by Paula Chase
What if Dee got away and ran out in the street? Or Derek—he got faster every day. He had so much energy that letting him outside was like opening a can of shaken soda. His mother would kill him if anybody got hurt, Coach Tez calling him or not.
It was better when they were in the house. That’s what it was.
He walked fast, looking straight and about the business. Once he got past the rec center, the building blocked the ting of the ball bouncing, the shouts, arguments, and laughter. The Kay didn’t just suck the noise out of the Cove, it smothered it. Simp became more alert as he knocked on K-17, its ugly green looking like somebody had dipped a paintbrush in a can of smashed peas. He was surprised when Tez, not his girlfriend Gina, answered the door.
The diamonds in the T on his platinum-capped tooth gleamed at him.
“Ay, little soldier. That was fast.”
“I was just at the courts with my brothers,” Simp said, tapping his coach’s extended fist.
“That’s what I’m talking ’bout.” Tez nodded, proud. “Look at you, putting in work outside of practice. That ’Peake on lock.”
Simp didn’t bother to admit he had shot more pics of Dee than balls at the hoop. He stood, his back to the closed door, until Coach Tez invited him to have a seat.
Gina’s house was clean. Even though it smelled like fake lemons—like she spent all day cleaning—there was something right under that smell, too. It trailed in and out of his nose, disappearing when he inhaled to get a better feel for it.
He took a seat at a dark wood table, across from his coach. Two long white candles that had never been burned sat in silver holders in the middle of the table. Simp had to keep moving his head to get a full view of Coach Tez’s face.
They weren’t alone. Coach Tez never was. Upstairs was the swish-swish-swish of money in a counting machine. His mind immediately started calculating how much might be sitting just above his head. Coach Tez had at least fifteen people working the street, not counting the ’Rauders. There was probably thousands (hundreds of thousands?) lined up in neat stacks. He wondered if he’d ever be trusted with that job. His hands itched, thinking of being near that much cash.
“Everything good wit’ you?” Coach Tez asked.
Unless somebody told you different, Simp thought while saying out loud, “Yeah. Always.”
A stack of cash appeared in Coach Tez’s hands from beneath the table. The bills, folded neatly over one another, bulged. Without counting, Coach Tez halved the stack and pushed it across the table to Simp. “That’s for the last run you did.”
Simp pulled the cash to him and stuck it in his pocket.
Coach Tez frowned. “You ain’t gonna count it?”
“I trust you, Coach,” Simp said, jutting his chin out in what he hoped was confidence.
Coach Tez shook his head. “Nah. When it come to your coins, don’t trust no man.”
Suddenly Simp didn’t have a drop of spit in his mouth. He pulled the cash back out, ashamed, and counted. “Two hundred?” he asked, regretting the question in his voice.
“Yeah,” Coach Tez said, not only disappointed but now bored with the conversation. He barely hid his sigh. “Angel said you be ready run soon. On your own or with a crew. He said you a lot like him. But—” His mouth twisted in thought. He threw his hands up in question then leaned his elbows on the table, peering between the candles. “I still need think on that.”
No, I’m ready, Simp screamed in his head. He had wanted to count the money. Knew he should have, but he hadn’t wanted Coach Tez to think he didn’t trust him. It was a test. It always was. And he’d failed. It took everything to look Coach Tez in the face. He finally blinked, praying his eyes didn’t water.
Then as quickly as the storm came, it passed.
“Ay your brother . . . little Pitbull got it all.” Coach Tez’s head shook, this time in a tiny tic of excitement. His eyes were wide as he reminisced. “Little dude got some real speed on him. And he ain’t afraid. He was out there ready throw bows.” He chuckled. “Gotta watch that. Can’t have him fouling out. I can coach him up, though.”
Simp breathed easier. “He been waiting to be down with the ’Rauders for a minute.”
“How old is he?” Tez asked.
“He be twelve in July,” Simp said carefully.
“That’s right, he already supposed to be in middle school.” Tez rubbed at his chin. His right eyebrow went up then came back down. “You should have brought him to work out with the team earlier. I would have let him practice with us this year. Get him ready for next season.”
Simp had no answer for that. None that he’d ever say to Tez’s face anyway.
“Once I put you on to the run, I’mma go ahead and have little Pitbull work the fence with your boy, Rollie. Bring him by to see me, tomorrow.”
Simp opened his mouth to say something then sucked his lips in. Even when Tez filled the silence with, “That all right with you?” Simp knew better than to say no.
He swallowed once then again and managed to croak, “Yeah. Yeah, Coach.”
Tez stood up. Deep laughter came from upstairs, drawing his attention. He laughed, too, like he knew what was funny. “Counting money put you in a good mood. Know what I’m saying?” He walked to the door. “I want you know that you been killing it on the court. This might be our best team in a long time.”
Stupid pride swelled Simp’s chest. His thoughts were like cars in a fast lane zigzagging in and out. He was the captain of one of the best teams the ’Rauders ever had. Tez was putting Dre on, like it or not. With Rollie, who was ready to quit.
He couldn’t give Tez a heads-up about Rollie. That wouldn’t be right.
It was too much.
Next thing he knew, Tez was giving him a pound and a light push to the back and out the door. Simp stood on the front step, looking out at the court. Besides a dude washing his car, no one else was around. Nobody ever came to this court to truly chill. You ain’t come to the Kay unless you had to or was ready to get into something you didn’t have no business doing. Once you was in the Kay, wasn’t nowhere else to go but back out ’cause it was a dead end.
Tez wanted him to bring Dre back here. Back here to nothing.
He gritted his teeth hard enough for pain to shoot up his neck.
He couldn’t do this.
He had to do it.
He couldn’t.
He had to.
He . . . didn’t know anymore.
Rollie
Rollie had thought his mother was playing when she said Mr. B was on the phone with news. He’d never had a teacher call his house before. It was weird and got weirder when Mr. B told him that the Rowdy Boys were giving him another tryout.
He was going to get a second chance.
Either there was a whole lot of lame drummers out there or Mr. B was dead-on that something about Rollie’s drumming had the band wanting to check him out again.
Now here he was, back in the studio. Luckily, Mr. B had given him a heads-up that this time they wanted him to play with the band. If he hadn’t, Rollie would have turned into a straight-up fanboy. Instead, he walked in face neutral, drumsticks in his back pocket. The seven band members looked like any other group of dudes—they were all on their phones till Pee Wee announced him, “All right, fellas, this Ro who I told you about.”
Rollie couldn’t help himself. A smile dimpled his face. His grandmother’s nickname for him should have sounded weird coming out of Pee Wee’s mouth. He was like Mr. B, only rounder and a little more hood. Rollie had trusted him on sight. Or maybe it was just knowing he had helped TRB get out the hood and hoping he’d do the same for him. It could still happen, couldn’t it? They’d called him back.
He exchanged pounds with the band, reminding himself, with every fist knock and grip, that it was real. He really was standing here talking to B-Roam and Money Mike about what school he went to. They were surprised he wasn’t in high school yet. Dat Bass got happy. If Rollie made the band, he wouldn
’t be the baby anymore.
If.
Them talking like it was possible got the blood pumping through Rollie’s hands.
Pee Wee let them shoot the bo-bo for a few minutes, then clapped his hands. “I like that y’all vibing, but I wanna get this track laid.” He flicked a look at Mr. B. “You said he gotta basketball game, right?” He looked down at a big-face watch on his wrist. “How much time we got?”
“I gotta get him out of here at noon,” Mr. B said.
Rollie wanted to yell, “I got all day. I don’t care about the ’Peake.”
But he couldn’t do that. When he’d realized that the second audition was the same day as the ‘Peake, it made his stomach sick thinking about how to tell Tez. He had immediately told Mr. B and was glad he did because Mr. B talked him through it. The ’Rauders championship game wasn’t until afternoon. The audition was early morning. Mr. B would drive him to the auditorium and was even going to stay and watch the game.
“Let’s do this then,” Pee Wee said.
Him and Mr. B disappeared behind the glass.
“You nervous?” Lips, the horn player, asked.
“All day,” Rollie said with a laugh.
“Ride the beat and you be good,” Dat Bass said. Him and Rollie gripped. The other members came up and did the same.
Rollie got settled behind the drums. He clutched the drumstick hard, letting it bite into his hands to stop them from shaking.
B-Roam grabbed the mic stand, rocked it back and forth, and brought the mic up to his lips. “Yeauh. It’s your boy Roam back with that fiya.”
The second he said “fire,” Rollie hit the drum too hard. The note was too harsh. He didn’t stop, though. His fingers loosened around the drumstick enough to lighten his touch so that his rhythm rode perfectly under Roam’s vocals.
He was doing it.
Twenty minutes later his hands still tingled like they wanted more as him and Mr. B headed to the community college auditorium.
Mr. B had the windows cracked. The cool air wiped at Rollie’s brow and his cheeks. He’d worked up a good sweat and probably stank.
“How’d that feel?” Mr. B asked.
“Really good,” Rollie said, unable to stop smiling.
He leaned back on the head rest. His body floated. Even with the ’Peake minutes away, his mind was clear. Once he’d made the decision to quit the team after the tournament, he’d slept better. Did everything better, if the audition was any proof.
“You still might not get invited to join the band. You know that, right?”
“Yeah,” Rollie said. He closed his eyes. The jazz Mr. B had playing serenaded him softly.
He could tell Mr. B was looking his way as he asked, “You good with that?”
“I really want to get in,” Rollie said. He opened his eyes. “But if I don’t, I be good with it . . . probably.”
Mr. B’s laugh overpowered the sounds of smooth saxophone. “Well, being good ‘probably’ is better than nothing. You ready for the Pumas?”
“Ready as I’m gonna be.” Rollie reached behind his seat and grabbed his big duffel. The campus opened up before them. People streamed by, heading to the auditorium. “Glad the season over after this, though.”
He thought about telling Mr. B about quitting basketball. He was curious if Mr. B would think it was the right thing to do. But he was feeling too good. Too much talk about his decision about “basketball” would ruin it. He would rip it on the court today, then call it quits. That’s just how it would be.
Mr. B pulled his car into a long line of cars crawling in front of the auditorium. Passengers raced out of the cars and added to themselves to the line snaking out the door. It was the usual madness as people who only cared about the big game merged with folks who had staked out a seat earlier and sat through a few games they hadn’t cared about. The car behind them blared its horn when Mr. B took too long to creep his car an inch. Mr. B didn’t bat an eye. Didn’t even throw his hand (or finger) up at the person. He acted like they had all day.
“You been running a lot this semester. Your grades still holding up?”
“So far. Believe me, G-ma would be making me quit anything but drumming for church if they weren’t,” Rollie said. Just thinking about how late he stayed up studying just to keep B’s and C’s made him tired.
“You probably don’t want hear it, but you’re lucky you have a grandma and mother who stay on you.” Mr. B threw one hand up warding off a pretend attack. “And I’m done lecturing.” The car had reached the front door. “Have a good game, Roland. I’m risking being permanently banned from the Crossings to root for you.”
Rollie laughed. “You sure that’s a good idea?”
Mr. B shrugged and winked. “I’ll be fine.”
“Thanks again for helping me out today. With the ride and stuff,” Rollie said.
Mr. B tipped an imaginary hat. “Ball hard.”
The college’s gymnasium was way larger than where their other games were played. And still it was packed. The lobby was wall-to-wall people as the latecomers waited to file into the already crowded gym. Those near the entrance craned their necks, trying to eagle out a spot. Some people fussed about how slow the line moved. Others talked smack, getting game ready.
He was sure his mother was already in there somewhere. So was the squad. Everybody would either see ’Rauders six-peat or watch them fall back to earth from their streak. Usually seeing the crowd would get him nervous. But it was just a game. Really just a game.
Rollie squeezed through and found the team down a corridor, lounging. He wasn’t late, but still expected Simp to be salty. They usually rode together to their games. He was happy when Simp broke his convo with Cappy, put his fist out, and asked, “Everything good?”
Rollie wanted to tell him about the audition, but it was about the ’Peake, right now. He sent up one more silent wish and a prayer, in case He was listening this time, that he’d get the TRB gig, then went to answer Simp.
Tez entered from a side door and hollered at them to come inside the locker room.
As the top seed, they got the home team locker room. The good locker room. Carpeted floors. Tiny monitors all around playing the sports channel. Open, oak “lockers” which were big enough for the shorter players to stand in.
Each player sat in front of what he considered his locker on the shiny oak bench that curved around the entire room. Everybody was subdued. They waited to read Tez’s mood to see whether he wanted them excited and serious or excited and loose. Choose the wrong one and—well, no threat of drills since it was the last game—but nobody felt like being yelled at, either.
Tez stood on the giant Warriors’ logo, emblazoned red on the black carpet. Coach Monty flanked him. He clapped his hands, yelling “’Rauuuders . . . ’Rauuders . . . ” until the team clapped back and answered, “All Day. All Day.”
Just like somebody had turned on a faucet, the locker room grew lively with chatter, chants, and high-fives. Tez let them pump themselves up, then put his hands up for quiet.
“I need my captain come up here.” The team applauded as Simp walked up and took his place between Tez and Coach Monty. Once there, he stood at attention, listening intently. Tez put his arm around Simp’s shoulder. “I want y’all to know that this little dude, right here, one of the reasons we right back here for the sixth time. No shade to none of y’all, but Simp the hardest-working dude on that floor.”
Cappy, J-Roach, and a bunch of the others were eating it up. But Champ’s mouth was a thin line. It was a small sign—if you could even call it that—but enough for Rollie. Champ didn’t believe anymore, either. Or maybe he was just sick of basketball never being basketball.
If this was about basketball, nobody could take Simp’s shine. It wasn’t, though. Simp was the next man up. That was the message, in case anybody didn’t already know.
Rollie took a deep breath. The rest of Tez’s speech droned over his head. A lot of it was him willing them to win. The
n there was the low-key threat, “Win big. Ain’t nobody’s spot safe on a second-place team.” If the others caught that, it didn’t dampen their spirits. By the time they hit the floor, all anybody wanted was to do “win big.”
The crowd was in a frenzy when the teams jogged out of the locker room. As they stepped to the middle of the court, yells of “’Rauders All Day” and “Puuuma . . . Puma Power” drowned out the referee’s directions. Jeers went up as the teams lamely shook hands, a weak sign of sportsmanship that no one really meant.
Marcus and Simp barely touched fists as they eyeballed one another.
Simp bumped chests with Rollie. “We got this?”
“You know it,” Rollie said as they gripped.
When the ref’s whistle blew and the ball went up in the air, Rollie didn’t care about Tez’s rah-rah speech or winning big—but the energy flowed from his fingertips to his toes. This was his last game. He was gonna bring it.
The game was ugly from the start.
Reuben was gouged in the eye as he battled for the ball. He swung at the dude that poked him. The referee blew his whistle loud and long. He put his hands up, blew again until the crowd hushed. He bellowed so the crowd heard every word.
“We’re not doing this today, fellas. I’ll clear this entire gym if I have to—fans, coaches, everybody. I mean it.”
There were a few boos as the ref called a technical foul on Reuben. Rollie tapped Reuben on the butt. “Don’t let ’em get to you, man.”
Tez paced the sideline, staying smartly quiet.
As Slink took the shots for the Pumas, Simp gathered the team into a loose huddle.
“Y’all got keep your head, for real. Don’t be giving ’em points,” he said.
“Dude poked me in my damned eye,” Reuben said, scowling.
“Y’all can handle that in the street then. For now, let’s just take it to ’em,” Simp said.
A look of disgust flashed across Reuben’s face, but he dapped up Simp’s outstretched hand.