“Man up?” Wes shouts. “Like you know anything about being a man. Got the whole world kissing your ass ‘cause you can shoot a goddamn jumpshot.”
“It ain’t like that,” I tell him. I’m about to remind him how much sweat I’ve put in. The countless hours on the blacktop and in empty gyms and in film study. Never mind rehab. Never mind pre-season conditioning. Everyone thinks ballers just win some kind genetic lottery. They can’t see all the work that comes before someone’s a star. But before I can get that out, my phone rings again. And again I silence it.
“What the fuck ever,” Wes says. He shakes his head. Somewhere in there, I can tell he’s regretting acting this way even as he does it. But he won’t back down. He gestures wildly toward his window. “You ever look around these streets, D? I mean really look? It’s not exactly easy to get ahead, D. Not if you’re born this deep in the hole.”
It’s an excuse. A lie people around here tell themselves when things go wrong. It’s no different than when Jayson and I were little kids and we’d scream It’s not my fault when we broke a toy. At least that’s what my parents would say if they heard me talking the line Wes just gave me.
Though he’s got a point. I know that much. Even my parents, if you pinned them down on it, would concede it a little bit. These streets is right. There are worse places to be born, sure. But there are a lot better places too.
Wes glares at me for a few more seconds, daring me to say something back. When I don’t, he huffs in disgust and turns away. He looks out the window like he’s also taking inventory of our neighborhood. I know the deal. A murder rate a million times higher than the rest of the city. More high school dropouts than college graduates. Foreclosures. Repossessions. Dealers. Bangers. I mean, my house is a success story—and we’ve got an uncle crashing there who’s been busted for unemployment fraud, and my parents barely scrape by each month. My parents are also pretty fond of pointing out that if people up in Hamilton County think the world is so fair everywhere, then maybe they ought to boot their pampered kids out of their mansions and send them to Indianapolis schools for a while. We’ll see how fair fair is, Mom says sometimes.
“Wes,” I say. He wheels around and I can see that there’s water welling up in the corner of his eyes. He blinks it back, screws his face back into that tired, tough expression.
“What?” he snaps. “What you want to tell me ain’t been told me before?”
“Wes,” I repeat, but I’m at a loss. What I guess I’m thinking is that you have to believe in something other than the blind lottery of this neighborhood. You have to believe that you can rise above this muck, even if the real truth doesn’t back you up. I mean, in hoops if you don’t believe—you lose faith that the next shot is falling, that you’ll win the next game, that things will get better—then you’re dead in the water. I stare at my shoes for a long time. “Nothing,” I say. And then I keep watching my shoes as they leave Wes’ room, then pick their way through the disaster of his living room, then head out the door and land firmly on the sidewalk. How many times have I walked this stretch of pavement between our houses? I take a sharp breath of mid-December air. I try to will the door to open behind me, force Wes to tell me to wait up. I turn back and look. Nothing. Just the blank brick of that run-down house.
My phone rings again. I dig it from my pocked and shout, “What?!”
“Damn, D,” Kid says. “Answer your phone! Get your ass to the hospital, boy.” When I don’t say anything for a few seconds, Kid answers my unasked question. “Your mom’s in labor!”
PART II
12.
Basketball’s a crazy thing. When I was little it seemed like the calendar was broken up into two sections—basketball season and the bland, brutal months without hoops. Then, when I got good, it took over the whole year. Camps and summer leagues. Individual workouts. AAU. Pretty soon, there was no offseason. And once recruiting started? Oh, the NCAA might mandate some dead periods on that stuff, but from my end it feels pretty relentless.
Basketball is all there is. For years now, I’ve lived it, breathed it. I wake up thinking hoops. Go to bed visualizing greatness. Everyone I meet—everywhere—asks hoops first. To separate me, Derrick Bowen, from D-Bow, that player between the lines, is impossible. And I don’t even want people to. Who I am as a person is who I am as a player.
Then you get plopped down in a brown chair in the waiting room of a maternity ward. You watch your uncle pace back and forth in front of a window that looks out onto the parking lot. You watch the sky outside that window darken and fill with flurries. Your little brother passes the hours with his face buried in his phone—texting, surfing, playing a game that has the most grating music you’ve ever heard. Your dad sprints back and forth with updates. He instructs you to call relatives to keep them posted. Every time he comes into the waiting area, he loses a little more color in his face. His eyes look a little wider and more frantic each time. And then the updates stop. It goes from every half hour to nothing. Brutal silence for hours. Just the hum of hot air in the vents, the rhythmic clop of Uncle Kid’s feet on the hard floors, the blip-blip-bloop of Jayson’s phone.
Basketball is nothing.
At some point, Kid starts in on the coffee. Without even asking, he fetches some for me and Jayson too. And without thinking twice, we drink it. It’s dark, tarry stuff. Jayson tries his and almost gags. That affords me and Kid a brief laugh, but it doesn’t last. The sound echoes around the cavernous waiting area, and it almost spooks us. Earlier, the place hummed with nurses changing shifts, families coming to visit new mothers. Now it’s just us. The sky outside has long been dark. We all return to sipping our coffee—even Jayson who squints at the bitterness of every sip—and we don’t say a word. What’s to say? We each know what’s running through the others’ heads. Nothing but bad thoughts. We got here at 1:00, and now it’s nearing midnight. No news from Dad in five hours.
I stand and pace now. I work the same patch of carpet Kid did earlier. Back and forth, back and forth. I look out that window. A car passes now and then. The headlights cut through more flurries. I try not to let those bad thoughts take over. I decide that Mom and Dad, both exhausted, simply fell asleep before Dad could race down here to tell us the news. Or that they’re just taking their time, having a couple hours with their newborn before sharing the news with the world. But I can’t keep it up. Those both seem like ridiculous explanations to me. I stop pacing and look out the window again. At the far end of the parking lot, I see a man walking. His hood is pulled tight around his face. Even from here, I can tell he’s freezing. He walks one way, stops. Goes back a few rows of cars. Then he looks around, lost. He fishes in his pocket and presses a button on his keys. Once, twice, then a third time. He’s standing under a light post, and I can see clouds of warm air come from his mouth as he curses to himself. He can’t find his car. About six rows away, I see the taillights of a minivan blink when he presses the button again. He looks around. Perhaps he heard the bleep of the car, but he’s still not sure where. I think about going out to help him. Maybe the blast of cold in my face would do me good too.
Just then Kid’s at my side, a new cup of coffee in his hand. I accept it, even though the last one left a sour, burned taste in my mouth. I glance up at the clock. Past midnight now. Officially a school day. I can’t imagine going to Marion East in a few hours. Not because of straight fatigue—I’ve made plenty of first bells after late nights back on the basketball bus. But because it just seems like a different world entirely.
“D?” Jayson asks. Kid and I both turn to my little brother. He’s still sitting in that same chair, phone in one hand, Styrofoam cup in the other. He looks up at us, so much worry on his face that he looks like he used to when he was four, his lips trembling on the verge of tears.
There’s no staying silent now. Kid’s the first one to him. He insists everything’s okay. Gives him a playful punch on the shoulder.
Jayson nods, but then looks square at Kid. “You’
re just saying that.”
Now Kid looks at me, like I’m supposed to step in and save the situation. I start to mutter around, but I have no idea what to say.
Luckily, I don’t have to say a word. At last, Dad comes shuffling down the hallway. We all rise and step toward him, eager. But he looks so bleary, so out of it, that we stop in our tracks. We just assumed that he was coming to tell us good news. Things could go the other way.
Dad rubs his eyes. “You all want to come back and meet little Grace?” he asks.
Now we spring into action. We dump the coffee cups in the trash. We dowse our hands with the hand sanitizer stationed on the wall. We practically race past Dad to go back.
“Hey, easy. Easy,” he says. “Your mom doesn’t need a circus back there.”
We simmer down and then Kid asks, “Does Kaylene want me back there?” It’s a fair question. Of course Kid would be here to keep an eye on us if nothing else. But he and my mom have never exactly been tight. And she might not want to see the man who’s still crashing in what’s supposed to be the baby’s room.
Dad puts a hand on Kid’s shoulder. “Kid, you’re family. And Kaylene loves you. Remember, the day she stops getting tough with you is the day you know she’s done caring.”
Kid chuckles a little at that. We continue on down the hall. We’re halfway to Mom’s room before I realize Dad’s never actually said that everyone’s healthy. I hang back a second to talk to him. “Is everything, like, okay, Dad?”
He smiles. “Everything’s perfect, Derrick. Absolutely perfect.” He leans toward me a little bit, like sharing a secret. “But listen. Whenever you hear somebody talk about how tough some athlete is, remember this. There’s never been a man who lived that’s as tough as your mother.”
I don’t need the details. But I get what he means.
Up the hall, Kid and Jayson are lingering by Mom’s door, waiting for us. We catch up, and then Dad puts one hand on the door. With the other, he pats the air as if to say, Keep it calm. He pushes that door open. Then we walk in and I see my little sister.
We are one right now. That’s not always the case. We fight. We bicker. We get on each other’s nerves as much as any other family. But right now? We’re one. We all gaze down at Grace in Mom’s arms, the rest of us in a semi-circle around the hospital bed. People speak, I know, but nothing really registers. There’s just Grace. She’s a wriggly, trembling little thing, her bits of hair still slick. Once in a while, she’ll peer out of those tiny eyes, but she only looks toward Mom. She’s got some lungs on her too. Her cries come in short, loud bursts that echo in the cold room.
Finally my mom looks up at us. It’s like breaking a spell. We all suddenly realize where we are again. Her eyes seem tired, as they should be, but they’re wet with happy tears. And despite her fatigue there’s a life to them that I haven’t seen in a while. “Well,” she says, “what do you think of Grace?”
Dad looks up at us too. Jayson, Kid, and I kind of pull back, not knowing who’s supposed to answer. The delay is not the right move. “Don’t everyone speak at once,” Mom snaps. It’s like our silence has insulted her newborn.
“She’s perfect, Mom,” I say. And it’s easy to say because she is.
That pleases Mom. She bends her head down to look right in Grace’s eyes. “She is, isn’t she?” Mom says. Then she lifts Grace up a little, extending her toward me. “Want to hold your little sister, Derrick?”
I’m suddenly not so sure. I mean, yes, of course I want to hold my sister. But she’s so tiny. So fragile. I feel like if I hold her wrong, I’ll break her.
Dad can see what’s going on. “It’s okay, Derrick,” he says. “You can hold a baby tonight and still be a baller tomorrow. Just be gentle.”
So I pick her up. She squirms her little arm free from the swaddle. I have to tuck it back in before she scratches her face. And there we are. Me and my little sister. Her eyes seem unbelievably big. It’s like they bore right into me. All of a sudden I get something. This—holding a baby, taking care of a newborn—requires a lot more out of a man than anything on the court will ever do. All that locker room talk about manning up, about being a big man with the honeys. It’s just noise. Real men, I realize, can take care of things. And I’m just the big brother. That’s a whole different deal than being a daddy. But when those eyes look up at me, full of mystery, I get some idea of the massive responsibility that my parents have on their hands.
Grace blinks a couple times at me, then unleashes her little baby howl. When I look around—eyes wide like a freshman who’s forgotten the offense—my parents both laugh. “Just pat her,” my dad says. He motions in the air to show me how. I try it just like he suggests, but Grace just cries louder. That draws even more of a laugh from my mom. I want to be able to comfort Grace, but the more she cries the more I get nervous. The back of my neck feels hot, like somehow I’m failing an important test. I glance toward Jayson, make a slight offering to him, but he wants no part. He retreats three full steps toward the door, like a crying baby is a live grenade.
Like the star coming to bail out a scrub, Kid glides toward me, hands outstretched. I ease Grace into his arms. Kid starts to pat her just like Dad showed, but he holds her up closer to his face. He coos to her and mutters little phrases about how wonderful she is and how much he loves her. In seconds, she’s quiet. In a minute, she’s asleep.
“The natural,” Mom says. She shakes her head in amazement.
I can tell there’s a story behind this. “What do you mean?” I ask.
“You don’t remember?” Dad says. I shake my head. “Well, of course you wouldn’t from when you were a baby, but I thought maybe you’d remember from when Jayson was born.”
“What?” I say.
Mom jumps in now. “Kid’s the baby whisperer,” she says. “Any time we couldn’t get you or your brother settled, we’d call up your uncle.”
Dad snaps his fingers. “Like clockwork,” he says. “You wouldn’t think it to look at the guy, but there’s not a soul in the world can put a baby to sleep like Kid.”
I do take a long look at him. Dad’s right about Kid. Usually, there’s a jittery quality to him, like he’s on the verge of something bad. But holding Grace seems to calm Kid. Maybe he’s more in his element now than he ever was on the court. Maybe it’s hoops that got his head all twisted up with the wrong things. Maybe he should have been a family man like Dad all along. Just for a second, I get this glimpse of an alternate story of Kid’s life. One where he stops doing what he thinks will make him seem tough, and he does what’s in his heart instead.
Then he eases down to the couch, still holding Grace. “Gracie girl,” he says. “You good. Kid’s got you.” He kisses her on the forehead. It’s like the rest of us aren’t in the room at all.
13.
Somehow, there’s still school today. There might as well be fog swirling down the hallways for as much as I can focus. I drift from period to period. All I can think about is Mom’s long labor last night. Of little Gracie—already, she’s Gracie, courtesy of her Uncle Kid.
Outside of the American History classroom, I’m still sleepwalking. Then I feel something along the small of my back, trailing down toward the top of my jeans. I practically leap out of my shoes. Hell, if I could get that kind of vertical on the court, I’d be rolling.
“Lord, D. It’s me,” Lia says. “Where’s your head?”
I explain to her. As I start telling her about my little sister, somehow it makes it all more real—like as long as the news was just within the family, it was like a dream, but now it’s a true thing out in the world. I smile as I talk, but Lia doesn’t. When I finish, rather than saying congratulations or anything like that, she looks pained and shakes her head. “What?” I say.
“Derrick, were you even going to tell me?” she says, her voice rising into a half-scream at the end. “I’m your girlfriend and you couldn’t even text me last night?”
Before I know it, I’m rolling my eyes. T
hat sets Lia off even more. She gets ready to shout at me, but then she just crosses her arms across her chest, pinches her mouth shut, and looks away.
When she gets this way, I get all twisted up too. I’m torn between wanting to get down to beg forgiveness—tell her she’s the best thing I’ve got going and that I can’t imagine my world without her—and just turning away and leaving her there cold. Neither reaction would really seem like a lie. But I try for middle ground. I take a deep breath and try to explain. “It was super late, Lia,” I start. “At first I didn’t call you because everyone was rushing around like the baby was coming any second. And then it took forever, and I kept thinking I’d text you once I knew everything was okay, and then it took even longer, and…” I trail off. She’s not having it. Suddenly the notion dawns on me—maybe I won’t be the one to end it. Maybe she’s through with me. “I’m sorry,” I say. It sounds tired—probably because we say that to each other as much as anything else.
“Whatever,” she says. We look at each other for a few seconds. We’re only a couple feet apart, but we might as well be on opposite sides of the Grand Canyon. “Am I just wasting my time, Derrick?”
“What do you mean? We’re just, like, in a weird place, but it always gets better.”
She looks away again. “It’s not that. God, it’s not even about last night.” The bell rings for us to get to class, but neither one of us flinches. Lia thinks for a second, trying to find the right words. “I just feel like a big part of you is already gone. And I’m not invited.”
Maybe she’s right. Maybe the reason I can’t figure out how to respond to Lia is that in the back of my mind I keep seeing myself next year. I’ll be on some campus with the swirl of college around me. And when I picture that, Lia’s not there. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with our team too—I’ve got one foot out the door. But I can worry about that later. Right now, Lia.
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