Hooper

by Geoff Herbach

  I go to shower and to think about jump shots and Carli, because that’s what matters. I hear Professor Mike and the girls leave before I towel off and get on my Philadelphia 76er pajamas.

  I look in the mirror. I wish I was nicer to those girls.

  THIRTY-THREE

  AT PATRICK’S

  It is Saturday morning. The first day of my spring break. I have gone to the Trinity athletic facility with Carli Anderson on Thursday and Friday after school. My jump shot is better still. When you start with bad, improvement can happen so fast. Carli hasn’t gotten close to me like she did on Wednesday. If I wasn’t afraid of destroying my new form, I may have tried bad form so she would come and adjust my body again. It’s okay, though. We’re so comfortable together. I am happy.

  But Renata is not so happy. She knocks on my bedroom door, because it’s past nine and I’m not a guy who sleeps in. “Adam?” she asks through the door. “Are you in there?”

  “Yeah. Where else would I be?” I ask.

  “Can I come in?” she asks.

  I don’t want her to, but, “Okay,” I say.

  She comes in. “Sleepy, huh?” she says.

  I’m actually achy, because Carli and I lifted weights after shooting. Although I love to drill, for some reason I’ve never lifted weights before. Nobody has told me to, or showed me how. Carli warned me I would hurt. I feel like the muscles of my chest and arms are going to pop and fall off my bones. “I’m sore.”

  “Maybe you’re playing too much . . . sports?” she asks.

  “No,” I say.

  Although I did go and eat dinner with her and Professor Mike’s family at their house the night before, I didn’t talk much to them, and I left right after eating to come home and lie down.

  “I feel like I haven’t seen much of you for the last few weeks. I’m going to run some errands now. Do you want to go?” Renata asks. “Like we used to in Philadelphia?”

  “No thank you,” I say.

  “Okay,” she says. “Well. How about I take you to Patrick’s for dinner tonight?”

  Carli is gone for the rest of the weekend for her grandma’s birthday in South Dakota. There will be no basketball. I have no excuse to say no. “Just you and me?” I ask.

  “Yes. Unless you want to invite Barry, too?” she asks.

  “Uh. No, maybe not,” I say. “Just us.”

  While Renata is gone, I dribble in the basement and my body loosens a little. Then I watch NBA games—New York Knicks against Washington and Houston against San Antonio—and I spend time thinking about Carli. Barry calls, but I don’t pick up the phone. He leaves a message to see if I want to jog on the Red Jacket Trail, like we did when it was warmer back in the fall, and then to go to Seven Mile Creek to throw rocks at trees.

  Throw rocks? I am not a little kid anymore!

  Patrick’s is in downtown Northrup. It has so many foods I love: pizzas, Reuben sandwiches, onion rings, and seasoned french fries with many kinds of sauces for dipping. Usually it’s filled with college kids, but as this is the end of their spring break, it is a bit empty for a Saturday night. This is good, because Renata doesn’t enjoy seeing her students, and she doesn’t like sitting in big crowds of what she calls townies. We sit in a corner booth.

  Renata gets her salad. She orders a glass of wine, which surprises me. She knows I get worried when people drink. This fear is not very Polish of me. Magda back in Philly said so during a Constitution Day celebration where all the people got really drunk and I cried and Renata had to take me home. Magda didn’t live with my dad, who could drink a whole bottle of vodka in an hour and went from too happy to sad to powerfully angry and violent. I want to be Polish now, a Sobieski, so I don’t ask Renata not to drink her wine. I get a patty melt, a hamburger sandwich with some good onions, and also fries and an order of battered cheese curds, something they didn’t have in Poland or Philly, but I love.

  I eat half my sandwich fast.

  Renata barely eats. She sips her wine.

  “Can we talk?” she says.

  I am chewing. “I don’t know.”

  That makes her smile for some reason. “You’ve always been quiet,” she says.

  I nod. I bite my other sandwich half. I chew.

  “But you’re more quiet with me than ever,” she says.

  I swallow. “No. I’m not quiet anymore,” I say.

  She stares at me for a moment. “I know you’re going through some changes. I get that.”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “You’re meeting new people.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say.

  “Maybe getting angry, too?” she asks. “About what you’ve been through?”

  “No,” I say fast, but I’m not sure if this is true.

  “Really?” she asks. She waits for me to reply.

  The server comes up and asks if I want a refill on my Coke. I’m relieved this takes the focus off the question. “Yes. Please,” I say. She asks if Renata wants another glass of wine.

  Renata looks at me for a moment, then says, “Yes, thanks.”

  “Why do you need to drink so much wine?” I ask when the server leaves.

  “It’s something I enjoy. I haven’t had wine because it makes you uncomfortable, but maybe we’re getting to a point that we can start being our normal selves with each other. You’ve been my son for years, Adam.”

  “Maybe you drink wine because Professor Mike likes wine and you want to be like him,” I say.

  “Okay . . . okay,” Renata says. “Are you upset with me about Michael?”

  “No. He’s good. He’s fine,” I say.

  “Are we spending too much time with him and the girls?” she asks.

  “No,” I say. “I like Regan and Margery.”

  “Then what’s going on, Adam?”

  I am holding my half sandwich in my hand. I put it down on the plate. I look down into my lap. It is true that I am in a bad mood with Renata, that I have a bad feeling. I have fear about Professor Mike, because of stupid Peter in Philly. I don’t want to say that to her. I say the other thing instead. “Maybe I can be Adam Sobieski and not Adam Reed anymore?”

  Renata nods quickly. Tears come into her eyes. She swallows hard.

  Behind her I see a very big man in a baseball cap come in. Behind him is Kase Kinshaw and what must be his two little brothers and a little sister who is preschool age. My heart starts to beat hard. The sight of Kase pumps adrenaline through my body. But Kase doesn’t see me. The family begins to slide into a booth nearby. Kase lifts the girl in before he goes. She wriggles. He does a raspberry sound on her cheek. She screams and laughs. I am struck. Maybe Kase is not as bad as I think? Then the big man, who must be Kase’s dad, looks directly at me. He pauses for a moment, then walks to our booth.

  My adrenaline grows.

  “Adam Reed?” he says.

  “Yeah?” I say, almost unable to breathe.

  He smiles and nods. “Just wanted to tell you how much me and my wife loved watching you play this past season.” He turns to Renata, who has just mopped her eyes with a napkin. “You must be so proud of your boy.” He extends his hand to her. “Rick Kinshaw.”

  She shakes hands. “Renata,” she says. “Renata Reed.”

  “Sorry to bust in on you. Just wanted to say I’ve watched a lot of games over the years, and I can tell you we haven’t had basketball like that here before you showed up. It’s fun, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. Fun,” I say.

  He smiles. Turns and walks to their booth.

  Kase is looking down and shaking his head.

  “Shit,” I whisper.

  “You’re a local hero,” Renata says.

  “Uh-huh,” I say.

  Then she reaches into her purse, I think maybe to get Kleenex for her eyes, but she pulls out an iPhone instead. “I got this for you,” she says. “It’s all set and ready to go. You can text your new friends and . . . and do whatever and let me know where you are, okay?” She hands it to me.


  “Ah. Okay. Thank you. Thank you so much,” I say.

  “I want everything to be okay,” she says. “I’m going to work on it.”

  “Okay,” I say. I don’t know what she has to work on, but what can I do? I look down at this phone. I love it. I can call Carli. I can watch videos of basketball drills out in the driveway.

  Renata doesn’t eat any of her salad before we leave.

  Kase Kinshaw doesn’t look at me, as far as I know.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  CHASING THE OCEAN

  On Monday morning, Barry calls to say he won’t be at breakfast because he had a bad night and couldn’t wake up. It’s okay. The college is back in session, and Renata has an early morning faculty meeting, so she hasn’t made any food. Still, she says, “Have you and Barry had a falling-out?”

  I don’t know about that.

  After she leaves, I work on dribbles and post footwork in the basement. Then the day spreads out in front of me. The week. The first Fury exhibition game, played in Minneapolis against a team from far in the north of Minnesota, is coming on Saturday, but nothing until then? Can I go and knock on Carli’s door? I have my phone, which I used to watch YouTube videos all weekend while Regan and Margery jumped on top of me because I’m the right size for a dragon, but there are no phone numbers yet. I set up a Twitter account, because everyone on the Fury has Twitter. @PolishHooper. I tweet Kyle Owens is not so great at basketball. He is slow. It goes to nobody, because there is no one who is following me. Should I follow people? Should I go to Carli’s house?

  Am I lonely?

  Should I go play with Regan and Margery?

  I don’t want to be a dragon.

  The house is empty. It feels like time is a terrible forest all around me.

  Should I go walk on the college campus to see people?

  Then the landline rings and it is Barry Roland again. I answer.

  “I was thinking, since I missed breakfast, that maybe it would taste good to go to Mankato and eat at Perkins?” he says.

  “Will your car make it to Mankato?” I ask.

  “Yeah. I gave Merle all my money and he gave the Pontiac a tune-up. It purrs like a cat now?”

  “Really?” I say.

  “Kind of?” he says.

  “Come get me,” I say.

  “I have to drop off my sister at work, so it’ll be a little bit? But I’ll be there pretty soon.”

  I shower, then jump into pants and am about to pull my Joel Embiid Philadelphia 76ers jersey over a T-shirt when the doorbell rings. “That’s fast, Barry,” I shout. “What about your sister’s job, huh?”

  I go down the hall pulling on the jersey and swing open the door.

  Carli Anderson stands outside. “What’s up, man?” she asks.

  “What’s up?” I ask. “Why are you here?”

  “I’m going up to the Y in Minnie to work out with Tasha Tolliver. She was hanging with Khalil last night, and he asked if I’d drive you up, too, because Rashid is in Florida with his dad until Friday and they need a third for three-on-three and it would be cool if it was you—Kyle Owens plays with these giant South Dakota dudes, so you’re going to want to be ready!”

  “What? South Dakota? Owens?”

  “Do I talk too fast for you, Polish boy?”

  “Yes. Maybe.”

  She talks very slowly then. “Do you want to go play basketball in Minneapolis with Khalil and Devin?”

  “Shit. Yes. Now?”

  “Now. I would’ve called, but you have no phone.”

  “I have a phone!” I pull it out of my pocket and show her.

  “That will make things easier in the future. Get your stuff, dude. Let’s go.”

  In two minutes we are out the door and rolling toward the highway. Carli talks about scholarship offers and good fits and different college divisions and all of it seems too far away for me. Even though she missed the whole season with her knee, she has just received a Division I scholarship offer from University of Wisconsin–Green Bay. She is worried. “It’s fine for them to give me a scholarship and everything, but what if I never can run like I used to? What if I end up in Green Bay and I can’t even really play ball?”

  I remember Magda saying that in Minnesota I’d be close to Chicago and Green Bay and there would be plenty of Polish people, except it turns out Green Bay is pretty far from Northrup—maybe a five-hour drive—and Chicago is even farther. “You know, there are lots of Polish people in Green Bay, so there might be dudes that look like me,” I say.

  She turns, takes her eyes far off the road, and says, “I would like that.”

  I have trouble thinking for the next twenty minutes. Carli likes how I look. This has now been confirmed.

  We drive into the suburbs and then into the city, into a neighborhood that looks more like Philadelphia than any I’ve seen so far. There, next to a trolley station built on a platform above the streets, we come to a beautiful Y facility.

  Khalil, Tasha, and Devin greet us in the lobby.

  “Farmer in the hood!” Khalil shouts.

  “This isn’t the hood,” Devin says.

  Khalil is happy.

  Devin is not ever happy.

  “We’re going to drill with some Augsburg College girls upstairs,” Tasha says.

  “Courts are this way, Farmer,” Khalil says.

  I sign in at the front desk as Devin’s guest and then follow the two of them down a long hall.

  Many people maybe don’t like the smell of a gym, because it contains a lot of sweat from human beings. But it also smells like the rubber of shoes and basketballs and the heat of the large lights that hang from its ceiling. It smells like the ointment Coach Jenson gave me for my quad when I had a strain near the beginning of season. These smells are sacred. They are the smells of hooping, which is the most important aspect of my life.

  There are not quite the normal smells in this Y, though, because the floor in the main area is not made of wood, but is hard rubber. The sounds are different, too. No shoe squeaks. I miss some squeaks. Also, there are so many lines for other kinds of games on this floor, it’s hard to tell what is in and what is to be considered out of bounds. At first I am nervous and too aware of how different the space feels, and how Devin doesn’t smile or look at me, but then, guess what?

  Basketball.

  After warming up a little, we play three-on-three in the half-court.

  The first team we play are men older than us, and not just a little bit. These guys are probably in their thirties and maybe in their forties? They don’t look very quick. They look mostly like old man versions of Lawrence Rivers with their big butts.

  We begin, and in three seconds the fellow Devin is guarding shoots a three-pointer like blowing sawdust off a table. So easy.

  Then the shorter old guy strips Khalil, and the first old guy shoots another one from the three-point line.

  “Damn, dudes!” Khalil shouts.

  Devin has had enough. He checks the ball, fakes a pass to me, then from the top of the key rips off five steps, explodes, and dunks.

  “Oh, is that how it’s going to be?” One of the old men laughs.

  “Just so you know,” Devin says, not smiling.

  I will say this: if you haven’t played basketball before, this game against the old guys would not be a good place to start. The old farts (Khalil calls them that) are so crafty. The first time I touch the ball, I get picked clean by Mr. Three-Point Shooter Man, who doesn’t even seem like he’s playing defense on me, but then bump, he has the ball.

  That guy is named Nathaniel. He mostly keeps track of Devin, thankfully. Or maybe not.

  The dude I am supposed to be guarding is named Dwight. He is big and a couple inches taller than I am, and he is bald and he has his T-shirt tucked into gray shorts, even though he has a big basketball-size gut. When I first looked at him, I thought, Go easy. But I was wrong, because he has me jumping out of my socks with post moves. He taunts me with jabbering, too. “Oh, here it goes,
white boy! Here it goes, vanilla cream! You ready to slap my weak-ass shit out of here? You ready?” I keep telling him I’m ready, but I’m not ready. The ball seems on its way up, but then is not. I don’t understand how he doesn’t let go of the ball on shot fakes, because I swear the ball is leaving his hands, but then it stays.

  After he gets my undies all tied in bundles, he easily makes layups without even jumping more than an inch off the ground.

  He messes with me in this way twice in a row, saying funny stuff and twisting my undies. Next possession for us, I am a little pissed, so Devin nods and I run, leap up to the perfect lob Devin throws, and bam, boom!

  “Alley-oop,” I say. “Lob city.”

  “Oh, vanilla!” Dwight shouts at me. “You got the hops, boy! Would you look at that?”

  “How about you stop messing with our farmer, Dwight?” Khalil laughs.

  “No. It’s okay. I will learn your ninja moves,” I say.

  “That’s my boy,” Dwight says.

  But then he makes me look like a clown on ice skates two more times in a row. I don’t get it. It is not just his feet and it is not just his hands. Every time there’s something new, unexpected. Dwight is a creative genius like Miles or Coltrane.

  What is lucky for us young men with young legs and young lungs: we can keep going for a long time. I don’t mind my legs burning. They will be better in a minute. I don’t mind when I bend over to catch my breath. It will come back in a second. I don’t even care when my feet get hot and I get blisters. They will heal tomorrow.

  But the old fart men start their huffing and puffing after only ten or fifteen minutes. They go slower and slower and then stop playing defense. They keep laughing, though. And in the game we play, they beat us 11–8, mostly because I can’t stop Dwight. The effort does them in, and even though they could keep the court, they don’t want to.

  “All yours. You all-stars wore us out,” Dwight says.

  Funny that these old men are the hardest team we play in next two hours. We go against other crews of African-American dudes and some Asian kids and Somali kids and three guys from Mexico who are pretty good, but not like the old guys. Each team, we destroy by more and more points. By the end, Khalil seems to know where I will always be. I know that Devin will run his back cut off his screens for me (a very fast pick-and-roll kind of play). Devin attracts so much attention when he gets near the basket, he can always locate an open Khalil at the three-point line. I take and make a few jump shots. And I see how much better and quicker Khalil is than Caleb Olson. Khalil can bounce with the basketball two steps under the three-point line, leap back in a half breath, then fire it up or pass it before you even know what has happened.