“What time is it?” The question cracks up his entourage. From the crazed sound of their chortles, they are no doubt in need of food to soak up whatever chemicals they’ve ingested.
I look at my watch. He pulls out his phone. It shines.
“What, don’t you have a phone?”
He knows why. “Or some decent clothes? You buy some clothes with that cash?” I shake my head, embarrassed at the scene we’re making. Mr. Robbins has retreated to the other side of the room. “Luke, you don’t have to be doing this crap. You’re my little brother—I’ll teach you what you need to know. We could hang out all the time if you work with me—”
I feel a twinge when he says “little brother.” All I ever wanted, growing up, was to be like Mark. But I shake my head, enough to almost knock off the hairnet they make us wear.
Then I change the subject. “We’re going to be in the semi-finals. The game is Friday.”
“Busy.” Mark sits down, pulls in his chair, and pretends I don’t exist.
One word is all my brother has for me. I get it. He can’t stand basketball ever since he broke his ankle and lost his dreams. I head back to work. Mark turns to his friends. We don’t talk again until just before he exits. He hands me a tip. It is another crisp hundred. I pocket it.
17
Saturday Afternoon
February 18
Jefferson County Jail
One kid’s crying is so piercing that it injures my ears. There’s nothing I can do about it. I’m still stuck in the lobby at Jefferson County Jail with Mom. As fast as I move on the court is as slow as I move in this long line. I study the other visitors and realize I know a lot of them.
The jail, unlike Holman State Prison where Josh last did time, only allows visiting one day of the week. For one hour. Two people at a time. One pane of glass. Two phones.
“Hey, Luke, how’re you doing?” Josh asks when he picks up the phone. “How’s basketball season coming along?”
I tell him about the state tournament. He wants all the details because inside, there’s no news. It is like he lives on Mars, until Mom and I or his wife and four kids visit.
“You play hard and you’ll get yourself a college scholarship like Mark. But unlike him, maybe you won’t blow it.” The bitterness in Josh’s voice feels like sandpaper on my skin.
“I’ll try to do my best,” I say, trying to stay humble. “The next team we play is—”
“Listen, little brother, you don’t try anything. You do. You’re it.” He points at Mom. “You’re Mom’s last chance out of crummy apartments and off of government handouts.”
Mom looks as if she’s embarrassed for herself and proud of me at the same time.
“You can make some real money,” Josh says. “Not what you can make on the corner or even in a corner office, but NBA money. Buy her a house, a car, all the things I never could do.”
I try talking about something else, but like on the court, Josh stands his ground. He never was as good of a player as Mark or me because he never took the game seriously. “Josh, don’t—”
“One other thing, Luke.” Josh cradles the phone. “You got to make me a promise. No matter what happens to kick you back, you always push forward.”
“I’ll do my best, Josh.”
“I said that’s not enough!” He points at his blue county jumpsuit. “You’re gonna wear an NBA jersey, not one of these. Promise me.” I promise him. Mom watches us both, her eyes filled with tears.
18
Saturday Evening
February 18
Tuxedo Park
The smack of the ball off the backboard sounds like a fist against a face. Scott elbows me in the side to get in position to snatch the rebound. He is older and stronger but has fewer tools. The response he gets is a harder elbow. “Don’t do it again,” I say.
Tony, his teammate, cackles. Kevin doesn’t react other than a cold stare at Scott.
“What’re you gonna do about it?” Scott’s in my face, almost. I’ve got five inches on him.
“He’s just a kid,” Kevin says. I want to correct him. I’m the only man here. I get up every morning before sunrise. I go to school during the week and work a job on the weekend. I’m responsible, and that makes me a man, not a kid. “Besides, Mark wouldn’t like you hassling Li’l Mark. Right, Tony?”
Tony agrees, so Scott backs down. He fist-bumps me hard enough to break the skin.
“When you’re done playing ball,” Kevin says, “Mark says you should join our crew.”
I could be wearing three hoodies and those words would still chill me.
“What about it?” Tony asks. They have me surrounded, boxing me in. “You gonna work at Ryan’s all your life?”
Are they testing me? Teasing me? I compare the worn watchband on my wrist with the sparkling gold on Tony’s. Gold jewelry hangs from his ears and around his neck. If he dips his left hand that sports two gold rings into his pocket, Tony will come up with a wad of green bills.
“No, I won’t work at Ryan’s all my life,” I say, all serious, which just makes them laugh.
“Listen, Li’l Mark. Bet you think you’ll play college or pro ball,” Scott snorts. “So do half the guys who have ever passed through this court. Know how many of them made it? Probably none. You’ve gotta make a life. You can scrub dishes, or you can work for Mark. Help him out, and he’ll help you out. He’s your family, kid.”
I bounce the ball up and down, keeping time with my heart beating fast. Scott’s offering me a bite of the juicy apple and I’m feeling hungry. How much longer can I resist what seems inevitable? But if I work for Mark, I’ll lose my family too. Money comes in; Mom goes out.
It was one thing to hear those words from Mr. Edwards, but it’s another to hear them from Mark’s friends. They don’t say anything, I guess, unless Mark approves. They’re his messengers.
“We’ll see.” I grab the ball, dribble hard, leap high, and jam it down. Birmingham is called the magic city, but I will turn the playoffs into Luke’s Dunk Town and prove these guys, Grandma, Mr. Edwards, but mostly Mark, wrong. I have one direction. I move forward, not back.
19
Friday Morning
February 24
Jackson High School gym
The assembled student body roars in approval as Coach ends his pep talk by yelling, “We are going to win tonight and again on Saturday. We will be state champions!”
He had wanted players to speak, but I got out of it. Instead, I sit in my chair looking clumsy and feeling awkward, even more so when I catch a glimpse of graceful Trina up in the stands.
Once the assembly is over, everybody heads back to class. But not me. I have to see Mr. Edwards. Coach got me scholarship forms, saying, “Not if, Lucas, but when the offers come.”
Outside the gym, Trina yells my name. “I hope you win tonight, Lucas!” She makes her way through the crowd to where I’m standing.
“Thanks, Trina,” I say politely like Mom taught me. Trina always uses that word “hope” like Mom and Grandma. They think if they pray or hope hard enough that life will change. But it doesn’t. Mom and Grandma were born poor and unless I make it, they’ll die poor too. Mom’s back still hurts, so she can’t go to either of her jobs. Josh has no money, and she won’t take Mark’s money.
“Didn’t you hear Coach?” I say, and I try not to smile too wide. “He says we’re going to win. I know he’s right. We’re the best team in the state.”
“You are so confident!” says the always-upbeat Trina. “I wish I could be that way.”
I shrug my shoulders, which need to be strong and broad to carry the team to a win. “I think it’s not so much that I’m confident,” I say. “I’m cornered. An animal never fights harder than when it is trapped. I don’t want to get trapped here.”
Suddenly, Trina steps forward and kisses me on the cheek. She runs away before she can see my face flush like somebody smeared my cheeks with strawberry jam. I turn around to see Nate.
“All I got is the will to win.” I tuck my chin against my chest and walk away, fast.
20
Friday Afternoon
February 24
Jackson High School
Mr. Edwards clicks the pen almost in time with the seconds ticking on the clock on the wall. He’s looking over the financial aid form he had asked me to fill out. Mom hates filling out forms and always says she’s too busy, but since she’s not working, she lost that excuse. He points at the phone number space on the form. It is blank. “You forgot to fill that out,” he says, sounding bored.
Rather than tell him that Mom and I don’t have a phone, I write in the number to Ryan’s.
“And on this line.” He jabs the silver pen at the line for parental income. “This should be total monthly income.” He doesn’t ask outright if I’ve filled out that line correctly, but I get that he thinks the number’s too low to be right.
“I’ll fix it,” I say, except it’s not a mistake. That’s what Mom brings home, even with two jobs. I figure LeBron makes per minute more than Mom earns all year. “Anything else?”
“Just sign here to say that you’re not lying on this form.” He laughs. I don’t know why. “Which is ironic, because if you get accepted on an athletic scholarship, they’re going to lie to you, Lucas. The recruiters will tell you a bunch of stuff and none of it will turn out to be true. Trust me.”
I would not trust this man with anything, especially my future. He continues, “So, if you don’t get a scholarship, what do you plan to do? Did you talk to Russell about trade school like I told you?”
I shouldn’t feel bad, but I do. I hide my face. “I want to be on the court, not under a car.”
He sighs. “How about your mother, siblings, other relatives? Do they have careers that interest you?” He fakes caring like an expert.
“My mom works in the hospital. Mrs. Thompson thought maybe I could do that too. Maybe study to be a doctor or something?” Edwards scratches the back of his head with fury but says nothing, which says everything. He clicks his pen to cover the big silence in his small office.
21
Friday Evening
February 24
Birmingham Convention Complex
Game 4
The crowd roars as loud as a jet engine. I can only guess, having never been on a plane. For the first time, we’re playing in Birmingham, so our own fans fill half the stands. Since we’re up against nearby Homewood, their fans are backed by a band, making it a contest of whose side can be louder.
But that contest is nothing like the one on the court. All game, the lead has switched back and forth. They hit a three, we hit a triple. They sink two from the line, we do the same. They’re a little faster with their guards going coast-to-coast. Elijah’s trying not to show it, but he’s out of gas. Jeremy got into foul trouble early, so Nate took his minutes. Nate can fill the spot, but not Jeremy’s shoes.
Coach calls time with ten seconds left. We’re down by two. “Lucas, Paul, and Nate. I want all three of you at the top of the key. Elijah, you set close. When David inbounds, the three of you all break for your points on the line. Elijah, find Lucas. Pass it to him, and cut toward the basket. They’ll think the ball’s coming back to you for the tie, but we’re going for the win. Lucas, the shot is yours.” We bang fists and get ourselves into position to win the game.
The ball comes in. Eight seconds. The three of us break and Elijah finds me. Six seconds. It goes like Coach said, except I don’t have a good shot. I duck, fake—nothing. Four seconds. Paul comes down low, but the pass isn’t there. There’s one play. Three seconds.
I hurl the ball in between outstretched Homewood hands. Nate gathers it and fires an off-balance jumper from a foot outside the three-point line. It hits the rim and falls straight down as the buzzer sounds. The Jackson side of the stands explodes in applause. Someone starts chanting Nate’s name. Nate made the shot, but Coach knows I made the play. That’s what counts.
One other person knows that: Coach’s friend, the recruiter I’ve yet to meet. Coach told me he’d be in the stands. My guess is that he’s not cheering or chanting Nate’s name. The only sound, I hope, is his pen etching the name “Lucas Washington” on a letter of intent for Long Beach State.
22
Saturday Morning
February 25
On the bus from Gardendale
The bass and treble spill out of the cheap headphones that this kid about my age is wearing. Every thirty seconds or so, he gets really animated, making wild gestures with both his hands. I’d like to sleep, but his noise drowns out my beach waves. I’m also too pumped up from the victory last night, from talking to Trina on the bus this morning, and for the state championship game tonight.
When the bus makes a wide turn, the two bags of groceries I got at Foodland spill on the floor. As I pick up the food, I add up in my head how much money will be left over from my next paycheck. With no money coming in except what I make, I’ll have to start hitting the church pantries again.
Mr. Robbins offered to let me have the morning off to rest up for the game, but I told him no. He told me I’m dedicated. I am. Not to him or to Ryan’s but to helping Mom and me get out of here someday, maybe to California. Here, no matter how bright the sun, it always seems gray.
The wide streets of the city are free of cars, except those that are so patched up that I don’t know how they don’t fall apart with all the potholes that the city never fixes. There are some people walking down the sidewalks, always in small groups. Nobody feels safe alone. The pitted sidewalk is filled with cigarette butts. Each block looks the same: house, vacant lot, house for sale, deserted house, and house with an overgrown lawn. Nobody has any money here except the people taking the little bit of money the poor people have to spend. At the corner, there are a few stores, only about half of them open at this hour of the morning. Check-cashing places next to pawnshops next to the corner store selling lottery tickets. There are no decent places to eat or get fresh vegetables, but every big intersection has a church. Spirit full, but belly empty.
The guy in the headphones gets off at the stop before mine. As soon as he’s off the bus, he pulls out a smoke and lights it. The smoke makes the sky grayer. He heads for a corner store with the words beer, wine, and lottery in neon lights. I pull the cord and gather my things. This is my stop, but no matter what, I’m not staying here. These sidewalks won’t suck me down.
23
Saturday Afternoon
February 25
Lucas Washington’s apartment
Mom groans in pain when I help her out of bed. She leans on me to stand and get her balance. “Luke, I’m so sorry,” Mom says. Her teeth clench in pain; her eyes squint in agony.
“Mom, why don’t you see a doctor?” I deflect.
Mom shakes her head. That looks like it hurts too. The back is like the point guard in basketball: everything runs through it. Bad back, bad body. “How am I gonna afford that?”
This is Mom’s answer to almost any question for as long as I’ve asked. “I bet Mark—”
She rears her hand as if to strike me. “I’ll be fine.” I hate when Mom lies to me.
“You want to visit Josh today?” Another head-shake answer. “I know it means—”
“Luke, I’m sorry I failed as a mother,” Mom says. “Like Josh said, it’s up to you. I don’t mean playing in the NBA like he said, but just doing right. Stay in school and stay out of trouble. Can you do that for me? Lord, I don’t ask for much and I don’t expect anything. Can you?”
I hug Mom, which I bet hurts, but it’s the only response I’ve got. I help her walk toward the kitchen, not that there’s much of anything to eat. “I’d do anything for you. You know that?”
Mom starts to cry—silent tears because loud sobs would hurt too much. “I know.”
“You know why?” I ask, but don’t give her a chance to a
nswer. “It is not just because you’re my mom, but because of everything you did for me and for Josh and Mark. You passed it forward. You helped me up and supported me when I needed it. It is my turn.”
Mom and I walk together slowly toward the kitchen. We reach the table and she sits.
“You want some coffee?” All that’s left are the grounds of my coffee. She waves it off.
“All I want is for you to win that championship. I’ll pray for you.” I don’t ask how God decides between the prayers of Mom and those of the mom of the Carver team’s forward.
“If I had money, I’d bet on it,” I say with the pride of someone who knows his future.
24
Saturday Evening
February 25
Birmingham Convention Complex
Game 5
I don’t know what an earthquake sounds like, but this has to be close. With Carver and Jackson fans stomping the old wood bleachers, the floor seems to be shaking—and I’m shaking as I finally stop to look up at the scoreboard. We’re up sixty-six to sixty-three with a minute left.
“Lucas, you okay?” Coach asks. “You’re trying too hard and trying to do too much.”
I nod my sweaty head in agreement. I’ve gotten points, but few assists or boards. Almost every time I get the ball, I shoot it. I’m good, but even hitting fifty from the floor and a hundred from the line isn’t what the team needs. I know that. I glance at the stands and wonder what the pack of college recruiters and maybe—dream, baby, dream!—somebody from the Grizzlies wants me to do.
“Slow down, Luke,” Elijah reminds me. Coach and the other starters agree.
I don’t tell them I’ve only got one speed: full-force gale like a hurricane. “I know. I know.”
Pass It Forward Page 3