Do you understand what a sweet life they got in the NBA? They got fat bank accounts and big-ass houses. They got three, four cars each. BMWs and Expeditions. Range Rovers. And all they gotta do is just play ball all day.
They get paid to play ball, Annie. That’s crazy.
Sometimes when I’m sitting in class I picture what it would be like if I got there. The announcer sayin my name over the P.A., the crowd holding up signs, me chillin out back at the hotel after a big game, watchin some highlight I did on SportsCenter. When I’m walkin through the airport people pointin at me and sayin, “Is that Sticky Reichard? Nah, for real, is that Sticky Reichard?”
When I think about that too much, my stomach starts gettin all messed up.
I know it don’t sound good, Annie, but I think if I couldn’t make it I wouldn’t wanna be around no more. Cause it’s all I got in my life, you know? Playin ball. It’s all I got in the whole world. And if I couldn’t make it, I woulda been wrong all this time about God’s plan.
But you ain’t gotta worry about all that, girl. Cause I swear to you, man, one day I’m gonna make it to the NBA. . . .
Francine Was All
smiles when she drove up to Sticky’s foster care pad in her old-school Volkswagen van. Bumper stickers about Greenpeace and the Dodgers. Christian fish. Shiny black cross hanging like a pendulum from the rearview mirror.
Francine was the first of the foster ladies.
She had long red-gray hair and freckles. A silver cross dangling from her fragile neck. She showed up for Sticky three days after he turned nine.
The night before the pickup, all the counselors horseshoed around Sticky in the TV room. Told him how lucky he was.
This is a perfect match, Counselor Jenny said, and everybody agreed.
She picked you out of everyone, Counselor Amy said.
Sticky yanked his socks up and scrunched them back down. Yanked up and scrunched down.
Yeah, how often does somebody looking to adopt pick a nine-year-old? Jenny said, looking to the old Mexican director for the facts. Most are looking for babies, right?
It’s rare, the director said.
She must think Sticky’s pretty special, Jenny said.
Amy stroked Sticky’s hair and smiled at him. Plus you’re such a tough little guy, she said. She looked to Jenny, told her: He didn’t even cry when he first came here. Most kids do, you know. She made a playful face to Sticky. Do you even have tear ducts in those eyes, mister tough guy?
But it’s OK to cry, Sticky, Jenny said. In fact, it’s healthy to cry. It can make you feel better.
Turned out Francine’s husband had passed away, leaving her alone in their big house in Pasadena. All three of her own kids had grown up and graduated college. Moved away. She told the adoption agency that such a big lonely house should be shared with a child. What better way for an old lady like me to give back? she said, after pulling out Sticky’s picture from a stack of thirty. What could be better than giving a child like him an opportunity?
And Francine wasn’t just blowing smoke, she gave the situation everything she had. Hooked up three meals a day in the kitchen, told Sunday school stories by Sticky’s bed until he fell asleep at night. She took him to movies and museums and amusement parks. Held up multiplication flash cards when she found out he bombed a math test. Every afternoon she’d be there to pick Sticky up from school, her van pulled along the curb just like any other kid’s mom.
One Friday after school, Sticky pulled open the van door and spotted a wrapped package sitting on the passenger seat. What’s this? he said.
It’s for you, Francine said.
Sticky stood there a sec, ran through possible holidays in his head. He picked the box up and set it back down. But it ain’t my birthday or nothin.
I know that, Francine said, and she laughed. It’s just because I like you. Now, go on and open it.
Sticky climbed into the seat and ripped through the baseball wrapping paper. Tossed it to his feet. He opened the box and pulled out a brand-new black suede jacket, held it out in front of his excited face.
Francine took her hands off the wheel, folded them in her lap. Her face was frozen in a smile.
Sticky reached back in the box, pulled out a white collared shirt and a pair of black pants.
You have to have nice clothes where we’re going tonight, Francine said.
They drove straight to Santa Monica from the school. Sat in heavy traffic on the 110 with everybody else. Traffic on the 10 West. They listened to talk radio and the sound of cars gassing and breaking. The smell of exhaust floated in through their open windows.
When Francine finally pulled off the 10 at Lincoln, she headed west on Broadway. They inched through Third Street Promenade foot traffic and cars waiting to pull into parking garages. Out the window Sticky spied the exact spot he used to beg for change with Baby. Pictured himself holding out the white bowl and making the sad face Baby taught him. The felt-penned sign around his neck blowing into his face when the wind picked up. Pictured Baby right behind him, sitting Indian style and humming to herself.
Here we are, Francine said as she pulled up to the Loews Hotel lobby, shut off the engine and handed the keys to the valet guy. This is the place.
Up in the fancy room, Francine came out of the bathroom wearing a long black dress and lipstick. High heels. Long silver earrings that dangled over her bare freckled shoulders. She helped Sticky tuck his new shirt into his new pants. Held the jacket out so he could put one arm in and then the other.
When Sticky was all set she took out a blow-dryer and ran a brush through her wet hair. We’re going to eat at a place called Ivy at the Shore, she shouted over the hot air. It’s a really nice place. My husband took me there for every one of our anniversaries. She flipped off the blow-dryer and set it down. She spun around in the mirror and then turned her attention to Sticky. Now I’m taking you.
At dinner Francine taught Sticky about table manners: where to place the napkin in his lap, where to keep hands and elbows, how to hold the menu, which fork to use and at what time. Sticky sat stiff and listened to everything she said.
In the dim light, and with his new gear, he wondered if he looked like he belonged. Or could people tell it was his first time inside a restaurant. Ever. That it felt like a foreign country to him.
He watched a boy sitting three tables down wearing a tie. Watched the way the boy talked to adults and ordered for himself, the way he sipped soup from a spoon and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. Every move seemed so natural. Sticky swore to himself right then and there that when he got older, had money of his own, he’d be eating at places like this every single night.
Before the food came out Francine reached over and took Sticky’s hands. She closed her eyes and began a prayer: Thank you, Lord, for this wonderful night, thank you for bringing Sticky and me into one another’s lives. Lord, one day Sticky, too, will come to you. . . .
As Francine went on, Sticky kept his eyes open. He watched the wrinkles in her chin stretch and fall as she spoke, her eyelids twitch. She always talked to him about God. Read Bible passages each morning while he wolfed down eggs and toast. She told him about Jesus and heaven, how to lead life like a true Christian. He could never figure out what to make of all that talk, but he liked that her words were aimed at him and nobody else.
Just as Francine released Sticky’s hands and opened her eyes, the waitress set down their plates.
Let’s eat, Francine said.
But a year into things, Francine was diagnosed with cancer. Told she had to undergo immediate and intensive treatment just to have a chance at pulling through.
Her daughter flew in from New York two days after they found out, drove the van when they took Sticky back to his foster care pad.
They dropped him off late at night.
This is only temporary, Francine said outside the van, tears running down her face. Her daughter stayed inside the van, left the motor running. I promise, Francine said. The
Lord will make sure of it. Her face was outlined by a glowing sliver of moon and Sticky felt bad for her. When I get better I’m going to rush back here and take you home.
And as she stared at him, Sticky thought it was true what she was saying. This lady. She would come back for him.
They looked at each other for a while, neither of them moving or saying a word. Then Francine smiled through her tears and took both of his hands in hers. She kneeled so they were eye-level and told him: I love you, Sticky.
She hugged him tight.
Sticky didn’t cry when her old Volkswagen van pulled out of the driveway and into the street. The old Mexican director’s hand on his shoulder. The cold wind on the back of his neck. Is this when you’re supposed to cry? he wondered as the van moved slowly down the long, busy road and mixed with other taillights. Is this when you’re supposed to feel sad and cry? Because his eyes were as dry as a Santa Ana.
Francine died three months later in a hospital just outside Manhattan. Sticky found out when he overheard some counselors whispering in the office.
When he heard it for a second time later that week, a big sit-down kinda conversation with the old Mexican director, he acted like he didn’t know.
Jimmy Comes Running
out the office when he hears all the racket. Everyb-b-b-b-body g-g-g-get out! he says, and points at the door.
Nobody notices.
He moves up to the core of the pack, invisible. Takes quick strained breaths.
Jimmy is: eyes the size of golf balls in thick Coke-bottle glasses, overgrown crop that starts a thumb’s width from his bushy eyebrows, old beat-up flea-bitten sweatshirt zipped up to the throat: ARMY FOOTBALL. He yanks the rock from Trey’s grasp and stomps his foot on the ground, yells: I s-s-s-s-said, everyb-b-b-b-body out!
Ballers stop dead and turn to check him this time.
Jimmy’s already shut Lincoln Rec down twice this summer. Stood by the soda machine with his arms crossed while everybody grabbed their stuff and filed out slow. First time after Big Mac blasted some first-timer in the mouth and wouldn’t stop kicking after he hit the ground. Guy’s teeth went through his bottom lip. Blood all over the low post area. The second time when Old-man Perkins pulled a gun and dudes hit the ground, ducked behind bleachers. But Jimmy’s bluffed on a handful of other occasions. When arguments build up like volcanoes and everybody blows at once. A chorus of over-the-top cursing and street ball threatening.
We ain’t done nuthin, New York yells.
Nah, Rob says. I ain’t movin one step.
G-g-g-g-get out! Jimmy says again, swinging an arm through the air and almost knocking off his glasses. He straightens himself out, adds: N-N-N-N-NOW!
Aah, come on, Jimmy, Dallas says.
It don’t gotta be like all that, Johnson says.
Old-man Perkins jumps off the bleachers and throws somebody’s towel onto the court. I ain’t even played one game yet.
Dante walks up cool as a cat and puts a hand on Jimmy’s shoulder. Just a simple misunderstanding, Jimmy, he says. We about to shoot for it right now, as a matter of fact. He looks in Jimmy’s magnified eyes and smiles white teeth.
Jimmy takes a deep breath to slow himself down. He looks back at Dante and shakes his head. You kn-kn-kn-kn-know th-th-this ain’t r-right, D-D-D.
I know it, Jimmy. I know it. The question is: What are we gonna do about it now?
All the c-c-c-c-cursin and h-h-h-h-h-h-hollerin. Jimmy squints his eyes and scrunches up his face to get all the words out.
You know how brothers be actin sometimes, Dante tells him.
Jimmy puts a hand on a hip and looks around at all the guys’ faces. Shakes his head, disgusted. B-b-b-but th-th-they’s imp-p-p-portant off-ff-ff-ff-ff-ffices next door, he says, and points at the east wall.
I know it, Jimmy. I know about all that. Dante reaches in slowly, takes the ball from Jimmy’s hands and bounces it a couple times off the hardwood. He palms the ball with his left hand and fingers his beard with the right. But we about to settle all this jazz right now.
Dante spins around and yells out: Hey, yo, Rob!
What? Rob yells back, sitting at half-court with his legs sticking straight out, weight on the palms of his hands behind him.
You made a call, shoot for it. Dante rolls the ball to Rob. Rob gets up slow, dribbles a few times and struts to the top of the key. Messed up I gotta shoot, he mumbles under his breath. White boy tries to tackle me and now I gotta shoot for it.
Rob’s the light-skinned black dude who preaches non-stop, up in the bleachers after games, about Marcus Garvey and Malcolm X. About going back to Africa and taking back from the “white devil.” All that passionate preaching and the very next day he’ll bring in a white chick to watch him play.
He steps up to the top of the key and takes a couple more bounces. Wipes hands on shorts and lofts up a high-arcing knuckleball that gets a good bounce on the rim and rolls in. Water! he says, and holds his right-hand follow-through in the air so everyone can check it. My rock!
You right, baby, Dante says. Your rock.
Ball don’t lie, Trey says. He picks the ball up and sticks it in New York’s face. New York slaps it out of his hands.
What’s the count? Slim says.
Anybody got the score? Dallas says.
My jumper’s like water, Rob says.
This is very bad call, Carlos says, and he gradually retreats back to his spot on the homeless court.
New York stares at Rob and laughs. Worst call I ever seen, he says. He shakes his head and walks toward the baseline.
Shut up and check ball, Rob says.
Dante puts his hand on Jimmy’s shoulder again and spins him back toward the office. See, it’s all good, Jimmy. My main man in charge. Boss man. Check it, we about to play straight up now. Some good old-fashion ball and no more quarrelin. He walks Jimmy as far as the bleachers, pats him on his back and lets him go.
Jimmy takes a few steps and turns around. N-n-no more qu-qu-qu-qu-qu-qu-quarrelin, though, D-D-D-D, he says, shaking his finger.
We done with all that, Jimmy, Dante says, with his hands in the air. Good old-fashion ball from now on. The way Dr. James Naismith intended it to be played all them years ago when he invented the game.
Jimmy stands nodding his head at Dante for a few seconds. Then he turns around and walks into his office, reaches a hand back and pulls the door shut behind him.
On the Way
back to Millers, just a week after he met Anh-thu there last summer, Sticky made himself a promise: A dude like him wasn’t leaving Millers empty-handed a second time.
He worked it all out in the back of a dark Number 3 bus. Next to some old lady who smelled like a wet sandbox. He came up with what route to take and how to keep his head in the game. Told himself over and over in his head: Just stay cool, man, stay cool.
But it wasn’t even a question, this trip he was jacking some khakis.
He busted in the open doors all business, stupid pop songs turned way too loud. The smell of cheap sample colognes. He steered straight up to the Anchor Blues and started searching for three or four pairs he could pull into a dressing room.
Walkman turned low enough this time to hear footsteps behind his back.
Hey, Anh-thu said, coming at him from the side. You’re back. She was excited to see him.
Sticky gave her a nod.
She put her elbows on the metal rack and watched Sticky’s mad search. You need some help? she said.
Sticky shook her off. Pulled out one pair, checked tags twice (price and size) and then stuck them back on the rack. When the sticking-back sound didn’t sound right, he pulled them off and stuck them back again. Pulled them off and stuck them back. He started to panic inside. Started sweating. Last thing he wanted to do in front of this pretty girl was act all retarded. But he couldn’t stop himself. He pulled them off and stuck them back again.
Pulled them off and stuck them back.
Pulled them off and stuck them bac
k.
Pulled them off and stuck them back.
Anh-thu didn’t understand what was happening, but she had to do something. She ignored Sticky’s refusal for help and stuck her hands in the mix. Right next to his. Acted like she didn’t even notice Sticky’s repetition. She pulled out a pair herself, looked at them, then stuck them back on the rack.
Sticky eventually got his cool back and they worked together, side by side.
Listen, Anh-thu said as they continued going through the rack. I have to apologize about last week. About saying you were my boyfriend. I just didn’t know what I could say at the time.
I ain’t worried about it, Sticky said.
I just didn’t want you to think I was weird. A pair of pants slipped off the hanger and dropped to the floor. Anh-thu picked them up and smoothed out the creases. I’ve seen you around school and stuff, though. You’re in Mrs. Edelson’s econ for third period, right?
Sticky nodded, held a pair of khakis up to his jeans.
I have her right after you. I’ve seen you walking out when I’m walking in.
Sticky kept his eyes on the cotton, told her: She boring.
Tell me about it. And she’s super scatterbrained. People say she puts vodka in her orange juice every morning. Anh-thu moved in closer to Sticky. She sifted through the pants shoulder to shoulder with him. Thirty-four in the light ones, right?
Sticky nodded.
Plus I’ve seen you play basketball, too.
And that was what did it, man. Sticky dropped his hands from the search and looked right at her. This green-eyed girl with long black hair. This perfect face floating through his head all week between runs at Lincoln Rec. Just like that: Anh-thu mentions one thing about hoops and Sticky’s at full attention.
Ball Don't Lie Page 6