Ball Don't Lie

by Matt De La Peña

  Scared eyes.

  Seven seconds . . . six seconds.

  All your guys clear out. Give space so you can break it down. Do your thing. Lay out crazy beats cause you’re the man on the mix. Official game ball leather is soft in your hands, man, like Anh-thu’s smooth face up in the crowd, watching. Cup it between your fingers and forearm and feel alive.

  Aware.

  Necessary.

  Cause, man, this is your jam they’re waiting for. And this is your world they’re waiting in.

  See Sinclair trailing the play, his big high-top sneakers like fists against a soundproof wall.

  See your path to the promised land. Without looking. Left side of the lane, where a dozen possibilities flash through your head. See your red carpet. See your yellow brick road. Hesitate. Get a split-second survey.

  Feel the electricity, man, of two thousand faces burning on YOU. Four thousand eyes in the back pocket of YOUR hoop shorts.

  Revel in it.

  Five seconds . . . four seconds. Take off with your head down. . . .

  Know the statues around you. Guys’ empty faces.

  Know the power in your legs and feet. The spring in your step.

  Know the ticking of the clock.

  Know what purple jerseys will do before they do it. It’s in the way they lean.

  Know the six inches of open lane that will be cut off by which guy and at what point.

  Know your coach’s crinkled leather face on the sideline. The ref with the whistle in his mouth, backpedaling.

  Know your defender’s wide eyes as a pathway to his mind.

  Know your body inside and out. That it will do exactly as it’s told.

  Know the ball in your hands as you put it on the floor.

  Know your third move before you make your first.

  Know quickness.

  Know stopping on a dime.

  Know nothing.

  Three seconds. When you blast past the slo-mo purple jersey with straight teeth, pouring out of a jar thick like syrup, the biggest purple jersey leaves his guy to cut you off. Like you knew he would. Like a stray dog after a fake toss.

  You stutter-step around his tree-trunk legs and cross over.

  You feel the brush of another purple jersey, like a rush of wind across your left side. But you dance by that, too. When your Nikes get in the paint, you lift into the air with the ball cupped like a football. Like a running back going over the top at the goal line. Dirty work before an end-Zone shuffle.

  You feel the weight of everybody in the gym holding their breath. Out of their seats and balanced on flexed toes. Bodies frozen and useless.

  Purple jersey arms swing like they might block your shot, but here’s the thing: It ain’t nothing but a street ball game to you. Down at Lincoln Rec. Old-man Perkins in the bleachers. Fat Chuck. Dante and his rainbow jumpers. Everybody talking trash and cheating on the score. It ain’t nothing but a game to eleven with two full squads on the sideline, waiting.

  Defender arms swing, but they don’t get nothing.

  Hands full of empty air.

  And when you got them all committed like that, exposed and in the air, that’s when you pull it out of your pocket. That’s when you break out the around-the-back flip, no-look style, to a wide-open Reggie. Purple arms get sucked back down by gravity, and your guy Reggie is laying it up off the glass for the game winner.

  And it’s nothing but that white-space thing again.

  Sticky watched his coach leap up and down like a clown. Watched him hold back the assistant coaches with an arm bar. He watched the guys on his bench grab each other around the waist and point into the crowd. Slap fives and pump fists. He watched the biggest Dominguez Hills player in-bound the ball to their star guard. Watched him loft up a weak three-quarter-court prayer. Watched the way their bench crumbled when the ball fell twenty feet short as time expired.

  All this. It happens for you in silence.

  The final buzzer went off and the home crowd erupted. Everybody stomping their feet and yelling for the other team to get the hell out of the gym. Slapping hands with whoever stood on the right or left. As the band sounded off, all the guys on the bench sprang into the air, charged the court and dog-piled on Reggie. A pile of Venice hoops at midcourt. Sticky stood next to them, breathing fast, putting his hand on one of their shoulders, then taking it off.

  A group of Venice football players charged the court with lettermen’s jackets on. They ripped big banners off the walls and paraded around the court, holding them high above their heads. Everybody on the Dominguez Hills squad sat still on their bench, watched Venice celebrate. Some had white towels spilling off lowered heads.

  Coach Reynolds pulled Sticky aside in the middle of all the mayhem. Shoulda had you up here all year, son, he said, trying to catch his breath. Twenty-three years on a sideline in his leather-black face. He palmed the back of Sticky’s sweaty head and shook it around. Goddamn, boy! That was one hell of a pass you just made!

  Fat Jay, the squad’s big backup center, and Sinclair picked Reggie up and carried him into the stands. Reggie’s good for the game winner! Fat Jay kept chanting. Good for the game winner! Sent em on their way!

  Dave and Sin, Sticky’s boys from the JV team, ran up into the stands after Sticky and jumped all over him. MVP! they kept yelling. MVP!

  The school’s longtime gym custodian, Manuel, came up and hugged Sticky. A small old Mexican man with a chewed-up beard. One of the best wins I’ve ever seen, he said, letting go of Sticky and wiping his face with a towel. Sticky used to walk with Manuel while he mopped the floor before JV practices and games. Listened to him talk about old-time hoops: Jerry West and Pistol Pete. Dr. J., Magic and Bird. Sticky reached out for Manuel’s hand in the middle of the celebration, shook it firm. Manuel would let Sticky hang in the gym solo on weeknights. And Sticky appreciated it. He’d spend hours working on his shooting and ball handling. Manuel would play dumb, pretend he didn’t hear a basketball tapping the hardwood or rattling the rim when he closed it down for the night. And they’d never spoken a word of it, even to each other. But this handshake, Sticky thought, this was saying it all.

  Yo, Stick, Dave said. Let’s roll. We gotta celebrate.

  Come on, Sin said.

  Cool, Sticky said. He let go of Manuel’s hand and looked him in the eyes. He nodded.

  One of the best wins ever, Manuel said again, then he made his way back down the bleachers, weaving through the thick packs of hyped-up students, and stood by his cart.

  Anh-thu and her friend Laura were standing at the end of the bleachers. Sticky signaled for Dave and Sin to hold on and he hustled over to her.

  Oh, my God! Laura said. You were amazing!

  Thanks, Sticky said.

  Anh-thu stood staring at Sticky, a huge smile painted on her face.

  Sticky kissed her cheek, told her: It was a good game, huh?

  Oh, my God, it was the best game ever! Anh-thu said. She covered her face with her free hand, looked at the ground. Oh, my God, I can’t stop smiling.

  Come on, Stick! Sin yelled out from near the gym exit.

  MVP! Dave yelled, cupping his hand around his mouth. MVP!

  Go on, Anh-thu said. Celebrate with your boys. But call me tonight. And when Sticky nodded, she snuck him a quick little hug.

  The fellas all hopped in Sin’s ’67 Impala after Sticky grabbed his bag from the locker room. Dave was about 6’ 6’’ so he rode shotgun. Sticky slid in back and pulled his jeans on over his hoop shorts. Pulled a clean sweatshirt on right over his sweaty jersey. He leaned forward and they all talked over each other about the comeback.

  Sin turned down his reggae beats. You see their coach’s face, man? When we locked em up at eighty? Serious, you see that dude’s look?

  Dave and Sticky laughed and pounded the roof.

  Dave slapped a hand onto Sin’s shoulder, said: Nah, man, you see him throw his hands in the air when Stick took dude three straight times? He didn’t know who the hell Sti
ck was.

  Sin said: Wasn’t no scouting report on no number seven.

  Dave spun around to Sticky. They didn’t even know who you was, Stick.

  Sin pounded his steering wheel and yelled a grown man’s yell: Hell yeah! Veins rising in his neck. He cranked up his beats again, so loud the whole car vibrated. Then he peeled out of the school parking lot, laying on the horn a few times with the heel of his hand, and headed north toward Santa Monica.

  The Fellas All

  started for the JV squad (Sticky, Dave and Sin) before Sticky got called up to varsity for the play-offs.

  Sticky ran the point, led the team in both scoring and assists (25.9 ppg, 5.6 apg). Sin and Dave operated down low, controlled things in the paint.

  Sin’s a muscular first-generation Puerto Rican American who was also the star running back on the JV football squad. He’s dark skinned with blue eyes. Not an ounce of body fat. The ladies tend to go wherever he’s going.

  Dave’s a tall, skinny white kid from deep Venice. A section of the neighborhood people used to call Ghost Town due to the number of unsolved shootings. Everybody thinks he’s a shade crazy because he’s always mumbling to himself. He lives in a one-bedroom apartment on Fifth with his mom and three sisters. Man of the house.

  Things got off to a rough start when Sticky first came in at the beginning of the school year. Sin and Dave tried to be cool after open gyms, talked to him about the team and the coach and the best-looking cheerleaders, but Sticky wouldn’t look anybody in the eye. It was his third school in two years, and he wasn’t sure these punks by the beach were worth his time.

  Sure, he showed up every time the coaches opened the gym. He listened when they went over pick-and-rolls, various zone defenses, and the half-court trap. He ran the sprints hard during conditioning. Never once complained. He even showed up for the big fund-raiser on Main Street, washed and dried cars all day like everybody else. But he never said a word to any of his new teammates. No jokes. No boasting. No talk of the past. He simply kept his mouth shut, his head down.

  Sin finally grabbed Sticky by the neck before the first official practice of the season. They were in the locker room and Sticky’d gone up without saying a word and shut off Sin’s reggae. He flipped it to his favorite hip-hop station and went back to lacing up his kicks. Sin froze, beanie in hand. He looked at a couple guys on the team, confused. They shrugged.

  Yo, go put my tape back on, Sin said.

  Sticky didn’t look up.

  Yo! Sin yelled this time. Go put my damn tape back on!

  When Sticky didn’t answer him that time, Sin stood up and walked toward him. See, there’s one thing most people don’t know about Puerto Ricans. You don’t mess with their music. When Sin was halfway to Sticky he tossed his beanie to the side and charged.

  Sticky sensed it was coming and fired one of his Nikes. Sin ducked and grabbed for Sticky’s neck.

  Sticky reached back and threw a series of wild punches, none of which landed, and then threw an elbow that caught Sin in the side of his shaved head. Sin grabbed Sticky’s arms and put him in a tight headlock. They wrestled around on the floor, clawing at each other’s faces, until the coaches came running in and pulled Sin off. Separated the two teammates.

  What the hell’s going on? Coach Reynolds demanded.

  What are you doing? Coach Wilkins said.

  Sticky and Sin didn’t answer, they just stared at each other with fire in their eyes. The right side of Sticky’s face was all scratched up and red. Both of their chests were moving in and out quick. Their fists were still clenched.

  That was when the coaches pulled Sin into their office and explained about Sticky. How he had just moved into some house off Rose with five other strays. How it was the fourth foster home he’d lived in since the age of seven. Coach Wilkins, the JV coach, leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. So cut the kid some slack, big guy, he said. You can do that, right?

  Sin shifted around in his chair, touched his fingers to a red spot on his cheek, checked them for blood. Nothing.

  Coach Reynolds opened up a file he pulled from his desk drawer and cleared his throat. Listen, I know there are some major discipline issues we’re facing with this kid. He thumbed through some of the paperwork. Scanned one of the pages with his finger. But he gives y’all a legitimate point guard.

  He’s gonna make your life so much easier, Sin, Coach Wilkins said. His penetration will lead to easy buckets for you. Plus the kid can shoot the lights out. He’s gonna stretch defenses out and you and Dave will have a goddamn field day inside.

  Listen, son, Coach Reynolds said. I want you to cut this stuff out right now, OK? Just squash it. He leaned back in his chair, worked a toothpick in between his teeth. In fact, I don’t wanna hear nothing else about you two ever again. He looked over at Coach Wilkins. Right, Coach?

  Right, Coach Wilkins said.

  Sin shifted around in his chair, touched his fingers to the red spot on his cheek again. Nothing.

  Coach Reynolds folded up the file and put it back in his desk drawer. Coach Wilkins lifted a whistle from the floor and put it around his neck.

  Sin looked to Coach Wilkins, said: All I’m saying, Coach, is that he ain’t got no respect, and if he keeps on—

  What I’m saying, Sin, Coach Reynolds interrupted, pulling the toothpick from his mouth. Is we don’t need you adding fuel to the fire. Got it?

  Got it, Sin said.

  Good, Coach Reynolds said.

  Now go stretch out, Coach Wilkins said. We’ll start practice in five minutes.

  After that first practice Sin waited for Sticky in the parking lot. He didn’t say one word to him until after he knocked him to the pavement with an overhand right to the ear.

  That’s right, boy! he said, pouncing on Sticky.

  In the scramble, Sticky kept yelling out: I’ll kill you, man! I’ll kill you! He tried as hard as he could to roll over and get up, but Sin was too strong.

  Sin put a knee in Sticky’s chest and stared down at him with this wild look in his eyes. Told him: I don’t give a shit how many foster homes you been in. And you can believe that.

  After a few more minutes, Sticky stopped struggling and let his eyes come up to Sin’s. In them he saw two tiny reflections of himself. Then he turned his head and let all his muscles relax.

  It was over.

  Carmen Rolled Up

  to Sticky’s foster care pad in a beat-up Chevy Nova with the backseat ripped out. The passenger seat was piled high with roses, tulips and daises. Sunflowers. Sticky was twelve.

  Carmen was Sticky’s second foster lady, and she was much younger than Francine. Prettier, too. She stepped out of the car wearing cutoff jean shorts and a tight black half-shirt. Her wavy brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail except for the wispy bangs that framed her dark brown eyes. As Carmen walked up the driveway, Counselor Amy said she looked like a movie star. Counselor Jenny argued she looked more like a runway model. But throughout the whole pickup process, Carmen never once cracked a smile. She kept a serious face through all the paperwork. Through the introductions. Through the awkward session in the driveway when everybody hugged and waved goodbye.

  She didn’t have a whole lot to say, either. On the long drive through traffic to Costa Mesa she kept her mouth shut and lips sealed. Hands gripped the steering wheel at ten and two. She turned on the radio, tuned in a Spanish station and tuned this new foster kid out.

  Sticky sat Indian style in the empty back of the car, leaned against his bag. Around corners he’d put a hand out to keep from falling over. To pass the time he stared out the back window and kept a running head count of all the cars they passed.

  When Carmen pulled up to a run-down apartment complex under the freeway overpass, security bars on every window, a good-looking light-skinned Hispanic dude came rushing out of the corner apartment with an electric guitar around his neck. He swung open the back door and helped Sticky get out. Hey, bro, I’m Ruben, he said. I’m gonna be you
r new dad. He smiled so big you could see all his teeth.

  Ruben picked up Sticky’s bag and carried it around to his wife. He kissed her on the cheek and said: Thanks for going for me, baby. We couldn’t quit until we worked out that chorus.

  Ruben carried Sticky’s bag inside and slid it next to a buzzing amp, which he flipped off. He stuck his guitar on an empty guitar stand and turned his attention to Sticky. Bro, you don’t even know. I’m totally stoked to have a kid. He pulled a couple picks out of his pocket and set them on the amp. We found out six months ago that my old lady can’t have no babies. She can get pregnant and all that, but somethin always happens before it gets born.

  Carmen overheard Ruben and stormed out of the room. She slammed their bedroom door.

  Ruben looked at Sticky, said: That’s why you here, bro.

  Before Sticky could even hit the bathroom, Ruben lobbed him a baseball glove and pulled him into the street to toss a ball around. He squatted like a catcher and told Sticky to fire it in there. I’ll let you know if it’s a ball or a strike, he said. I played ball in high school.

  The shadow from a tall tree hung over Ruben like a giant tarp. Sticky stood in the sun. There was a line between them on the pavement where shade was creeping in on sunlight. Sticky stared at that line, tossing the baseball into the heel of his glove, trying to make the perfect popping sound. He tossed the ball into his glove, again and again, and thought about how much different it was with Francine on the first day. Tossed the ball into his glove. Pulled it out and tossed the ball into his glove. How Francine smiled so much on their drive to her house, stopped off at a mall and let him pick stuff out for his bedroom.

  Tossed the ball into his glove. Pulled it out and tossed the ball into his glove.

  Finally Ruben called out: Come on, bro! Just peep the target and let it go!

  The street smelled like carne asada grilling on a barbecue. Like refried beans. Like fresh-rolled tortillas bubbling up with steam on some old Mexican lady’s griddle.