“SCRIMMAGE!” Coach yells.
I bring the ball up, right away brick a three. Makarov skies for the rebound, makes a move that leaves Washington duct-taped to the floor, dribble, dribble, dunk.
“Wow,” says Poltroni, a chubby Italian with hair on his neck.
“Wow,” says Xavier, lean and springy and accurate within twelve feet.
Coach Grout just chews his whistle.
I trot over and inbound to Washington. But Washington isn’t there. Makarov is. Pale, unblinking. Like some Siberian deer hunted way past extinction. And then twitch, he steals the pass, spins, dunks off my head. Everyone on the bench laughs. All six people in the bleachers laugh. My brother, Steve, who’s watching from the doorway, laughs.
“Still only counts for two points,” I say.
“There are twos and there are twos,” Poltroni says.
Coach diagrams an elaborate play, X defeating O. Makarov sort of sign-languages that in this case, we actually want O to win. Coach erases furiously. He redraws and O comes out on top. Everyone nods.
I look over and Steve’s gone.
Then Coach blows his whistle, kicking off another hour of nonstop Makarov highlights.
THAT WAS TWO months ago. Now we’re 14 – 0, the West Boylston Bolts in first place, Makarov averaging 38 a game. We stomp Warren G. Harding by 20. We crush Hamilton Poly and Winthorp Remedial with ease. The Fitchburg game, Coach has the scrubs in halfway through the second quarter. “SCRUBS!” he yells, and even their parents chuckle. Someone starts a chant: “WE SHOUT FOR GROUT!” A dozen fans join in and the gym echoes out out out. The Fitchburg kids are scared. Their coach is sweating and their parents are silent and Makarov keeps flashing his grin at the end of the bench. Our scrubs score maybe twice in the second half and we still win by a dozen.
I BLOW OFF my last class. My brother is waiting in the parking lot.
“Need a ride?”
He’s got cool shades and dangly hair and one enormous arm resting against the side of his vintage truck. Of course it’s vintage. Why can’t it just be a truck? Of course it’s dangly, why can’t it just be hair? I sling my duffel into the flatbed, where it clonks against tools and scrap metal. It’s scrap because Steve works. There are tools because he can fix things. Like, for instance, your broken heart. Just ask half the cheerleaders in town.
Or their moms.
People watch with envy as I jump in.
“Belt up,” Steve says.
I put my foot on the dash.
“Foot off the dash,” Steve says.
I leave it there.
The truck backfires like a cannon as we squeal by a line of kids walking to the gym. They stare and point. My brother is still a legend at West Boylston. First for sports, but that fades. Then for girls, but they eventually graduate. Now it’s mainly for being big and cool and not rubbing it in everyone’s face all the time.
“Want to check out Comedy Hour?”
“You know it.”
There’s a dry cleaners at the top of the hill that overlooks school. Steve eases around back, in the shade of a padlocked Dumpster. It hides the truck but gives us a sniper’s view of oncoming traffic below.
I spark the joint, blow a plume in his face.
“Where you get this dirt weed anyhow?”
“Quiet, it’s starting.”
Once the final bell rings, cars pour out of school and grind up the hill, where they disappear into an ancient train tunnel. It’s a vestige from the pioneer days, cut straight through wet granite. Somehow being beneath all that rock lulls people into thinking they’re safe, unwatched. For a hundred yards of darkness they revert to their lizard brain, can’t help but get a little weird.
And then each car emerges right below us into a shock of bright sun.
Like a paparazzi flash, a startled portrait, snap!
The dullest are captured up to the third knuckle, excavating sinus. Others sing or dance, pop and lock, eyes pinned like bats swooping down on a grape. Their faces are manic or slack, stoned or terrified, netted fish and Chilean miners. Dudes grip their tools in lonely boredom. Girls drop the pose, lipstick smeared. There’s chubby transfers and balding teachers, band geeks and burnouts, mathletes and athletes, the beautiful and the ignored, all framed behind a windshield, all unwitting and beautifully innocent, snap!
We weep with laughter, rock the cab, punch each other’s shoulders in disbelief.
“Dude! No way. Check it. Check him out! Look. Look at her! Oh, dude! Oh, DUDE!”
Comedy Hour makes me want to give every student a hug and a snack, each teacher a pat on the back, makes me like my worst enemy so much more. In fact, it’s probably the best show in the history of television.
Except maybe the part when Angie Bangs drives by in her mom’s Jaguar. She always emerges unscathed, fine and composed and not the least bit hilarious. Partly because the truly beautiful are almost never compromised by anything, bright light or tunnels or random opinions, and partly because I’ve been in love with her since eighth grade, which everyone in school but Steve apparently knew about, a fact that became obvious after he hooked up with her at a party a few weekends ago.
I found out after her best friend bragged in the caf, people leaning over the table to hear the details, spilling each others’ milk, going, “Whoa! Way to go, Angie Bangs.”
I could have gotten pissed. Called Steve out, clenched my fists, let the tears and snot rise. Thrown a few punches he’d easily dodge. Or even worse, let them land. But what’s the point? He’d just sit there with his trust-me eyes and go, “Are you sure?” and I’d be like “Yes!” and he’d go “Wait, who again?” and I’d be like “Angie, motherfucker!” and then he’d be all puzzled and caring and quietly skeptical, “Man, if you say so.”
We pull back onto Route 4, leave a patch, cut off a Camaro that would normally give us the finger and scream, except the driver recognizes Steve’s truck and makes with a friendly bip bip instead.
“So what’s with you coming to practice all of a sudden?” I ask.
“What about it?”
“I keep seeing you out of the corner of my eye like, wait, Dad’s busted again?”
Steve laughs, since we both know there’s bail money in a salisbury steak box in the freezer.
“I wouldn’t come for that. Also, you guys don’t suck nearly as hard as usual.”
“Yeah, something’s definitely changed. None of us can quite put a finger on it.”
We roar around a slow Honda, yank back into our lane with inches to spare.
“So who’s the new guy?”
“Just a transfer.”
“From where?”
“I dunno.” I say. “Albania. Romania. Buttfuckistan. Seriously, though. How come you keep coming?”
Steve reaches over with his Popeye arm and puts me in a headlock, runs a knuckle across my scalp while steering with his knees.
“Why, there some law says I can’t watch my little bro and his pals play with their balls?”
THAT FRIDAY THE stands are packed to the gills. The parking lot’s full and there’s a big line waiting for the john. Girls stand around in circles, squealing. Boys stand around in leather jackets that don’t fit. Everyone wants Makarov’s autograph: Sign my math book! Sign my purse! He just grins like he doesn’t understand. You wish to exchange beads for the island of Manhattan? The government has declared this whole area irradiated? He shakes his head, runs through layup drills while scouts wait with stopwatches and hotdogs and pads full of little calculations. Under the stanchion are six photographers, flash flash flash, shots of Makarov running, dribbling, swooping down on the ball like a thirsty vampire. West Boylston hasn’t had a winning season in ten years. The Bolts are a standing joke, Hey Bolts, Go Screw!
Not anymore.
The game starts and Makarov immediately goes behind the back to a wide-open Xavier. Poltroni drives and kicks, sets me up for easy jumpers. Coach is wearing a suit with no visible egg stains. Even Washington see
ms to have a pulse. There’s love in the air and we win by 36. It could have been 60.
iN THE SHOWER I’m like, “Dude, how’s your English coming?”
“English good,” he says, sniffs the shampoo like it’s some exotic bouquet. Or maybe food.
“Don’t eat that,” I say.
He doesn’t answer.
I’m like, “Where do you live, anyhow?”
“Live good,” he says, and then towels off, zips into the same tracksuit he’s been wearing pretty much since the first day, some too-shiny Russian brand doesn’t even have a name, no swoosh, no nothing.
AFTER PRACTICE, WE pile into Washington’s Nova. It’s a ’77 with a stock .351. A very fast car. At least it would be, if Washington didn’t drive like my grandma.
“Open it up!” Poltroni says.
“Punch it!” Xavier says.
“Mmm-hmmph you,” Washington tells them, scratching the Afro above his sad-dog face. He signals early for a left, eases around a corner, careful not to go over 300 RPM’s in third.
Xavier pounds the seat, “Team!”
Poltroni pounds the seat, “Bolts!”
“Watch the mmm-hmmphing upholstery,” Washington says.
The car finally creeps into the lot of West Boylston Rim and Radial, where Steve works. Their motto is Done in under an hour, or it’s free, which isn’t true. Washington finds a spot, a good two feet of space on either side. He pulls out, readjusts, backs in again.
“There’s your brother,” says Poltroni, pointing into the shop. He leans over and toots the horn, nice and respectful, bip bip. Steve rolls out from under a Lexus. He’s got a jumpsuit on, no sleeves. The wrestler biceps. Grease on chin. He looks like an ad for beer that claims to be colder than other beer, the kind secretaries tape above their computers. It’s hard to believe we’re related.
“It’s hard to believe you’re related,” Xavier says.
Steve liked working at West Boylston Rim and Radial so much he dropped out senior year, quit the football team even though he was being recruited for division II. No one could understand why and Steve wouldn’t say, so they made up their own reasons, decided it was some sort of principled stance. Steve giving the finger to the man. Steve refusing to become part of the machine. But I knew that if he graduated he’d have to graduate. By staying in West Boylston and keeping his mouth shut, he let the world create its own myth. Not to mention believe it.
“No more school,” he told Dad, in his quiet-for-Dad voice. “From now on I’m a working man.”
We were standing in the kitchen. Dad pulled his jammies tighter.
“Fine. Then from now on you’re a rent-paying man, too.”
Steve fished in his pocket, sprinkled the counter with twenties. “Let me know when that runs out.”
Dad turned to me. “Well?”
I bussed tables. At Ribeye Rob’s. Most of my tips were in quarters. It barely kept me in jocks and slices. “Can’t. I’m on the team.”
He gave me a look, flattened the bills on the stove. “What team?”
Dad doesn’t leave the house much. He doesn’t shave except when he does, and then you remember he has a chin.
“Little man’s pretty good,” Steve said, cracking a beer. “Or wait, am I thinking of someone else?”
Dad laughed.
“Dude’s got a lot of moxie though. You can’t teach moxie.”
“Can’t teach anything,” Dad said. “Nothing to know.”
Which isn’t true. There’s just all things you don’t understand, or want to admit to yourself.
For instance, how yesterday morning I opened the door to my brother’s room without knocking.
Like I always did, late for practice and out of socks.
And then almost shit myself. Right there on the orange rug.
I could hear Coach’s voice, SPRINT!
But didn’t move.
At least not until Makarov woke up. All pale and lanky. Content. He winked and smiled. Stretched and yawned and snuggled a little closer under my brother’s arm. The blanket was pulled around them, radio on low, Dire Straits blending perfectly with Steve’s quiet snore.
Then I did sprint.
All the way to school, no breakfast, nothing. The gym was empty. I sat in my underwear and hyperventilated for about an hour. Then I destroyed some scrub’s locker with a piece of pipe from the boiler room. After a while, Coach came out of his office and looked at the mangled door, confused. He put his hand on my shoulder.
“Problem?”
“No, Coach.”
He scratched his ass and then scratched his neck and then scratched his nose.
“Well, keep up the good work.”
“Yessir.”
After a while the guys showed up. They yelled and threw stuff and grab-assed all around me.
The scrub stared at his ruined locker and didn’t say a word.
Makarov ran through practice and didn’t say a word.
I took a long shower and dripped a trail of soap all the way to algebra. When the teacher called on me to solve for y = q – 2, I just sat there and didn’t say a word.
“HEY BRO,” STEVE SAYS, walking out of the shop and leaning against the Nova. He holds out his hand to slap five. Washington and Poltroni and Xavier stand behind me, hands in pockets, silent with the usual awe.
“We’ll take an eighth,” I say.
Steve flashes his badass squint.
“That all? None of you superstars got jobs?”
Poltroni lets out a greedy laugh, until he realizes he’s the only one.
Steve pulls a Ziploc from his bib. “Well, don’t smoke it all at once.”
I give him two twenties. “Well, don’t spend it all on one dude.”
The guys stare at me in alarm, then back at my brother. Who looks like he’s about to stuff me into a grease barrel and roll it out into the bay.
“Drive careful,” he says, slow-jumpsuits back to work.
“What the mmm-hmmph that about?” Washington asks.
Xavier assesses the baggie with his thumbs, “Nice.”
Poltroni eyeballs it, holding it up to the light, “Nice.”
“Can we go now?” I ask.
ON FRIDAY WE’RE down a dozen at halftime. Winslow Homer Tech has a guy six-eleven and plays a tight zone. I’ve missed my first three shots. Makarov has his usual twenty-eight, but their big man is scoring over Washington at will.
In the locker room Coach is pissed, tears us a new ass.
“PLAY!”
We all nod.
“HARDER!”
In the hallway a scout leans against the wall wearing a forties newsman hat and expensive sneakers.
“Hey, kid,” he says, waves me over. I figure he wants to ask about Makarov, but instead he goes, “You’re a good little player. You thinking about college?”
“I guess.”
“You heard of Southern Community?”
“No.”
“Yeah, well, we’re a small program.” He opens a snack cake and drops the wrapper on the floor. “Downstate. I think maybe we could use a smart player like you.”
“For real?”
“Depends how bad you want it.”
Up until that second it didn’t seem possible, so I never bothered to want it at all.
“We talking scholarship?”
He clicks his stopwatch. On. Off. On. He licks his fingers. “Nah. You pay your own way first year, see what happens. You stick, maybe we have something to talk about over the summer.”
“And if I don’t stick?”
He shrugs, tongue dark with Ring Ding. “Worse comes to worse, you got a year’s worth of Algebra II under your belt.”
I could bus a million ribs and still not swing tuition.
“You’ll think of a way,” he says, reading my mind. “Smart kid like you.”
When I get back to the bench, Washington pulls me aside, “What that mmm-hmmpher want?”
“Guy thinks I got skills.�
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Washington laughs. “No, really. What he want?”
MAKAROV GOES NUTS in the third quarter, dropping bombs from the wing, floating toward the rim, lefty, righty, backpedal, fade away. He’s unbelievable. The crowd’s in a frenzy, stomping feet, punching air. It’s like being inside a snare drum. Makarov steals the ball, goes between the legs. Makarov takes a pass, sinks a rainbow jumper. Makarov beats his man, two-handed facial.
The crowd starts a chant, “WHY POUT? WE’VE GOT GROUT!”
And then, “BOLTS! BOLTS! BOLTS! BOLTS! BOLTS!”
And then, “MA-KA-ROV! GETS-US-OFF!”
They go ahead, we go ahead. With four minutes left, Washington fouls out. We’re forced to put Xavier and a scrub on their big man. It’s like handing out free points. I make them pay with a runner in the lane. Their guy rams one down Xavier’s throat. Neither team can land the big punch.
“SCORE!” Coach yells.
There’s thirty seconds left and we’re down one. The crowd’s too hoarse to scream anymore, switches to a strange low-rumble moan. I dribble right, dribble left, holding for the last shot.
“HOLD FOR THE LAST SHOT!” Coach yells.
When Makarov finally breaks open, I’ll toss over the ball and watch him throw it in. Everyone in the place knows that’s the script. Even the Winslow Homer guys seem resigned. The freckly kid guarding me confirms it with his sad eyes.
Ten seconds.
Six.
I spin around Freckle, top of the key. Makarov comes off Xavier’s screen, wide open.
Four seconds.
I’m about to execute a perfect chest-pass when I spot Steve in the front row. The bleachers are packed, a thousand people standing as one. But Steve’s not standing. He’s leaning back, like a king. His face is pinched and greedy. His hair dangles and his boots gleam and there is no place, no box or hole or drawer in the world big enough to hide the fact that he’s staring at Makarov’s ass.
SO NOW WE’RE 16 – 1 and everybody’s pissed. Coach makes me do extra push-ups and Washington takes off after school, not asking do I want a ride. I have to hitchhike to Ribeye Rob’s, half an hour late.
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