by Paula Chase
“Let’s go,” Rollie said.
The scuffle ramped up the crowd, but calmed the teams—the tension between them masked in focus.
By the second half, Rollie’s heart was beating so fast his throat ached. Neither team was giving up. He leaned deep inside the huddle to hear better. The team’s collective funk was a thick, humid musk in his nose separate from his own. But he didn’t mind. Together they’d almost climbed out of a twelve-point deficit. Now with only seconds left on the clock, they had a chance to pull ahead and win it. With their sweaty bodies pressed against one another, they were one beating heart. In the middle, Tez drew a play on his clipboard. Even with him yelling, it felt like he was speaking regularly. Rollie pressed in until his words were clear.
“I think they gon’ pull an okey-doke on us and switch to zone,” Tez said. “We gonna let ’em play they selves. Rollie, do what you gotta do to get open. Simp, take it in like you going for the shot. Play it up. I want all their eyes on you.” His voice hardened. “Watch the clock, though. Once Rollie open, pass and let him sink it.” He gazed up at Rollie and nodded in affirmation for an answer never spoken. “Just sink it, pretty.”
Rollie’s heart banged in his chest. Tez was putting this all on him. If he got two points, they’d tie it up. The thought of battling in overtime made his stomach churn. If he sunk the three-point shot, the ‘Rauders won. But if he missed? The Pumas would eat up the time left and walk away champions. He felt Simp pound his shoulder. Heard his teammates growl, “’Rauders All Day.” But his mind was already going over the shot in his head. He could feel the ball in his hands. Saw the net shiver as the ball slid through.
It was like drumming. Feel it then do it.
The whistle blew.
Tez was right. After playing the entire game man-to-man, every Puma was protecting their one little piece of the court. Rollie grit his teeth to keep a smile from spreading. He threw the ball in and took his place like he was about to let Simp be the star of the show. Expecting this, Pumas sent two dudes at him. They were smooth with it, boxing Simp out like he was the sun trying to shine through thick gray clouds.
Open, Champ clapped for the ball. It drew the dude covering him to step in tighter. No one was worried about Rollie. The man covering him either figured they weren’t going to get any action or was confident that whoever their rebound man was would get him the ball in time. He was probably already celebrating in his mind when Rollie whipped past him and caught the ball. By the time Rollie was midair, his man was two seconds too late.
The ball floated from Rollie’s hands. With his hands arced in perfect form, he watched as the rock flew then swished effortlessly into the net. His teammates swooped in. Simp scooped him up and swung him around. The crowd went nuts.
The gym filled with “’Rauders All Day. ’Rauders All Day.”
They’d won. They were six times ’Peake champs.
Rauders 75, Pumas 74
When it was over, all Rollie wanted to know was, what would Tez have done with the new jackets if they hadn’t won? They had been waiting for them in their lockers after the game, shiny, gold, and bright. Everybody was so excited, nobody had asked—what if we had lost?
Rollie felt stupid for being the only one who wondered.
A week later he was still thinking about it as he headed to the shed, where Tez had agreed to meet him.
The jackets were gold, real gold not yellow gold, with black embroidered lettering. One sleeve had his number. The other had all six years that they’d won the ’Peake running down to the elbow. His name shimmered on the front and under it in quotes was Tez’s new nickname for him, “Silent But Deadly.” It wasn’t so much a nickname as a description, but Tez had been so proud, announcing it, that all Rollie could do was smile and pretend he liked it.
He had the jacket draped over his arm. He couldn’t accept it. It was bad enough he had felt like a fraud celebrating with everybody. Yeah, he’d helped the team win. Had helped them big by putting up twenty-five points. But when he was jumping around, embracing his teammates, shooting water at them, it was from relief.
He was done.
His feet picked up the pace, knowing he was finally ready to get out.
The Cove was bustling. Friday nights always were, but with the win it was a new layer of busy. The hood had put the ’Rauders up on their shoulder, rooting them to the win, and tomorrow Tez would repay everyone with a huge winter block party. Tables and makeshift grills of concrete blocks were already set out. The only thing better than a summer cookout was a winter one—any excuse to come out and show out. Every group he passed shouted out congratulations or “good game.”
Rollie let himself enjoy it. Everybody assumed he’d make the Sam Well High School team and was already fantasizing about it. Another Cove basketball star on the come up. He let them. Sooner or later the grapevine would find out he wasn’t trying out. He needed a break from basketball.
First thing he saw when he got to the rec was Simp and Cappy. They sat on the low wall, watching the traffic slow roll by. Both had on their jackets, which were bright in the dark night. For a second, Rollie wished he’d worn his instead of carrying it. His worry about anyone caring were quickly dashed when Cappy, with his face in his phone, only gave Rollie a nod before walking a few feet down to a stopped car. He leaned, his head just outside its window, said something, laughed, and gave the person in the passenger seat a quick grip.
“Roll-lay,” Simp called out. He was off the wall in an instant, his arms open for a pound.
Rollie gestured to Cappy. “Y’all working?”
“He is. I’m just chilling,” Simp said. His warmness zapped away like the sun disappearing behind a cloud.
First rule of the game: Don’t talk about the game. Especially to people who not in the game . . . anymore.
It hurt Rollie’s feelings. It would be a stone-cold lie to say it didn’t. Already he was just another mark. That’s how it was going to be now?
He switched the subject, hoped his face didn’t look as broken as it felt.
“You ain’t never hit the chat. You know the squad cooling over Chris and Chrissy’s tonight, right? You down?”
“Yeah, I saw. Naw. I’m good,” Simp said. His eyes looked over Rollie’s head, checking out the action on the street and sidewalk. Same as always. Rollie wasn’t sure Simp even knew he was doing it.
Cappy passed by and exchanged a fist bump with Rollie as he took his place back on the wall.
“Thought you and Chris was all right, now? You should slide through,” Rollie said.
Simp’s face went through a few emotions at once, like the computer in his brain was having a hard time processing whether to be amused, irritated, or torn.
“Yeah we good,” Simp said, finally. “Iouno, I might roll through. I hit you up if I do.” He put his hand out and Rollie gave it a grip. He felt even more cracked when Simp hit him with a dismissive, “All right then,” and headed back to the wall, where a small group of girls was talking to Cappy.
Rollie recognized two of them. They were sixth graders.
One of them was challenging Cappy, asking all loud why she couldn’t try on his jacket and he was going off more than he needed to, loving the attention. Rollie turned his back and started the walk to the team’s equipment shed. The girls’ high giggles made him want to turn around to see if they were laughing at him. He resisted, kept one foot in front of the other as the sidewalk led from the well-lit front to the shadowy side of the rec building.
If this was how it was going to be between him and Simp, him and any of his teammates once he officially left the game, it sucked. He wasn’t ready to feel like a stranger in the only neighborhood he knew. He didn’t go around beefing with people, but knowing a whole squad of dudes had his back if he did was like an invisible cloak—after a while what you did, how you acted was because you knew you had it on. He wasn’t just taking off the cloak, he was wiping away any protection it had ever given him.
Right before he hit the shed, he put the ’Rauders jacket on over his sweatshirt and zipped it all the way up like it would keep out the thoughts clouding his mind. Suddenly it felt like a bad idea to bust up into the shed without it on.
When he heard footsteps, he figured it was Simp. He smiled, thinking, He came to stand by me while I tell Tez. Ready to admit how scared he was, he swiveled around and nearly walked into Zahveay.
It was enough light for him to see his face clearly. Still he squinted, confused.
“Man, what the—” He checked behind Zahveay, expecting someone to be with him. When he saw they were alone, he reprimanded him, “Don’t be sliding up behind me like that. What’s wrong with you?”
Zahveay showed him his hands. “My bad. I called out to you, back there, but I guess you didn’t hear me.”
Rollie looked “back there.” They were only ten feet from the shed, but a good thirty yards from the commotion on the street. If Zah had called him, he would have heard him. It was dead quiet back this deep.
His muscles went tight. “What you want, son?”
“I never got to say congratulations. Y’all did that last Saturday.” Zahveay shoved his fist toward Rollie. When Rollie went to tap it, Zah grabbed his fist and pulled him in close.
Rollie pushed him with his free arm, but Zah’s grip was tight. They were so close, he smelled onions on Zah’s breath.
“What you doing, yo?”
“This ain’t personal, all right?” Zah said. For a second his eyes seemed to apologize, but then went flat again. “I gotta do what I gotta do.”
Rollie’s jaw tightened. Whatever was going on right now would be over in a minute. He’d let Zah say what he needed to. When it was over though . . . he already envisioned his free hand swinging at dude’s face. He was going to rock him.
He licked his lips, working to look like this didn’t faze him, even as his heart pounded.
“Everybody know Tez keep money in the shed,” Zah said.
Rollie made his voice, flat, uninterested. “Everybody who?”
“Don’t play me, son.” Zah gripped tighter and Rollie fought not to wince. For being a small dude, his squeeze was strong. “I know you one of his boys. Get me in there and nobody gotta get hurt.”
“Ay, look, I can’t do nothing for you. You rolled through here over some rumor about money in the shed?” Rollie asked, calmer than he felt.
Money in the shed. Bulletproof walls. A safe full of drugs. Those were the types of rumors that people spread about the place the ’Rauders kept their equipment. It wasn’t funny, because Zah looked dead serious, but Rollie forced a laugh up his throat. “You wylin’.”
“Rollie, this ain’t no joke, son. I ain’t no joke.”
“Whatever, man. If you all that, go right ahead and walk in the shed. It’s open. See if Tez don’t light you up.”
As Zah stared at the shed door, debating, his grip loosened enough for Rollie to snatch away. The move startled Zah. He looked from Rollie to the door, his hand struggling to get something out of his jacket pocket.
With a gun at his face, Rollie put his hands up. “What you—” was as far as he got when there was a pop. No, it was a crack—a mini crack of lightning exploding and striking his leg.
He stumbled back, crashed into the shed’s door, and fell. He tried to use his good leg to boost himself up, but the pain in his other leg blazed. It hurt too much to move. He watched as Zah faded into a silhouette then nothingness into the black of the trees.
The darkness shimmered. He blinked, trying to bring it back into focus. His leg was hot and cold. The heat suddenly raged as Tez burst out the shed door, bumping against Rollie.
Tez was waving something as he barked, “What happened?”
“Lightning,” Rollie said. But he wasn’t sure he was saying it aloud because Tez kept asking the question.
Rollie closed his eyes. When he looked up, again, the faces had multiplied. This had to be what fish in a bowl felt like, faces wavering above them. Everybody had the same wide-eyed look, like it was work to peer through the water at him.
He closed his eyes trying to stop the blurring. How come nobody was helping him up?
If he had help, he could at least stand on his good leg.
In his mind, he reached his arm out to signal them to help. Somehow, next thing he knew when he opened his eyes again, Simp was there gesturing, pointing toward the woods. Rollie wanted to turn and see what was in the woods. But knew better. Movement was bad. Plus, it was wet under him. He felt frozen to the ground.
He would never live it down if he had peed himself.
Simp squatted beside him.
Finally, somebody was helping him up.
Rollie went to lift his arm, but it was too heavy. He was suddenly fighting to keep his eyes open.
Simp scooted behind Rollie, gently pulling trying to prop him up. The heat in Rollie’s leg exploded and he screamed loud, long, and deep. He screamed like someone was stabbing his leg with hot metal pokers. He screamed like someone had broken glass inside his skin.
He screamed like he’d been shot. Because he’d been shot.
Zahveay had shot him and the wetness was blood. His blood. He couldn’t see it. God, he was so glad he couldn’t see it. Because just knowing it was there spilling all over the sidewalk made him want to throw up. His stomach seized then released, and vomit spewed from his mouth down the new shininess of his jacket.
Behind him, Simp was wimpering, “Son, it’s gonna be all right. You gonna be all right.”
The shimmering faces were shouting at each other about nine-one-one. And all Rollie wanted was for his g-ma to rub his temples. When he was little he’d lay his head on her lap at church and she’d rub his temples until he drifted off to sleep. One time he went to lie down and she scolded him. “Five years old is old enough to start listening to the sermon.” That’s when Rollie had stopped liking church as much—at least until he started playing drums instead. He wished G-ma and her soft warm hands were there. It was freezing on the sidewalk.
“We gon’ get them fools,” Cappy said. He swiped at the tears leaking from his eyes. He peered around like he had lost something then tapped on his phone. Every time it lit up it seemed another person arrived. So many people. None of them his g-ma. He wanted to tell Simp to call her, ask if she’d rub his temples.
He could barely hold his eyes open anymore. He wanted to sleep and could if it wasn’t so cold on the ground. If somebody could just move him or give him a blanket, he’d be all right.
“I’mma be all right,” he muttered.
Simp jiggled him. “Rollie? What you say, man? Stay with me, son.”
The pain stabbed at him. He screamed, “Man, stop moving. Please, stop moving,” but only in his head. He knew now he wasn’t saying anything they understood. Still he slurred again, “Ah be all righh if oo stah mooing.”
“I can’t understand you, son,” Simp said. He sounded like he was talking through a mouth full of water. “Who did this? Who shot you, Rollie?”
Rollie worked at forming Zah’s name. He pushed his tongue down, willing the word to come out right. It came out a hushed sigh, “Sah.”
Simp asked over and over, “Who shot you?”
Rollie gave up. He just needed to sleep for a few minutes. They could talk about it later. He hoped they’d wait for him before they served Zahveay the whipping he deserved. He was too tired to do it right now. But once he caught this nap . . .
Epilogue—
Simp’s April
For the Cove Marauders, if winter was about showing out, then spring was about showing off. Tryouts were a community affair. A time for everyone to see what “their” team might look like. Literally, since tryouts were held in the outside center court.
It was a public practice with plenty of drills and everything from full-court scrimmages to half-court one-on-one. Pressed parents, boy-crazy girls, and wannabe sports analysts showed up to see which boys ages eleven to thirteen had what it t
ook to be a rough ride ’Rauder.
Twenty-five dudes were trying out for the team’s six open slots. They would spend the whole day ripping and racing up the court, taking orders from assistant coaches and veteran players. Some would be sidelined by cramps. Some would give up the ghost (the breakfast and their lunch, too) on the sideline then get back out there. Others would simply drop out. And being the last man standing only counted if you were good enough with the rock. If you earned a spot, you were played hard during the summer league games. By the time the actual season started in November, even the newest player would feel like a veteran. But first, tryouts.
The returning players were on the court working as assistants to the assistant coaches and scrimmaging on demand. One minute they were correcting a boy on his technique, the next they were guarding that same boy at the blow of a whistle. The whistle commanded all, except the captain. He was exempt from the circus-like atmosphere. The reward for being “king.”
Simp sat on the silver bleacher on the sidelines, alone. He was geared up, just in case Tez asked him to demonstrate something. But Tez wouldn’t. Sitting on the sidelines let everybody know he was the man. Still, secretly he was down to jump in on a scrimmage.
Behind him, the crowd was festive. About fifty onlookers were dotted along the bleachers, picnic tables, and grass surrounding the court. It was only eleven a.m. but a few dudes were passing around a bottle wrapped in a brown bag. Simp doubted it was orange juice. Every few minutes somebody would yell out encouragement to their son, nephew, or the kid they’d put a side bet on.
Anybody watching, with sense, would be betting on Dre.
So far that day, he’d been vicious on defense and was beast anytime he had the ball. Simp had heard somebody yell, “Ay, is that little shorty from fifth court? Simp’s brother,” and after Dre had stolen the ball and taken it full court for a layup, “Little dude right there got the goods.”
Dre wasn’t trying out to make the team; he was trying out so Tez could show the hood that he still drew the best talent and most dedicated players. Who else would put themselves through this?