Stealing the Game

by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar

  “What’s the score?” Daniel asked again, standing at the top of the key with the ball.

  “Thirteen all,” Roger snapped. “If you’re not going to make any points, at least remember the score.”

  “Shut up, Roger,” Daniel said. “Me and Zach and Eric were here first. You didn’t have to play with us.”

  Roger started to say something, then stopped. I could tell he knew that he’d pushed Daniel too far and was regretting it. Like I said, Roger wasn’t a bad guy, just an intense player.

  “Just pass the ball in already,” Zach said.

  Daniel bounced a lazy pass toward Roger. It was pretty much the same pass he’d made the last four times. Anticipating it, I darted out, intercepted the pass, and cut to the basket. Unfortunately, Roger was waiting for me, his intensity turned up to Volcanic Eruption. He slid his bulk between me and the basket. I tried to dribble around him, but he stayed with me with unusual speed. He wanted to win. More important, he wanted me to lose.

  Eric saw my dilemma and ran behind me, Daniel staggering after him. Facing Roger, I bounce-passed the ball backward between my legs to Eric. Using me as a screen, Eric shot the eight-footer for a point, putting us ahead.

  Up the slope, I heard Hoodie shout, “Yeah!” and saw him pump his fist in the air. Fauxhawk slumped angrily. Why did they care so much about our little pickup game? I wondered.

  “Fourteen to thirteen,” I said, checking the ball to Roger. He tossed it back and immediately got in my face, flapping like a Tasered chicken so I had trouble seeing my teammates.

  I faked a pass to the left, then found Eric to the right. He dribbled toward the basket, but Daniel kept with him, determined not to be the cause of the loss. Eric shot the same eight-footer he’d shot before, but this one bounced off the rim. Weston spun inside Zach’s defense and tossed an easy layup.

  “Fourteens,” Roger said. “Next basket wins.”

  “Win by two,” Zach protested.

  “Straight up,” Roger said.

  “We always play win by two,” Zach said. “Right, guys?”

  “Mostly,” Eric said.

  “Mostly ain’t always,” Weston said.

  “When did you join the debate team?” Zach said sarcastically.

  “Next point wins,” I said, and that ended the discussion. I don’t know why kids listen to me. It’s not that I’m particularly smart; my grades are mostly B’s and C’s. And I’m not funny like Weston or clever like Theo, another guy on our school team. I don’t threaten or bully like Roger. I don’t make fun of other kids and I don’t hang with the popular kids at school. In fact, I hardly talk at all. I guess others see my silence as strength, but mostly it’s because I’m afraid to say something stupid.

  Roger passed the ball to Weston, but Zach was jumping and swatting like he had angry bees in his pants. Weston and Roger kept passing the ball back and forth, trying to get an open shot. They knew if they missed and didn’t get the rebound, they might lose.

  Finally, too frustrated to wait, Weston forced his way in for a finger roll. But the ball nicked the rim and ricocheted to the side. I was about to grab it when I saw Daniel huffing and puffing toward the ball, his eyes wide with excitement, realizing that this was his chance to do one thing right. I don’t why I suddenly thought of Tad, whose missed shots we could hear like the steady patter of rainfall. Whatever the reason, I didn’t grab the ball. I let Daniel pick it up. He seemed so surprised to find it in his hands, I thought he might just run off the court with it and be halfway home before he remembered the game.

  Weston shouted, “Pass it! Pass it!”

  Daniel looked up at the basket, squinting at it as if it were a football field away.

  “Dribble in,” I said.

  He didn’t know who said it. Probably thought it was his inner basketball coach. But he did dribble in. Instead of cutting him off and blocking his shot, I stood still and let him go around me. He was right under the basket for an easy layup. He just stood there, staring up.

  Zach launched toward him to defend the shot, but I slid into his way, blocking him.

  “Dude!” Zach said, trying to squirm around me. I wouldn’t let him.

  “Shoot!” Roger said. “Shoot, Dan.”

  And Daniel shot.

  HOT TEMPERS AND COLD ICEES

  ROGER pulled Daniel into a headlock and twisted his knuckle against Daniel’s scalp.

  “Ow!” Daniel said, but he was laughing.

  “Victory noogie!” Weston announced, pulling Daniel from Roger and delivering his own quick noogie. He released Daniel, who rubbed his head, but had the biggest smile on his face.

  “Let’s run it back,” Zach said. “That was close.” He glared at me.

  “I gotta go,” Weston said. “I haven’t finished my algebra homework. If I don’t get at least a B on the next quiz, I’ve got to spend the weekend cleaning the garage.”

  “I’ve got a piano lesson,” Daniel said, climbing on his bicycle. “Next time, dudes.” He waved happily as he rode off.

  That was it. Game over.

  Zach and Eric also took off, and I could hear Zach grumbling about me as they walked.

  Roger sniffed the air and frowned at Weston. “You do smell like an ape, bro.”

  “Actually,” Weston said, “my little sister got a new hamster to replace her dead one and I had to clean the cage this morning.”

  Weston and Roger picked up their jackets from the grass. Roger turned, looked at me, and smiled. “You’re too soft, Chris. Letting Dan have the winning shot.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “See ya tomorrow,” Weston said as they walked off together. They lived in the same neighborhood.

  In the court next to us, Tad continued to shoot free throws. And continued to miss.

  I heard some shouting and looked over at the stone bench where those two twentysomething guys had been sitting. They were on their feet now, hollering at each other. Fauxhawk seemed really upset, repeatedly poking his finger in Hoodie’s chest. When Hoodie finally brushed the poking finger away, Fauxhawk threw the remains of his blue Icee in Hoodie’s face.

  I expected Hoodie to punch him, but he didn’t. He just brushed the chunks of blue ice from his face and the front of his hoodie while Fauxhawk yelled a couple more things and then stomped off.

  That was entertaining, I thought as I picked up my keys and basketball from the grass. I started walking home, nodding at Tad, who smiled and nodded back. He shot, missed, shuffled after the ball, and carried it back to the free throw line.

  “Chris! Hey, Chris!”

  I looked around to see who was calling my name.

  Hoodie was jogging toward me, his beat-up black suitcase rolling across the grass beside him. When he was only twenty feet away he pulled down his hood and whipped off his sunglasses.

  It was my brother, Jax.

  THE RETURN OF GOLDEN BOY

  “YOU ready to take me on?” Jax asked with a grin. He snatched the ball from under my arm and dribbled onto the court. “Let’s go, superstar. Show me what you’ve got since I’ve been gone.”

  I stared at him. He hadn’t been home in a year, probably longer. These days our relationship consisted of a Skype call about once a month. The last time he had carried his laptop around his bedroom so I could see what the life of a law student looked like. It looked like every other dorm, but with thicker books.

  “You’re not scared, are you?” he taunted now. “I’m like a hundred years older than you and haven’t played since the last time I was home. Oh yeah, that’s when I slaughtered you fifteen to eight.”

  I dropped my keys on the ground and walked onto the court.

  “Man, Chris, you must have grown four inches since last time I was here. You’re nearly as tall as me.”

  “What’s going on, Jax? What are you doing here? And who’s that guy you were fighting with?”

  “We weren’t fighting. It was just a friendly disagreement.”

  “I’ve met your
friends, Jax. I don’t know him.”

  “I’ve made some new friends. That’s allowed, isn’t it? Otherwise, I’d still be hanging with Marv Cooley. Remember him? Used to eat his boogers. He came to your eighth birthday party sleepover. I thought Mom was going to throw up your cake when she saw him slurping up a slimy one at the table. Totally worth it to see that look on her face.”

  I pointed to his suitcase. “What’s with the suitcase? You on semester break?”

  Jax’s face turned serious. “Jeez, Chris, your brother comes home to see you, and instead of a hug, I get the third degree. You join the FBI while I was gone?”

  I didn’t answer. I didn’t know what to say. Yeah, I was glad to see him, but I could tell something was wrong with this picture.

  Jax dropped the ball and grabbed me in a tight hug. I hugged back. I’d missed him more than I wanted him to know. I stepped back and said, “You put on some muscle since I last saw you.”

  “I started lifting weights. It helps relieve the tension of all that studying at my desk. Believe me, bro, law school is just as hard as they tell you it is. It’s no joke.”

  He took a deep breath, as if cleansing himself of those thoughts. “We gonna play, or what?” he said. He smiled a big toothy smile full of bright sunshine and Sunday afternoon picnics and inspirational rock ballads. When he flashed that smile, most people just nodded and did whatever he wanted. That’s one of the many reasons he was the Golden Boy.

  I picked up the ball. I was no different—I did what he wanted. Not because he expected it. He didn’t. He always seemed genuinely surprised and grateful that people went along with him. I did it because I loved and admired him and wanted to be just like him someday. Even though I knew it was impossible.

  Mom and Dad wanted me to be just like him too. I’m not sure they realized that, no matter how hard I tried, it would never happen.

  So, we played basketball and didn’t talk about why he was home or who his crazy friend was or why I kept seeing flashes of fear on his face when he didn’t think I was looking.

  HOME IS WHERE THE SECRETS ARE KEPT

  “YOU did what?!” Dad hollered. His face was red and swollen. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen him this angry. Maybe when I was five and threw up into his open briefcase right before he was due in court. (Turns out orange juice and sardines aren’t a great combination for breakfast.)

  Mom was just as angry, but she expressed it by standing perfectly still and showing no emotion on her face. If a stranger saw her right then, he’d think someone was giving her a lasagna recipe, not that her son was describing how his life had imploded.

  Mom and Dad were both lawyers, and how they were acting now was pretty much how they practiced law. Dad was all passion and pacing and eye bulging and dramatic hand waving. Mom was all cool logic and soothing tones. Dad was hot pizza burning the roof of your mouth; Mom was frozen yogurt cooling your throat.

  “You’ve ruined your life!” Dad announced. “You realize that, don’t you? Everything we’ve all worked so hard for just flushed down the toilet. Why didn’t you just throw a bomb through the window and blow us all up? That would have been kinder.”

  Mom’s voice was so low I could barely hear her. “Perhaps you can explain your reasoning, Jax.”

  “Yes! By all means, Jax!” Dad said, every word turbocharged with sarcasm. “Let’s hear your reasoning. I’m sure you have excellent reasons for dropping out of Stanford, one of the most prestigious law schools in the world. A degree from which would have guaranteed you the kind of career most people would kill for.”

  All eyes were on Jax.

  Jax looked over at me. I was sitting on the staircase, out of the line of fire. Mom was standing in front of the leather La-Z-Boy that was referred to as “Dad’s chair.” Dad was weaving around the family room like a hungry shark, dodging the coffee table, the floor lamp, and Mom as he tried to burn up his energy before he burst into flames.

  Jax was sitting on the leather sofa, one arm stretched along the back, one ankle on top of the other knee, looking as relaxed as if he were watching The Simpsons. I knew that expression. He would have grinned at me, but he knew that would send Dad rocketing through the roof and into outer space. Stuff didn’t affect Jax the way it did normal people. He had some sort of internal off switch that allowed him to always look confident and in control. I envied that most of all. Which is why I had been so surprised to see those moments of fear at the park.

  “Dad,” Jax finally said, “you’re overreacting. My life isn’t ruined.”

  “Right. I forgot about all those career opportunities at Taco Bell. ‘Would you like sauce with that chalupa, sir?’”

  “It’s just a small road bump. It’ll all work itself out.” Jax smiled as if he’d already seen the future, when he was sitting in the White House, running the country. “And don’t knock the chalupa. They’re delicious with hot sauce.”

  Dad’s face turned an even brighter red. “No time for studying, yet you seem to have plenty of time for working out,” he said, nodding at Jax’s muscular arms. Jax had always been toned and athletic looking, but with his hoodie off I could see how much more muscle he’d put on. “Are you giving up your law career so you can try out for American Ninja?”

  Jax didn’t say anything.

  Mom sat down on the edge of Dad’s chair. “Just tell us what happened, Jax. Why did you drop out of law school?”

  Dad stopped moving and faced Jax, waiting for the answer.

  The doorbell rang.

  Really? Saved by the bell. Why doesn’t that ever happen to me?

  Dad took a deep breath and smoothed back his hair, composing himself. “I’ll get it,” he said to Mom, who’d stood up. I think Dad was relieved to take a break from yelling at Jax. His voice had started to go hoarse.

  The three of us remaining didn’t say anything. We just stared at the entrance to the living room, waiting for our mystery guest to appear.

  We were all surprised to see Dad return with Officer Marcus Rollins, my teammate Theo’s dad. He was dressed in his Tustin PD uniform, with his big black belt sagging under the weight of a gun, handcuffs, pepper spray, and a few things I didn’t recognize.

  He nodded at me. “Hey, Chris.”

  I nodded back. “Hey, Mr. Rollins.”

  “Marcus,” Mom said with a big smile, giving him a hug. “Is this about the mutilated bodies I’ve been burying in the backyard?” Mom had a weird sense of humor, which she only used with her close friends. Over the years, she and Mr. Rollins had tried to get Theo and me to do stuff together, but his friends were all brainiacs and mine were jocks, so neither of us was interested. Now that Theo was on the school basketball team, we’d gotten used to each other.

  Officer Rollins chuckled. His manner and expression told me this wasn’t a serious visit.

  “No. It’s the department’s policy to let the first six dead bodies slide. But if there’s a seventh, I might have to write you a ticket.”

  “You guys are so morbid,” Dad said with a laugh, as if we’d all been sitting around playing a spirited game of Monopoly. “Marcus, you remember Jax?”

  Jax walked over and shook Officer Rollins’s hand. It was weird to see my six-foot-one brother look up to an even taller guy.

  “Good to see you again, Officer Rollins,” Jax said.

  “I guess a fancy Stanford law student can call me Marcus,” Officer Rollins said.

  I waited to see who would burst a blood vessel first, Mom or Dad. But both nodded happily as if Jax were still at Stanford and the world was a big, shiny golden apple.

  “Hard to believe it’s the same Jax I used to carry on my shoulders.” Officer Rollins ran his hand over his bald scalp, his black skin glistening from the recessed lighting over his head. “Back then I had the most glorious Afro. And a big ol’ mustache.” He traced above his lip, as if he expected to find the mustache there, like he’d misplaced it for all these years. “I looked like Shaft.”

  “Shaft
was bald,” I said, remembering the movie I’d seen over at Roger’s house.

  “Not the Samuel Jackson Shaft,” Officer Rollins said with a frown. “I’m talking about the original. Richard Roundtree.” He said the name with awe, like a priest might say the pope’s name.

  “Can you dig it?” Dad said in a weird hipster way, and the two of them laughed. Clearly this was some sort of old folks’ reference that I didn’t get.

  “Wasn’t the one with Samuel Jackson R-rated?” Mom suddenly said, turning toward me like this was a cross-examination.

  Really, Mom? Is now the time to have this discussion again? I’d been watching R-rated movies since I’d turned twelve. In fact, Dad took me to see a horror film that was rated R. Oddly, Mom was okay with me seeing an R-rated movie if it had violence and language. But if it was R because of sexual content or nudity, she didn’t want me to go. Naked people, no. Hacked-up people, okay.

  “Anyway,” Officer Rollins said with a tired sigh, “the department’s been going door-to-door to warn people about the rash of burglaries we’ve had around here lately.”

  “Right,” Mom said. “We got an automated phone call.”

  “Apparently, that wasn’t effective enough. We’ve had three more since the calls.”

  I’d heard something about it at school. The crooks were breaking into garages and taking all they could carry.

  “How are they getting into the garages?” Dad asked. “They’re all on coded remotes.”

  “We don’t know yet,” Theo’s dad said. “They’ve hit a dozen homes in the area in the last three months.”

  “By ‘area’ do you mean this neighborhood?” Mom asked.

  “Not yet. But the last house was only a few blocks away, on Champion.”

  Mom looked at Dad. “That’s pretty close.”

  “Who do they think it is?” Dad asked. “Kids, or professionals?”

  Officer Rollins shrugged. “It’s a pretty smooth operation for kids. They’ve made off with hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of property. Somebody’s going to do some serious jail time, kid or not.”