the couch. I watch basketball all folded up on our love seat (I am too tall). But these kids? And Barry? All the noise they make?

  I am happy. Me.

  Then the telephone rings. Regan groans. Barry rolls over on the floor. He is drooling. He goes back to sleep. I hear Renata answer. I hear her say, “I’m sure Adam will want to talk to him.”

  Who?

  But then Renata doesn’t come out of the study to tell me who called, to tell me who I will want to talk with.

  Who?

  I get off the love seat and walk down the hall to the study and walk in on Renata and Professor Mike kissing like they are teenagers.

  FIFTEEN

  THE FURY

  Now it is early Sunday morning.

  Mayberry Cliff.

  On Friday, Carli had said that Mayberry Cliff would call me. Because I became drunk on Carli, I didn’t think again about that name. And he didn’t call. But Carli’s dad did. Coach Anderson asked Renata for permission to give Mayberry Cliff our phone number.

  After she stopped kissing Professor Mike, Renata gave me this information: Mayberry Cliff is the director of operations for the D-I Fury, a basketball team that plays AAU and Nike Elite tournaments. He coaches their 17U team, the oldest and best. The D-I Fury are headquartered in Minneapolis and practice either in the Chaska gym (forty-five minutes from Northrup) or in the Minneapolis Academy gyms (an hour’s drive, at least). Renata blushed when she talked, not because of basketball. She told me she didn’t know anything more, which was good. I wanted to get out of that room. Overnight, I lay awake, and not just from seeing Renata kissing like a teenager, which reminds me of when she fell in stupid love with Peter the dick man of Philadelphia, but also because Renata and I will speak with Mayberry Cliff today.

  I don’t know yet what this means to me.

  At six a.m., I am at Renata’s computer.

  The D-I Fury website is good. There are very colorful graphics. There are flashy videos of good basketball plays. In the history section, there are pictures of boys shooting basketballs, holding trophies, and standing in line to eat at a cafeteria, too.

  Almost every kid on the D-I Fury is black. From being in southern Minnesota for six months, I thought there were very few black kids in the state, but I am wrong.

  I lean back in my chair and think of the boy I fought in Philly the year before. I remember his team. I remember them calling me Forrest Gump and making shit out of my play even as I scored on them again and again. But also in Philadelphia, most of my team were Nigerian and they were good people. I ate dinner at Mobo Bell’s house twice, even though I couldn’t speak English enough to have a good conversation yet. His parents were kind, and they gave me a delicious stew once and then some chicken on sticks that made my mouth too hot the other time. Mobo was funny. Not like Barry is funny. More like Carli.

  I click a tab that contains a schedule for the upcoming season and get a big surprise. The Fury doesn’t play much around the state of Minnesota. This team plays against teams from large cities all around America. There are games in Chicago, Kansas City, Las Vegas . . . the Fury travels to all of these places? Last year the team played fifty-seven games between March and August.

  Basketball is your passport. Basketball is your passport, I repeat.

  But what if I like my warm bed and my couch and my refrigerator? What if I feel at home where I am now?

  What if Renata has babies with Professor Mike?

  What if Kase Kinshaw punches my face?

  I press a tab that contains the list of Fury alumni. Many are now playing in college. They are in universities in Minnesota, Wisconsin, North Carolina, California, New York, Michigan, and all over. Some Fury players now play professional basketball—there are two names in the current NBA, but many names that play professional in Europe.

  Europe. Basketball is your passport. Basketball is your passport, I repeat.

  I spend the next two hours in the basement doing dribble drills.

  Then things happen fast. By one p.m., we have spoken to Mayberry Cliff. Renata and I have agreed that I will go to Chaska for the Fury tryouts. Mayberry Cliff says, “Adam is guaranteed a spot. We scouted him at Marshall. We’re just not sure which team yet.”

  At two p.m., Carli’s dad, Coach Anderson, has called back to the house to ask if I will work as part of the Trinity College scout team as Trinity prepares for their playoffs. Renata and I agreed that I will.

  At six p.m., Barry Roland, Regan, and Margery have eaten pizza. They sit at the table drawing a map to the Dragon’s Lair. Regan calls Barry “Shinja.” Renata and Professor Mike hold hands on the couch.

  I go to my bed, where I hope I will stop being dizzy from change.

  SIXTEEN

  PIVOT IN THE POST

  It is the next Tuesday. It is after school. The Fury tryout is ten days away. For now, I will practice with the college team, because they have some injuries and need good players to act as “warm bodies.” I am with them in a conference room high above the gym.

  Here’s something I should remember, because it’s almost always true: with basketball, don’t be afraid. Close your eyes and go where you’re asked. Basketball makes it all better.

  Me and the Trinity players watch a large video screen. On it are highlights of a big black guy making post shots. I am watching closely and listening closely. Coach Anderson, who is tall and skinny with a deep gravelly voice, talks about the player: Lawrence Rivers. Coach Anderson’s mouth moves fast like Carli’s.

  “Lawrence is a transfer from South Dakota. Kid maybe isn’t D-I talent, but he’s close. He’s a heavyset fellow. Big rear end,” Coach Anderson says. “Plays in the post every set. Real good footwork, what I’d call refined footwork. Great in isolation. Great one-on-one down there. Reminds me a little of . . . who’s that guy, Randy? Used to be on the Timberwolves. Now over at Indiana, I think?”

  “Al Jefferson,” a younger coach says.

  “Right. Al Jefferson. Big butt.” Then Coach Anderson looks at me. “See what he’s doing, Adam? See how he moves his feet, draws defenders in, shoots or passes?”

  “Uh,” I say, because I see it but don’t understand it.

  “This is what we want you to do for the next few days. Give us a look like Lawrence Rivers does.”

  I squint at the screen. I never play with my back to the basket like that. I don’t pivot around like a wheel. “I don’t know . . . I don’t do that with my feet. He is too spinny for my style,” I say.

  “Here’s your chance to learn how,” Coach Anderson says.

  “But that’s not my game,” I say.

  There is a long moment of quiet. No coach speaks. The team stares.

  “Then make it your dang game,” Coach Anderson says.

  I nod, but I am worried, because most people don’t know what I know in my heart: I’m not that good. I don’t have good ball skills, except dribbling. I don’t have good touch on my shots. Other than very fast crossovers (both directions), I don’t have many moves.

  Maybe Coach Anderson knows all
of this? After the players leave, he tells me to watch YouTube highlights of Hakeem “the Dream” Olajuwon. “Watch his hips. Watch his ball fakes. Watch those beautiful big feet. He’s so dang crafty down there, guys guarding him nearly fall over.”

  “I’ve heard of Hakeem,” I say.

  “Good. I’ve watched you, son. You do a lot of running and jumping. Now it’s time to hone your craft,” Coach Anderson tells me. “We’ll work on it together,” he says.

  After dinner with Renata, I watch highlights of Hakeem “the Dream” Olajuwon. In one way, Hakeem is like me. He is a tall foreigner (Nigerian, like Mobo Bell). In many ways, he is not like me. For instance, he could drop his foot back, shift it forward, pump fake, spin, then drop the ball in the hoop like it floated there on a soft bird, all while double-teamed by six-foot-ten professionals.

  I want to do this. Coach Anderson thinks I can do this.

  I go to the full-size mirror in Renata’s room. She reads in bed and pays no attention. I drop step, spin, pretend to fake, fade away with a jumper . . . and knock over Renata’s laundry basket.

  “For gosh sake,” she says. “What are you doing?”

  I go into the basement and do all of this footwork with a basketball in my hands. The ball fake is good. I can show the ball like I am about to shoot, but then not shoot. The dribbling out of a spin is not so good. It is hard to keep the ball under control. The jump and jam I can do all night long (not in my basement, because I have no hoop and the ceiling is low, but in real life). The fadeaway I do not know how to do, because I don’t have a soft bird. I have a brick cannon. But I think my practice makes me better. I can feel it. This is a big deal, something I didn’t know before. While I am learning, I am smashing the ball into the ceiling, which is the floor below Renata’s bed.

  “Adam,” she shouts. “I will kill you if you don’t stop it right now.”

  Then I pivot all night long in bed. I know because I get wound up in my sheets.