Ball Don't Lie

by Matt De La Peña

  Sticky turns and looks him in the face for the first time, says: I always play ball in here.

  Oh yeah? the cop says.

  Yeah, Sticky says. And I always will.

  The cop scans the gym, laughs a little under his breath and says: All right, kid. All right. But look around a little bit. Open your eyes. I mean, I’m just saying.

  Jimmy walks up and hands the two cops ice-cold Cokes, says: Such a h-h-h-hot d-d-day. Both cops crack open their cans.

  The black cop puts the can up to his forehead, says: Ah, man. It’s a hot one, all right.

  Sticky watches their necks vibrate as they suck down soda. Checks out the dark blue of their uniforms. The club and gun on either hip. The radio. The shiny leather shoes and cuffed pants. And right then he realizes something: cops are just normal people dressed up. They get hot and drink soda and clear their throats just like everybody else. They used to be seventeen, same as he is. And this is a strange idea for Sticky. Strange because cops have always just been blue robots to him. Nothing more, nothing less. Blue uniforms he had to avoid on the streets. Like a video game.

  Jimmy folds his arms and leans against the side of the bleachers. Checks out the action on the court. N-n-not m-m-much t-t-t-t-trouble in here m-most d-d-d-days, he says.

  No, you do a hell of a job, Jimmy, the white cop says, and he sets his empty can on the bleacher in front of him. Hardly ever get calls about this place.

  You run a tight ship with these characters, the black cop says. Don’t you, Jimmy?

  Jimmy cracks a baby smile and buries his hands in his pockets. He stands there awhile longer, watches Dante pick off a pass at half-court and streak down the right sideline all by himself. Watches Dante take off just outside the key, lean through the air and flush in a one-hand jam.

  The sideline erupts.

  Oh, man! the white cop says.

  D-d-d-d-damn, D-D-Dante, Jimmy says.

  The black cop sets his Coke can down and stands up, yells through megaphoned hands: Somebody tell that brother it ain’t right to get up that high! It just ain’t right!

  Sticky feels a surge of energy rush through his skinny frame. All that action on the floor and he’s stuck in the bleachers, yapping. All the highlights are going down without him. Everybody’s running up and down the court making music with their squeaking sneaks, and he’s no more than a spectator. No more a part of the show than the business guys watching in ties. He squeezes his fists together and sits up straight. Watches Rob inbound to Trey and everybody rumble back down the other way. He punches at his own legs a couple times. Feels the burn in his muscles and then sits on his hands.

  Jimmy picks up the empty cans and adjusts his glasses. Well, he says, I g-g-g-g-got s-s-some p-p-p-paperw-w-work in the off-ff-ff-ff-ffice. He reaches out a hand and both cops shake it.

  All right then, Jimmy, the black cop says.

  Be good, the white cop says.

  Jimmy nods his head, his magnified eyes gleaming with pride, and walks back toward his office.

  The cops put away their notepads and pens, their questions. They chill in the bleachers like everybody else for a while, watching the game.

  Sticky’s eyes follow the ball. Trey’s handling it at the top of the key. He swings it over to Slim and cuts through the lane. Slim holds the ball above his head while he surveys the scene. Sticky’s eyes are on the action, but his mind is somewhere else. It’s almost three in the afternoon according to the clock above the door. Not much time before he’s gotta break for the house, drop his bag off and grab a shower. Then he’s gotta pick out some smooth gear to wear and review the different ways he might swipe the bracelet.

  He spies the cops out of the corner of his eye.

  And then there’s the stuffed bear he’s gotta buy. Eleven bucks and some change at the old lady’s card shop. He peeks through the bleachers for his bag. Still there. That’s a lot of stuff to do before nine tonight. He touches the back of his fingers against his cut and checks them for blood. Nothing.

  The white cop nudges the black cop with an elbow, tells him: Used to be pretty good back in my day, Sam. Second leading scorer on the team in high school.

  The black cop shoots out a deep belly laugh and slaps a hand on his partner’s shoulder. About thirty years and fifty pounds ago, right?

  Both cops laugh.

  Sticky spies the clock again and does some minor math in his head. He should probably leave the gym by five-thirty. That would give him enough time to walk home, shower and figure out some gear. Then he’d bus it out to the promenade and size up the bracelet. According to his calculations that leaves him barely enough time for two more games. And he’s gotta get on it right now if he wants to make even that happen.

  We done? he asks the cops politely, standing up.

  I think we got the information we need, the black cop says.

  Don’t worry, kid, the white cop says. We’ll get right on this one.

  We’ll do everything we can, the black cop says.

  In fact, the white cop says, nudging his partner, it’s about time we start heading out.

  Let’s do it, the black cops says.

  Sticky nods and hops down from the bleachers. He walks over to a pack of guys waiting against the wall, asks them who has next. Does the guy have five? Who’s got the game after that? Does he need one? Yes? Cool.

  When his slot is secure he glances back up at the bleachers and discovers that neither cop has moved.

  My Name’s Sticky,

  Sticky said, first time a group of Lincoln Rec regulars got him in a corner and came with their questions.

  Nah, man, what’s your real name? Johnson said.

  Sticky is my real name.

  What kinda name is Sticky? Dallas said. He turned and laughed with his boys, told them: Y’all ever heard some crazy stuff like that?

  Sticky? Old-man Perkins said, trying hard to put his finger on it. Like, I spilled beer on my dashboard and now the shit’s all sticky, Sticky? Dallas nodded his head at the question. Johnson stopped laughing and waited for an answer, his mouth hanging open in a little o.

  But Sticky had nothing more to say. He was new at the gym and didn’t know these guys. He leaned his weight against the wall by the door. Pushed off with his fingertips and let his weight fall back to the wall again. Pushed off and fell back.

  Pushed off and fell back.

  I ain’t know no dude named Sticky before, Dreadlock Man mumbled. He was sitting on the seat of his beat-up green ten-speed, rolling a little forward and then stopping himself with the hand brake. Rolling back and then the hand brake.

  It was the sixth straight day Sticky had shown up at Lincoln Rec, and these guys had a right to their interview. They stood around him in a horseshoe. Old-man Perkins with his arms crossed; Dallas with a bag slung over his right shoulder and a little white stuff in the corners of his mouth; Johnson’s feet shoulder width apart, Raiders cap backwards; Dreadlock Man rolling back and forth on his bike. Slim hung behind a few feet. He sat with his back turned, stretching out his long legs—whenever somebody said something clever, you could hear his deep Carolina laugh. They were all digging for some background info on this new white kid coming in every day. Where’d he come from? What’s he thinking, trying to ball with a bunch of black folks? They asked all kinds of different questions that day, one after another, when the games had died down and Jimmy started going up and down the floor with a wet mop, but they couldn’t seem to get past the whole name thing.

  That the name that’s on your papers? Johnson asked.

  Sticky nodded. He stared down at their high-tops, said: It’s been the same thing since I was born.

  Know what, kid? Old-man Perkins took a couple steps forward, got right in Sticky’s face this time with his dead-serious look. Know what I got to say about that?

  There were a few seconds of heavy silence in the gym. Sticky snuck a quick look up at Perkins’s scowl and quickly went back to his shoes, Dreadlock Man stopped his bike cold, Slim tu
rned his body all the way around.

  Dallas peeked around the gym to see who was watching.

  Perkins pulled a knife from his pocket and flipped the blade out, puffed up over Sticky and swung a violent knife hand through the air. The blade wooshed by Sticky’s chin and Perkins yelled: That’s a stupid-ass name! leaning in extra hard on the word stupid.

  Everybody laughed.

  Dallas put a fist to his mouth, stomped the floor with his heel. Dreadlock Man made a whistling sound through his gold teeth. Perkins folded the knife up and stuck it back in his pocket. He pointed a finger at the side of Sticky’s head, told him: Your momma must of been all up in the pipe when you was born.

  Johnson pumped his fist at that line. His laugh was high and loud.

  Old-man Perkins reached out a fist and gave Dallas daps.

  But Sticky was telling lies.

  He started out Travis Reichard back in Virginia. Travis after Randy Travis, Baby’s favorite singer. But when they moved all the way out to Los Angeles, the name Travis quickly disappeared. Their apartment was above a Hostess wholesale shop. In the beginning, Baby would go downstairs and buy Cup Cakes every Sunday evening when they were half price. It was a once-a-week treat, and Sticky looked forward to their dessert. He had a system for eating the Cup Cakes: cakes first, the creamy filling, and then the sweet frosting. Baby would look at her boy after he’d polished off a pack, the chocolate all over his face, and she’d shake her head. You’re my little sticky boy, she’d say.

  But eventually Baby started making more frequent runs downstairs. Whenever she wasn’t in the mood to cook she’d go get a bunch of cupcakes and serve them on paper plates. And before long, she was always calling him Sticky Boy.

  For real, though, kid, Old-man Perkins said. Anybody can’t come in here tellin people what to call em. Look at this Dreadlock Man fool, he been tryin to get people to call em Peanut Butter since he first showed up two years ago. Peanut Butter, like the goddamn sandwich. You heard em yellin that out every time he shoot that broke-ass jumper he got.

  Come on, man, Dreadlock Man said. He laughed a little and shook his head. It ain’t like all that. I could shoot sweet when I gets my rhythm. For real. It’s just y’all ain’t never gonna pass me the ball enough. He looked at Sticky and pulled a thick dread out of his face. I ain’t never said to call me it. They just ain’t figure out when I gets my rhythm, that ball come bustin through that net like—

  D-man, Dallas interrupted. You sittin here lyin to that white boy. You know you came up to me and Dante way back and said you go by Peanut Butter. I remember like it was yesterday, right over there (he pointed and everybody looked) by the soda machine. You straight-up lyin to the kid.

  Nah, Dallas, nah. I ain’t never said to call me it, nah, it’s just when I gets my rhythm, that ball look like peanut butter goin through the net. The creamy kind with no nuts. Dreadlock Man held his hands up in the air. It all seemed pretty obvious to him. That’s what I said back when you talkin about, Dallas. I swear on my moms on that one.

  Dallas raised his eyebrows at him and shook his head. All right, if that’s how you wanna say it then.

  What I’m sayin, Old-man Perkins said, looking at Sticky, is you can’t be comin in here tellin people what to call you by. They may call you Sticky where you from, but that don’t apply here. This is a whole nother world.

  Sticky shrugged his shoulders and avoided Perkins’s eyes.

  Two, three weeks down the road and we’ll have somethin for you, Dallas said. Maybe sooner.

  I don’t care what you all call me, Sticky said. Cause I know my name’s still Sticky. He broke through their horseshoe and made a beeline for the bleachers where he had his bag tied up.

  The guys all looked at each other as he walked away. Dallas and Dreadlock Man laughed.

  You ain’t gotta go runnin off when grown people tryin to talk, Johnson said.

  Old-man Perkins fingered his stubble. He looked perplexed. I don’t think this dude understand who he talkin to.

  He think this place like Disneyland or some shit, Johnson said all excited, proud of his analogy. He think anybody can just come in here whenever they want and ride the rides and watch the shows and then just go home.

  All the guys nodded in agreement.

  And it sure ain’t no Disneyland, Dallas said.

  No Mickey Mouse, Dreadlock Man mumbled.

  Ain’t no line for no Space Mountain, Johnson added.

  Sticky reached under the bleachers for his bag. He unzipped the zipper and pulled out his headphones, carefully slipped them over his ears, making sure the duct tape was still holding strong. He pulled them off and put them back on.

  Pulled off and put back on.

  Pulled off and put back on.

  These dudes were coming at him and he wasn’t quite sure how to handle it. He didn’t wanna go home, but he wasn’t gonna let anybody call him something other than Sticky.

  Pulled off and put back on.

  Pulled off and put back on.

  Pulled off and put back on.

  When the worn-out pads on both phones were up against his ears just right, he pressed a thumb against the Play button and Tupac came to life.

  Slim stood up and slung his bag over his shoulder. Why don’t you all just leave the kid alone. I mean damn, he’s just here cause he wants to play ball. He didn’t show up lookin for no lecture about nicknames.

  There’s more to playin ball than just playin ball, Dallas said. You know that just as much as I do, Slim.

  Old-man Perkins walked over to the bleachers and swiped the headphones off Sticky’s ears. Hey, white boy, he said. We about to get this straightened out right now.

  Sticky stood up and yanked his phones out of Perkins’s hands, shot his eyes toward the open door. His escape. He glanced back at Perkins, who now held his hands up in the air, like he was trying to show some invisible referee it wasn’t him that fouled anybody. Easy, kid, he said.

  Don’t get stupid, Johnson said.

  Sticky eyed the door again, then Perkins.

  Easy.

  Slim walked over with his bag and climbed into the bleachers, sat a couple feet to Sticky’s left. He folded his arms and stared at Perkins.

  Sticky, trusting Slim for some reason, slowly sat back down and left the phones off his ears.

  I ain’t tryin to mess with you, kid, Perkins said. I’m just lettin you know.

  We tryin to teach you somethin, Johnson said.

  This the way things been, Old-man Perkins said, since long before you stumbled in here from wherever you stumbled in here from.

  Know why we call Slim, Slim? Dallas said, walking closer to Sticky. He looked at Slim and started laughing. We call this cat Slim cause even if he stood right between you and the clock, you could still tell what time it was.

  Everybody laughed. Slim laughed.

  Johnson sat up in the bleachers, too. Dreadlock Man coasted over on his ten-speed, one foot on a pedal, the other pushing off the wood floor. Jimmy leaned the mop against the wall near the homeless court and started going around the gym tearing off old outdated announcements.

  Slim stood up in the bleachers and pointed at Dallas. See this dude right here? he said, his eyes stuck on Sticky. You probably thinkin he must be from Dallas or somethin, with a name like Dallas. But he ain’t. New York was in here earlier, now we call him New York cause he legit. Born and raised in Brooklyn. My man Dallas, though, he’s from right down the road. Right over there on Washington next to the ninety-nine-cent store. Pure L.A., this dude. We call him Dallas cause he used to come in here talkin about that stupid-ass TV show called Dallas. Slim winked at Sticky, and that wink eased Sticky’s mind.

  Ain’t that right, big D? Old-man Perkins said, laughing. You black as night and watchin some show with a bunch of white folks sippin on champagne.

  Don’t make no kind of sense, Johnson said.

  One time I mention that show in here. Dallas crinkled his face and rolled his head around. One time
and all these dudes jump on it.

  Slim pounded the bleachers, laughing, and sat back down. Dallas waved him off.

  Same thing happened to me, though, Johnson said. My real name ain’t no Johnson. I came walkin in here three years ago as Dimarcus Jackson, same name as my granddaddy. A distinguished name. Jackson, not Johnson. And then cause I occasionally wore this one specific T-shirt I got for Christmas—

  Lemme stop you right there, Old-man Perkins interrupted, putting his hand on Johnson’s shoulder. Yeah, you came in Dimarias Jackson or some shit like that—

  Dimarcus!

  But for the first three months I seen you, no lie, you wore the same Big Johnson T-shirt every damn day. Never washed it, neither. That’s how we started callin em Big Johnson. Like the T-shirt . Old-man Perkins wrapped Johnson up in a bear hug and they stumbled out of the bleachers. Tell em bout that Big Johnson shirt. All them rips under the arms. Like you was some kinda homeless cat. They both laughed and wrestled around a little. And you supposed to be some big man workin for the city.

  Always talkin about his damn benefits, too, Dallas said. We was like, yo, forget Blue Shield, what they need to do is buy your ass a new shirt.

  Slim stepped off the bleachers and acted like he was gonna drop a WWF elbow on Johnson. Old-man Perkins let go when Johnson’s Raiders cap fell off his head. Johnson reached down and picked it up, pulled it on his head and adjusted the bill.

  And what about Jimmy over there, Dallas said. He pointed toward the homeless court where Jimmy was kneeling down next to an old Indian-looking woman. His real name wasn’t even Jimmy, right? He looked over at Old-man Perkins for him to pick the story up from there.

  That’s right, Perkins said, and he paused a sec to catch his breath.

  Sticky unzipped his bag and threw his Walkman inside, zipped it back up. He set the bag on the bleacher next to his feet.

  Dreadlock Man started rolling back and forth on his ten-speed again.

  Johnson took off his cap and checked out the bill. He brushed off some dust from the floor and pulled it back tight on his head.

  His real name is Sam, Old-man Perkins said. Me, Johnson and this guy Shotgun was all sittin right here in these bleachers talkin about that movie Hoosiers. Jimmy was walkin by and heard what we was talkin about. He says to us, Oh, I l-l-l-l-love that m-m-movie, man. Everybody laughed at Old-man Perkins’s version of Jimmy stuttering. Then Shotgun says, You like that movie, Sam? What you like about that movie, Sam?