Trust Me Too

by Paul Collins

  Even though I was expecting it, a stab of pain still hit me in the gut like an elbow. When it passed I said,

  ‘Three.’

  He looked puzzled. ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve only had three knee operations. And I still moved well enough to lead the team in rebounds this year.’

  ‘You always could bring down the boards.’ He spoke more firmly now. ‘But for how much longer? Don’t you care about walking when you’re forty?’

  I shrugged. The truth is I didn’t, but it wasn’t the smartest thing to admit. ‘What if I want to play on? What can the board offer?’

  ‘Bill ...’

  ‘How much?’ I wanted an answer. I deserved as much.

  ‘Maybe twenty-five. If you’re lucky.’

  My jaw dropped. That’s what rookies get paid to warm the bench.

  Coach spread his giant palms out wide. ‘I know. It’s an insult. But we can offer you double that if you take on another role with the club. One I know you’ll be good at.’

  I raised my eyebrows. This I wasn’t expecting.

  ‘What role?’

  He smiled for the first time since I’d walked in.

  ‘Assistant coach. You and me can keep working together to make this team great.’

  Up until that moment I’d spent my whole athletic life telling myself ‘I can’. I can make it through rehab. I can hit this free throw. I can play another year at the highest level. But Coach said it was time to ask,

  ‘Can I?’

  ‘You’ve been the best player this club has ever had,’ he said, ‘but now you’re on the wrong side of thirty with a stuffed right knee. Your numbers are on the slide and opponents that used to fear you now ask to be matched against you. Is that how you want to end your career?’

  ‘What opponents?’ I wanted to hunt them down and shut them up.

  ‘All of them.’

  I took the job. Coach can be very convincing.

  Across town there’s a gym where most of the young hotshots, plus a few of the pros, hang out in the off- season and play pick-up ball. My first assignment was to do some scouting.

  There were the usual gangly teenagers to check out, but Coach told me that the word was out on another guy, an American who’d been cleaning up the hotshots and the cash. ‘Find out his name and his story.’ He gave me a wink. ‘You might even want to burn a hole in his pocket.’

  He wasn’t hard to find. Walking in I saw a six foot-four black guy hit a fade-away jumper from the top of the key. He was playing one-on-one against a kid from the Emus - the Aussie under-19s team.

  A local bloke filled me in on the rules. ‘Laroe plays

  ‘em one at a time, first to eleven baskets, and starts with a fifty dollar bet. When he wins, the next guy has to match the pot. Over the past three days he’s won seven hundred and fifty bucks and no one’s been game to bet after that. Word is, back in Chicago he’s known as King of the Playground and once took ten G’s off Michael.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Michael Jackson.’ I wasn’t in the mood for no homeboy boasting today.

  But Laroe was good. He had that ageless look about him that made it difficult to tell if he was twenty-five or thirty-five. The fact that I never saw him showboat made me guess closer to the latter. He had long arms and enough muscle to stop from being bullied, but not too much to slow him down. I wasn’t the only one watching - others circled the half-court where he was hustling, admiring a good ball player.

  He finished toying with the junior star and then started beating up on a state under-21s player.

  If I had to use one word to describe him, it would be smooth. He had a skill I’ve never had, the ability to make time seem to slow down on court. No matter how much pressure he was under, either on offence or defence, he never looked rushed. It was something to see.

  Especially when a nineteen-year-old put $400 down and played the game of his life. Jack Sharp was as tall as me and although he had half a foot on Laroe, I figured the American would be too smart and quick for him. But the young guy was a hell of an athlete for his size. He swatted the first jump shot from Laroe right back in his face, and found nothing but net on his first five trips to the basket.

  Down 7-3, Laroe shifted gears. He picked Sharp’s pocket twice in a row and blew by him with a cross over dribble to go up 9-8. But when Sharp beat Laroe with a step-through move, I knew the American was tiring. There’d been plenty of bumps and body checks and it was Laroe’s fifth straight game.

  Retying the laces on his red high tops gave Laroe a chance to catch his breath. He lifted his hands to get checked the ball, and when the leather hit his skin he immediately let it fly. The ball soared high and straight for over twenty feet until it made a swishing sound as it dropped through the net.

  The crowd went ‘Aaww!’

  Sharp was worried, and rattled a hook around the rim that didn’t drop. Laroe took the rebound out past the three-point line, turned, and drove back to the basket. Sharp waited for him, but Laroe didn’t come. He pulled up quickly, jumped high off two feet, and feathered a backspun shot that arced like the De Triomphe.

  Game over.

  Waiting patiently with his $800 was the point guard for the Melbourne Tigers. Laroe took a sip of water and was back out there. The Tiger had good skills, but was too predictable. Laroe swept the wooden floor with him.

  After glancing around to make sure there was no one else, Laroe scooped down to pick up his cash. But when he bobbed back up I had a fistful of hundreds right in his face. I looked closely to see a reaction, but all he did was smile and say, ‘Let’s play ball.’

  I have always been a tough competitor, a hard nosed dude if the opposition pushed me, but Laroe wasn’t down for any trash. I tested him early, told him to get back to the ghetto just to see what would hap pen. What happened was he swished three straight twenty-five footers. NBA three-pointers. I decided to shut up.

  Every time I had the ball I backed in nice and tight to the hoop. I wasn’t the prettiest dribbler in the world, but I knew how to stop those thieving buggers from stealing my lunch. Sticking my backside out, I kept my wide body between Laroe and the ball. Besides, who was going to call an offensive foul out here?

  When I found my range of less than ten feet, I shot the ball. I could put them in blindfolded over a short six-foot-four bloke from there.

  The trouble was I couldn’t stop him and it was hacking me off. He kept taking the kind of bombs that should have missed everything but air, but were instead sinking like the Titanic.

  ‘Mate, you’re going to make it rain soon,’ I said after he hit a twenty-two footer to make it seven-all.

  By this time the crowd was building up. I was fairly well-known around here and had plenty to prove to the blokes who knew I’d been given the flick from the West Melbourne Warriors. Word travels fast.

  Besides, Laroe had to be nearly exhausted by now. It became obvious when I was in his face at nine all. His shooting arm didn’t extend and the ball bricked off the side of the rim. I grabbed it with two hands, dribbled past the three-point-line opposite Laroe and returned fast to the basket. He was slow to recover so I spun by him and reversed a jam.

  Ten-9.

  The next play I was determined to bring my best D. I followed him closely, watching his eyes to get a jump on what he might do. While dribbling between his legs he gave me a wink, then jerked his head and took a jab step to the right. My weight automatically shifted left, but it was all a ruse, his fake catching me out as he dribbled past my right hip. I was mentally kicking myself as I followed half a step behind, deciding there was no way I’d let him have this basket easily. I’d go for the ball and if I chopped his arms off, so be it.

  He seemed to sense my intention and stopped on a five-cent piece. I tried to do the same thing, but at six-foot eleven and a half
, and one-hundred and fifteen kilos, it was never going to be easy. As I pulled up, my right knee crumbled. Another disadvantage to being tall is that it’s a long way down. I hit the deck in a heap, and could only watch as his lay-up went through the hoop.

  Ten-all.

  ‘Gentlemen’s split?’ he asked, offering me my money back.

  I gave him my tough-guy sneer. ‘Not in this life time. Next basket wins.’

  I’ve seen a lot of good players, many with skills better than me, disappear when the pressure is on. Not literally, of course, but in spirit. If things are going their way they’ll shoot the lights out, but when it’s 88-88 with twenty-five seconds remaining, they’d rather be on the bench than on the court.

  Me, I’ve never understood this. The reason I play is to test myself, physically and mentally. When the game comes down to the wire and the ball is in your hands, you have the ability to stare fear in the face and defeat it. That’s a high no drug will ever come close to beating. Sure, sometimes you miss and feel like a loser. But when you make it ...

  He checked me the ball and did something I wasn’t expecting. Taking two steps back, he trash-talked for the first time in the game.

  ‘You better shoot it,’ he said in a throaty voice.

  ‘Because you’re too darn slow to get past me.’

  I knew what he was doing - tempting me to take a jump shot from outside my comfort zone - and it annoyed the crap out of me. In my younger days I would have driven right by him and stuffed it down the basket and his throat. Now, however, I was hav ing second thoughts. My knee was getting stiffer by the minute and I wasn’t sure I had it in me to get past him one more time.

  Chances were I couldn’t win either way - if I shot the ball and made it I looked like a chicken, if I drove past him and missed I looked like a fool.

  I took the shot. It was a twelve-footer, two feet too long as far as I was concerned. I over extended and the ball hit the back of the rim and bounced up in the air.

  You could hear the intake of breath from those watching. Everyone knew it was a bad shot - what’s known in hoop language as a ‘brick’.

  But sometimes bricks are made of gold. The ball hit the front of the rim, bounced up high, and dropped in.

  ‘I owe you a beer,’ I said.

  We went to a bar around the corner but Laroe ended up drinking water. ‘Toughest part of my job is keep ing in shape. Don’t need to make it any harder.’

  ‘What is your job?’ I asked.

  ‘Same as you. I’m a ballplayer.’

  ‘What team?’

  He chuckled. ‘I’m not much of a team player.’ After a swig of water he changed the subject. ‘You know, I seen you play before. Aussie Boomers versus Northwestern College in Chicago, ‘bout ten years ago. You scored a few that night but mosdy I remem ber your defence. You played some hardcore D.’

  ‘It’s a small world.’ I remembered that game. I remembered them all. ‘So what’s your story? You must have played college ball?’

  He toyed with a short, gold necklace that hung around his neck. Jewellery is not allowed on the basketball court, but he didn’t look like a guy who followed all the rules. ‘Loyola, Chicago. Averaged nineteen points my freshman year. Had it all - schol arship, fans, a cheerleader to date ...’

  He paused.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Knocked the cheerleader up.’ He flashed a mouthful of white, then pulled a photo out of his wallet. ‘Saturn. My little girl.’

  She wasn’t little at all. A cute teenager with long legs and colourful braces.

  ‘Bet she changed things.’

  ‘Surely did. You got kids?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They’ll change your life m ways you’d never guess.’ He shook his head. Fingered the necklace again. ‘Summer break after Saturn showed up, I played a three-on-three tournament and we won. My share was five grand. I could reject the money and keep playing college ball or find another life. Saturn had to eat, go to the doc . . . I been hustling ever since.’

  ‘You make a living playing pick-up ball?’ I’d heard of guys doing this, but had never actually met some one who did.

  He shrugged. ‘I get by. Some people even call me

  King of the Playground.’

  I took a long swig. Unlike Laroe, I was drinking the hard stuff ‘I heard. Also heard a story about you taking money off the great man.’

  ‘People talk, huh?’

  ‘So it’s not true?’

  He thought for a few moments, a long index finger pressed against his lips. Then he spoke. ‘One day in the off-season he came down to the ‘hood, King of the NBA to play King of the Playground. He threw ten thousand dollars cash on the ground; I had to throw my car keys beside it as collateral.’

  ‘And you won?’ I tried not to voice my disbelief

  He spoke quietly. ‘Had two things in my favour. More to play for and more to lose.’

  If I had my time over I would’ve questioned him further. But right then there didn’t seem to be any more to say. You either believed him or you didn’t.

  ‘Why Australia?’ I asked.

  ‘A holiday and a new opportunity all in one.’ Another smile. ‘Was going well until you showed up.’

  I shrugged. ‘We all lose sometimes.’

  ‘I know it. You still treading the boards?’

  I nearly said yes before remembering. ‘I’m a coach now.’

  ‘A coach?’ He took another swig. ‘That’s another name for someone who can’t play no more.’

  My hands squeezed the glass. Although I felt like biting, I didn’t. ‘You could be right.’

  ‘Oh, I am.’

  We walked back towards the gym and I stopped at my car. He gave me a half-smile, his head tilted to the right. ‘You want to come inside and try getting past me? ‘Cause I bet you all the money in your wallet that you can’t.’

  I shook my head and opened the car door. Then I pulled out a basketball and said, ‘Thought you’d never ask.’

  When he checked me the ball, I felt the familiar dimpled leather in my hand. As a kid I used to sleep with my basketball. Still do sometimes.

  After a few beers, the pain in my knee was gone, so I tried a move I hadn’t done in years. I faked left with my head and shoulder, then took off down the right side of the key. When I got to the low post I did a two-foot jump stop, faked a shot with the right hand, swapped the ball to my left, and took a big crossover step with my right foot towards the basket. Opposition crowds always howled for a travelling violation when I did this, but good referees knew better. Everything went perfectly and I launched up to complete the slam, when a hand appeared out of nowhere, seemingly from the heavens above. It swiped the ball, and only the ball, knocking it two courts away.

  When I came down all I saw was a grin on Laroe’s face.

  ‘You’re pretty quick for a big guy.’ He patted me on the back. ‘But not quick enough.’

  ‘You want to play in the NBL next year?’

  ‘Man, Mike asked me the same thing, except he said the NBA. I’ll tell you what I told him - I’d rather be King of the Playground.’

  We spent the next hour shooting hoops and shoot ing the breeze. He gave me a tip that improved my free-throw shooting and he even showed me a thing or two about shot-blocking. The lesson cost me

  $1600, but he lit a fire inside me that I wasn’t sure I could put out.

  The next day I reported to Coach. ‘You should sign a kid namedjack Sharp. He could take my place at Centre and do a good job.’

  ‘Great news,’ Bill said. 1nd the American?’

  I shook my head. ‘Not a team player.’

  ‘Did you tell him this is a team sport?’

  ‘I’m sure he knows.’ A pause.

 
‘Glad you’re settling into your new role,’ said

  Coach.

  About that.’ I hesitated - part of me didn’t want to say it.

  ‘You want my job?’ he joked.

  ‘No. I’m quitting.’

  He sat up in his chair. ‘What?’

  ‘The Giants have offered me thirty. I’m gonna go around another year. Maybe two.’

  ‘You’re going to play for the Gold Coast?’ He said the words slowly, as if I were making a strange joke. All teams are rivals, but the head coach of the Giants was someone Coach particularly disliked. I suspect this was mainly because he was as obsessive, smart and crazy as Coach.

  ‘I’m hoping the warm weather will be kind to my knee.’

  Coach ran a hand through his thick, white hair. More than anyone, professional coaches know that anything is possible in life and sport. Nevertheless, this piece of news seemed hard for him to swallow.

  His voice hardened. ‘Always thought you’d be a one club man. Obviously I was wrong.’

  I nodded. I could’ve pointed out that my club didn’t want me to play for them anymore, but that didn’t seem necessary.

  We shook hands.

  ‘Hope it all works out for you, Bill.’ The way he said it revealed that he didn’t believe it would.

  As I walked out of Coach’s office for the last time, I looked back at the wall. Back at myself when I could still jump without pain. I guess some types of pain I can put up with. And some I can’t.

  Strange-headed Harry

  Leigh Hobbs

  Michael Wagner

  Various

  Killer Stories

  Christine Bongers

  Illustration by Peter Viska

  My Boy

  Sofie Laguna

  Illustration by Marc McBride

  My boy

  Did you come to me from the moon?

  Your cheeks and knees are surely from the moon

  Circular, mysterious.