The Book of Moon

by George Crowder

  The rider stared at Dad in sudden comprehension. “Thank you for explaining that. Sorry I was rude.”

  “No worries,” said Dad. “Paperwork makes us all ornery.”

  There was still at least an hour to go before Moss could even get on the street course to practice, so we walked east to check out the BMX dirt layout. It was pretty impressive. Enormous mounds of compacted earth loomed from the pavement, as if dug up by giant gophers. They looked even more incongruous in the elegant urban locale, set off by bronze statues of gold prospectors and flanked by ornate museums. As we took in the vista, a rider shot out of a launching area and plummeted down a ramp that catapulted his little bike high in the air in a backward 360 over the first mound. He touched down and plunged to the bottom and then up the next hill, as another rider took off to follow him.

  I’d never seen BMX dirt riding in person, and it was both amazing and hypnotic. They soared so high and stayed airborne so long that it seemed like they were performing on a different planet that had a fraction of the gravity we were used to. To my eye they were all flawless, but my jaw dropped on tricks in which the riders came totally out of the saddle and did their own acrobatic stunts, like gymnasts performing on a pommel horse, before hopping back on at the last second.

  “Remind you of the Cossack Death Drag?” I asked Dad.

  “Ha! Not hardly,” he said. “Though at least these bikes don’t spook at a snake and drag you through a cactus patch.”

  We wandered back the way we’d come, where another set of BMX riders were finishing their practice runs on the skate street course. Our “friends and family” passes got us through the chain-link barrier, and we mounted a staircase in the east end to an observation area.

  The BMX riders seemed like they were moving in slow motion on their pint-sized bikes after the super-sized drama we’d just watched on the dirt course. Even for skaters, these obstacles didn’t seem like much compared to the kind of thing I’d seen Moss handle on city streets. I said as much to Boosh and Wee Wee, but they didn’t agree.

  “Oh, I think the Iron Chef can cook on this course,” said Boosh.

  Moss was walking from side to side along the viewing platform, studying the course from all angles. Wordlessly he descended the steps and walked completely around the layout.

  “This has got historical value, bro,” said Wee Wee. “See that 9-stair? That’s a tastier replica of the Hubba Hideout ledge, where the San Francisco homies used to go to score crack. They just demoed the real thing, RIP.”

  Boosh pointed out a feature in the center of the course. “That slanted brick wall with the stone seats—that’s a nod to the China Banks, probably the most famous skating spot in the city. This is a cool course!”

  “What’s even better, we get to skate it,” said Wee Wee, brandishing his board.

  “But you guys didn’t qualify,” I said lamely.

  “Nah, but everybody’s invited to take some runs during the warm-ups,” said Boosh, waving his board. “Check out that little guy.” He pointed at a kid who appeared to be about eight years old, gripping the barrier rails and looking forward to the bike riders exiting. “He’s just waiting his turn to thrash.”

  I was a little flummoxed by the impropriety of this. “Won’t that bother the competitors?”

  “Dude, don’t stress,” said Wee Wee. “They aren’t.” He waved at several skaters who were joking around, trading stories, and paying no attention to the course whatsoever.

  That changed a few minutes later, when the BMX riders exited. Moss, Boosh, and Wee Wee hit the course along with about three dozen more skaters, who had loads of pent-up energy. Dad and I watched them careen down the runs with abandon.

  “Looks like someone raised the speed limit,” said Dad.

  It absolutely felt that way. The skaters were much more aggressive than the bikers, and missed a lot more tricks than they made. I walked east to watch them grinding a handrail along a stairless incline. Though they seldom landed their tricks cleanly, I was impressed at the way the skaters bailed out in mid-air, separating from their flying boards like cowboys coming free of a bucking bronc to land on their feet, unharmed.

  The level of the skaters was sure a lot higher than it had been at Woodward. And even though Moss seemed totally unconcerned, I couldn’t help gauging his chances. Only the top skater got an invitation to compete with the pros the next day. I watched as Moss noodled around the course, totally relaxed and unhurried, oblivious to the manic energy that surrounded him.

  Dad nudged me. “Who’s that guy there, with the tight Levi’s?”

  “That’s Austin Zito.”

  “Looks pretty good.”

  “Yeah, he won at Skatelab out in Simi. He’s right up there.”

  Dad turned to look at me. “Do you know these guys?”

  “Well, not personally, of course,” I said. “But some of them have been here two, three years in a row. There’s footage of all of them on the Internet.”

  “And I imagine you studied it,” said Dad.

  “Maybe a little.”

  Dad laughed. “Hope you didn’t tell Moss anything.”

  “I know better than that.”

  “I’m sure you do. You’re gonna make a good father,” he said, putting his hand on my shoulder. “Helluva teacher, too. I enjoyed listening to you tutor Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee.”

  “You mean Tweedle Wee?”

  Dad laughed. “Yeah, that’s what I mean.”

  “Really, they’re pretty sharp,” I objected. “Especially Boosh. He catches on fast.”

  “I don’t doubt it. But not everybody woulda looked under the hair to find his brain.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  In the Flow

  About two hours later, twenty-six sweaty skaters clustered around a tall blond who was explaining the rules. The twenty-seventh skater didn’t speak English; he was standing in the viewing area with a man he called “Tío.” Uncle.

  After the blond finished her speech, a skinny competitor with a red beanie hiked himself over the rail and explained to the uncle, “It’s a modified jam. Seven minute heats, skaters take turns on the run. They’ll let him know when to go. He’s in the fourth heat, after Josh Love. Tell him they’re only going to score the top trick on the run. Nothing else matters—just the top trick on the run.”

  The uncle nodded his thanks, and turned to translate to his nephew. Meanwhile, the first heat was getting started. Boosh and Wee Wee joined us in the viewing area, but Moss stayed on the course, off to the side.

  “Which heat is Moss in?” I asked.

  “Fifth, got a while to chill,” said Boosh. “Some good skaters out there, bro.”

  “Seemed like they were falling a lot,” I said.

  “Land or slam, man,” said Boosh.

  “And they can land some pretty sick tricks,” said Wee Wee. “This is gonna be cool.”

  I guess I’m not a very good fan, because I felt better every time I saw one of Moss’s competition go down, and I cringed every time a skater landed something special. By the time Moss’s heat came up there were three skaters who appeared to be locked for the final round of five. Jonathan Reese, who skated in the first heat, still had the top score of 84.00, followed by Austin Zito and Brent Bell. Several other skaters were tightly clustered in the mid-seventies, and I figured anyone else who could break eighty would make the finals.

  Moss was skating in the last heat. I wondered what his strategy would be, and I didn’t have long to find out. His first run, he landed a clean kickflip backside Smith on the flat bar—a solid, if unspectacular score. Finishing the run, he went for a much more difficult trick on the next section of the course—and hit it. Get a good trick under your belt, then go for a great one. It seemed like a cautious and prudent strategy. No wonder Moss immediately abandoned it.

  His next run he brusquely hiked himself atop the counter we were all leaning on that overlooked the course. Planting his board smack on the ledge, he jumped on and pushed
off, riding sideways on the bar, dodging water bottles and cups of trail mix, then bent to grab his board and plunge onto the course. He flew up to the 9-stair Hubba and launched a lofty 360 flip, clearing the last stair by a generous margin and sticking the landing. The small crowd, just family and friends, roared its appreciation.

  Moss did finesse tricks as well, laying them down on every part of the course—something the judges admired, though I don’t know if it counted in the scoring. Maybe it did, because when his score was announced it placed him solidly in the final five.

  Moss skated over to grab a water and catch his breath before the final round. He was flushed and sunburned and grinning happily.

  “Good riding,” said Dad.

  “You gonna release the Kraken?” asked Boosh.

  Moss laughed and shook his head. “I dunno.”

  “What’s the Kraken?” I asked.

  “Monster sick trick. It’s geometrically impossible. But with your assistance, Wee and I figured out how to make it work,” said Boosh. I was about to ask a follow-up math question, when Moss’s entire body suddenly went rigid.

  “Holy shit,” he murmured, more to himself than to any of us. We all turned to follow his gaze, and emitted similar expressions of shock. Maybe we’d been in the sun too long and were seeing a mirage—because picking her high-heeled way towards us, through skaters and their families, was none other than our mother. And she wasn’t smiling.

  We grew silent as she approached. Even some of the people around us hushed, sensing a cosmic disturbance.

  “Hello,” said Mom neutrally. “I flew up, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “Glad you came,” said Dad evenly.

  “No sarcasm, please.”

  Dad raised his hands in surrender.

  “You missed the first rounds, but Moss made the finals,” I said.

  “Oh, I’ve been here,” she corrected. “Sitting at the other end.” She waved toward the sparsely-populated grandstand at the east end of the course. “Thought I’d get out of the sun for a while.”

  “Good idea,” offered Wee Wee.

  “Though it appears you tan very well,” said Boosh.

  Mom considered him as a snake eyes its prey. “And you are…?”

  “Boosh.”

  “Boosh…what?”

  “Boosh please-don’t-use-your-teacher-voice-on-me-Mrs.-Landing-I’m-very-fragile,” he said, cringing comically. We all burst into laughter, and even Mom smiled, having achieved her intended intimidation.

  “Once a third grader, always a third grader,” she commented, then looked at Dad. “Are you going to move down to the other end?”

  Dad looked momentarily surprised at the suggestion, then pursed his lips. “I believe this viewing area’s big enough for the both of us, Janice.”

  “Don’t bet on it,” she snapped back.

  “Well, let’s give it a try,” said Dad levelly.

  They called time for the finals. Mom gave Moss a peck on the cheek which he reluctantly accepted, then he hopped back over the barrier and onto the course. Boosh, Wee, and I took places between Mom and Dad, hoping we wouldn’t get crushed like buffer states between the great powers.

  The final five skaters would each take extended solo runs to showcase the best they had, then participate in a final jam. The rotation was announced and Moss was to skate fourth.

  Extended solo runs gave each skater a much better opportunity to develop a rhythm, and the first three competitors showed an interesting contrast of styles, but all were very good. Austin Zito had a few bobbles and outright falls on his solo run, and then Moss was up.

  At its best, street skating is fluid and lyrical, and the tricks are integrated into the sheer act of moving from one place to another. However, perhaps due to the scoring systems, competition skaters tend to emphasize one trick after another with no particular rhythm or scheme. That’s why the runs that Moss laid down on his solo portion were very different from everyone else’s.

  The course sloped downhill from where we were sitting at the western end, and that’s where everyone started their first run that afternoon. Everyone except Moss. Instead, for his first line, he worked his way uphill, and we could see the theme was a progression of ollies, board jumps to the top of obstacles—first a small one onto a ledge, a larger one to the top of the China Banks—then a big 180 kickflip to the top of a picnic table set above a rise on the final plateau.

  Pivoting on the wall he reversed course, kickflipped onto the Hubba ramp with a full head of steam and threw down a switch heelflip 50-50. He surmounted the China Banks again and did a nose grind along the entire edge of the coping, like a surfer shooting the curl of a wave.

  The whole time Jimi Hendrix’s classic “All Along the Watchtower” blasted from the sound system, and the rhythms of Moss’s skating were accentuated by Hendrix’s soaring guitar line. It was almost an unfair advantage.

  Heading back up the course, Moss rode hard up the China Banks and pulled off a trick you might see on the half pipe, but almost never on a street course. As his board began to shoot over the coping at the top, he grabbed it with his left hand and planted his right hand on the edge of the coping. He balanced momentarily on the extended arm—legs, feet, and board coiled high above him—then pivoted and plunged back down the bank. The small crowd roared its approval, and Moss headed for the opposite bank. To show this was no fluke, he executed the mirror image of the trick, now planting left hand and doing the board grab with his right.

  To wind up his solo run, Moss turned back the way he had come. He hit the handrail with a frontside feeble and finished with a flourish as the last strains of Hendrix faded away.

  The crowd yelled, and I turned to Boosh and Wee Wee who were grinning and shaking their heads.

  “Was that the Kraken?” I asked.

  “Not even,” said Wee Wee.

  The last skater took his solo run as we savored Moss’s success. Interim scores were not announced, but everyone watching that day knew that Moss was way out ahead of the competition and headed to skate with the pros the next day.

  There was a short break before the final jam, and Moss skated over to say hi.

  “Very tasteful, maestro,” said Boosh.

  We all chimed in and Moss smiled, wiping sweat off his face.

  It was a great moment for him.

  It was a great moment for all of us.

  “Cougarlicious?”

  The voice was soft, unsure, and inquisitive. Reflexively, Mom turned to see who it was: the tattooed BMX rider we’d met at the competitor check-in. He was staring at Mom like she was some kind of royalty.

  “Wow, you look just like your picture online,” he gushed. Mom stared at him, tongue-tied. Moss and I caught each other’s eye.

  The rider’s beautiful girlfriend entered the scene with a brusque, “Excuse me,” glaring at Mom.

  The BMX guy gave Mom an awkward smile and put his arm around his girlfriend. “Let’s grab a Dew, babe,” he said, leading her away.

  I thought the scene might somehow blow over—and it could have, if Mom hadn’t glanced at Dad just as he was raising his eyebrows slightly.

  “What?!” she demanded, like a street thug spoiling for a fight.

  “Nothing,” said Dad with a shrug, backing off. But now Mom was on the defensive, when she was most volatile.

  “My personal life is none of your business,” she flashed, thrusting her head past me to get at him.

  “Fine. Let’s just calm down and enjoy the rest of this. It’s Moss’s day. Let’s not ruin it.”

  “Ruin it? I’m not ruining it!” she yelled. She turned to see Moss just as he rolled his eyes. She spun back on Dad. “You have no right to even be here. You are in breach of our agreement!”

  Dad was breathing deep, trying his best to avoid throwing fuel on the fire. “Yeah, we’re gonna have to revisit that agreement.”

  “You bet we are! In court! That’s where we’ll revisit that agreement!”

 
“Whoa, Mrs. Landing, chill,” said Boosh. “It’s all good.”

  “It is not all good,” exclaimed Mom. “Do you have any idea what you’re saying, you idiot?”

  “Don’t call him an idiot,” said Moss.

  Boosh waved him off. “I got this one, bro.” He turned on Mom, regarded her calmly, then stated very clearly, “It may not all be good—but you’re making it worse. You’ve got two half grown sons who could use a full grown mother.”

  Mom’s jaw dropped and she was once again speechless. Her eyes flitted around our group and you could almost see the pieces coming together, like tumblers in a lock aligning, and the door to the vault swinging open. Moss skated away from us as the finalists assembled for the jam.

  “I’m…sorry,” she murmured, in a voice too soft for him to hear.

  I don’t know if her words would have made a difference, but they might have.

  Skaters started their final runs, laying down a barrage of tricks all over the course. But Moss hung back, for a minute, for two minutes. People in the stands began to murmur.

  Dad gave me a worried look. “Moss rules?”

  I shook my head. “I hope not.”

  Just then Moss pushed off and headed away from us. He skated past obstacles, picked up speed and headed downhill, aiming at the handrail. He was going very fast.

  “It’s the Kraken,” said Boosh.

  “But he’s coming in way too hot,” said Wee Wee.

  Other skaters turned to look, and some even stopped. Moss crouched, then popped the tail of the board into a massive ollie. He and the board immediately rose to a height of four feet or so, then he hooked a wheel under the rail. The board caught and abruptly stopped its upward flight.

  But not Moss. He tucked in head and knees and soared into the air, rotating and executing forward flips like an Olympic tumbler. But he was higher than any gymnast had ever been—maybe ten feet in the air at the peak of his jump.

  At the time, no one was counting. On film later, it would show that he completed three forward flips before he came down at the end of the handrail. He was a foot or so to the left of the metal obstacle, and it looked like he would clear it fine, his arms tucked neatly to his sides.