Quicks

by Kevin Waltman

  Jayson finally lowers that script from his face and peers over at me. “What you doing?” he asks.

  “Thinking about the game,” I say.

  “Well, try not to think about how you guys stunk up the gym last time out.” I sit up and glare at Jayson. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. The one thing I can always count on with Jayson is that he’ll stir it up if he’s got a chance. “For real,” he says. “I don’t want to waste my time watching games where a team half-asses it.”

  “Like you know anything about it!” I shout. He’s got me worked up again.

  I’m sure Jayson would keep on, heckling me about everything from my schools to my choice of music in my headphones. We get interrupted though by an explosion of noise in the living room. At first I think something’s wrong, but then I hear a high-pitched squeal from my mom—girlish excitement I haven’t heard from her in forever. Jayson and I both drop everything and head out.

  When we reach the end of the hall, we see Uncle Kid still standing by the door. He’s got Grace, in her car seat, in his hand. He gently bounces her up and down while Grace sleeps peacefully. Which means that whatever the excitement’s about, it isn’t focused on Kid and Grace. Then I hear Dad’s voice. “It’s just so good to see you, April.”

  April? Now that I didn’t expect. I’d be readier to believe Fuller flushes one in Thurmond’s grill tonight instead of the fact that April—Kid’s ex—would show up at our house today. The family’s only seen her once before—last year when Kid brought her by to show her off. And now, just like then, the whole house brightens. Mom immediately apologizes for the mess and starts darting around tidying up. Dad straightens up in an almost military posture, smiles like he just scratched off a winning lottery ticket.

  But none of them top Jayson. He practically elbows me out of the way to walk up to April. He holds out his hand, says, “Can I take your coat?” April laughs, but she sheds her coat and folds it neatly into Jayson’s arms like she’s bestowing a gift.

  “All right,” Kid says, “can we just sit down and act normal?” He sets Grace’s car seat down, unbuckles her and hands her to Mom. Then he hands Mom the squeaky bear too, which has now become like a safety valve for anyone holding Gracie. Grace starts to stir, but instead of crying she gives a big coo, on best behavior around April.

  I’m excited to see her too. But I’m wary. Any time Kid walks in the door with good news, there’s something bad trailing close behind it. That’s bad to say, but it’s what we’ve come to expect. Finally everyone sits down—except for Mom, who stands and bounces Grace—in the living room. I ease in between Kid and Jayson on the couch. Dad pulls up a kitchen chair, and he lets April have his recliner. Then we all just look at each other.

  “Sooooo,” April says. She glances nervously at Kid.

  “Drinks!” he shouts. “You want something to drink?”

  Kid stands in a hurry, but Dad, close to the kitchen, waves him off. He calls over his shoulder to tell April what we’ve got. But all the fuss just makes her look more uncomfortable. After repeatedly telling my dad she’s fine, she accepts a glass of ice water.

  Finally Mom just cuts to the chase. She shifts Grace to one arm and leans in toward April. “So you really want to give this guy another chance?” she asks, pointing to Kid. We all laugh, relieved that the question that’s been on everyone’s mind has finally been asked.

  April raises her eyebrows and looks at Kid again. She measures him, like she’s only now been introduced to the idea that there’s something not totally perfect about the guy. “Well,” she says, “we kept bumping into each other at a lunch spot near where I work. At first I thought Grace was his, and I realized how jealous I was. Made me think maybe there was something still there. So we talked a few times. And maybe we can call this some kind of probationary period.”

  Now Jayson finds his old attitude again. “Ah, Kid, knows all about probation, right?”

  “Jayson!” Mom and Dad seethe in unison. Dad walks across the living room to hand April her water and apologizes to Kid.

  Kid just smiles. “It’s okay, big brother. I got this one.” He slaps both hands down on his knees and rubs them back and forth a few times like he’s trying to warm himself up. “It’s not like my history’s a secret. And there aren’t gonna be any secrets anymore anyway. No lies.” He looks at April again, his face as earnest as I’ve ever seen it. “I messed it all up trying to be someone I’m not. I’m finished with that.”

  April nods. She’s obviously run through this all with him already. “I told him I don’t need anything fancy. I’ve got my own money.” I remember now that she’s a nurse at Methodist, which around here puts her in a pretty high tax bracket. “So I have no problem dating a guy who’s a bartender.” Then she throws one more meaningful look at Kid. “I do have a problem dating a guy I can’t trust.”

  Kid doesn’t even blink at the dig. Instead, he just cocks his head. “Hey now. I’m not just a bartender. I’m a basketball coach too.”

  “And a really damn good one,” I chime in. Mom and Dad raise their eyebrows at me. Any other time I’d get cracked on for that damn—as long as I’m under their roof, they’d remind me—but they let it slide, not wanting to harsh the mood.

  “He’s also a grade-A babysitter,” Dad adds. Then, suddenly embarrassed, he backtracks. “I’m not saying that matters to you. I mean, it matters, of course. I just mean I’m not trying to say that’s what you’re interested in, April. I mean, maybe you are, but—” Finally, he just stops. He looks at Mom. “Bail me out here?”

  Mom shakes her head. She just gives April a look, like, Men! What can you do? They share a little laugh, but then Mom shifts her attention back to Kid. “Speaking of babysitting,” she says, “I get it now. Here I thought you were taking Grace out of the kindness of your heart. But, Kid, you were taking my baby to help pick up women. You were, weren’t you?”

  I can’t tell if Mom’s genuinely angry or not, but a hush falls over the room while we wait on Kid’s reply. Used to be, I could count on him to evade the question, but he just got finished professing how all honest and true he is now.

  Kid clears his throat. “I was absolutely not using Grace to pick up women,” he declares. Then he looks at April. “I was using Grace to pick up April.”

  Laughter all around. With that, Kid wins the day. And I can turn my attention again to who will win tonight.

  Pike’s got some swagger. Any team trotting out a 18-1 record would. But they just saunter between the lines, jawing and juking, like they own this place. And Thurmond’s the worst. He stops to yap a couple times with fans in the front row. I can’t tell what he’s saying, but it’s not like he’s wishing them a happy new year. He wasn’t even eligible last year. Grades. But he’s pretty full of himself now.

  The more I watch him, the angrier I get. Gibson feels it too. He takes a break from warming up and stands next to me by our hashmark. “We got to shut that mug up and send him home with an L.”

  “I feel that,” I say.

  Then Thurmond trots out toward half-court. He spots us eyeing him. Sneers. Mouths something at us. While I can’t make it all out, the one thing that’s pretty obvious is an f-bomb.

  “Aw, hell no, he didn’t just do that,” Gibson says.

  “He most definitely did,” I say. Then I watch as Devin Drew, Pike’s senior point guard, races out to corral Thurmond before any real static can start. Thurmond’s no big fan of that either. He swats Drew’s hand away, then stares us down a few seconds more before returning to warm-ups. Thing is, he’s big and bad enough to act that way. 6’6" and cut up. Got that menacing look too—the kind you don’t want to see on your block late at night. He’ll ink high major someday if he can keep his wits enough to make it that far.

  We get through the rest of warm-ups without incident. Then starting line-ups. Even then, Thurmond gets people riled. He struts out to mid-court, head bobbing. He claps his hands rhythmically, then stomps the last few steps. When our cr
owd boos, he just motions for them to get louder. They do just want he wants, and he eats it up, grinning and laughing. Not even a tick off the clock yet, and it’s war.

  When the orange goes up, Thurmond doesn’t waste any time making his mark. Pike controls and Thurmond races right down to the block. Drew finds him quick. He spins—gets that chicken wing out to seal Fuller, but there’s no call. He flushes one with some flourish, giving a big yell—“Aaaaaaaaahhhhhh!” Then, trotting back on D, he lets it rip again—“Aaaaaaahhhhh!” Then more clapping, more foot stomping.

  I’ve been around the block a few times. I’ve seen these acts. What this guy really wants is for us to take the bait. Get emotional. Try to show out on him. But that’s not what we need to do. Best way to handle some fool like Thurmond is to stay cool. Gibson knows it too, because he’s in no rush to bring it up. And when he crosses mid-court he just motions to the rest of us—a little pat in the air with his hand, like, We cool. No hurry.

  Gibson bounces to me on the wing. I look to Jones low, but there’s nothing. Back out top to Fuller. A reversal to Gibson. He drives middle on Drew, but can’t get a look. It’s enough to draw some help though, and I take advantage. I float to the baseline and Gibson finds me. A quick J from fifteen finds bottom and we’re all tied up.

  That seems to settle everyone a little. I see Fuller take a deep breath and hustle back to check Thurmond. Even through his protective mask, I can read that expression on Fuller. He’s ready to dig in. But Thurmond rides him down to the post and—when the refs aren’t paying attention—gives Fuller a big shove with his elbow. The crowd catches what the refs miss. They point and scream for a foul, but there’s no whistle coming. It’s exactly what Thurmond wants—more turmoil. He claps his hands emphatically and bobs his head. But when Fuller comes back to check him again, Thurmond’s all business—he gets those feet set and posts up like a pro. I can tell right then Thurmond will be a handful all night—both between the lines and between our ears.

  We’re in the locker room for halftime. It’s been tight throughout, but Pike finished on a little spurt to take a 30-26 lead into the break. All anyone can talk about is Thurmond.

  “Can’t believe they haven’t caught any of that garbage,” Reynolds gripes. He checked in mid-way through the first and caught a stray Thurmond-elbow about twenty seconds in.

  “It’s like he fouls so much they can’t call everything or he’d be gone in five minutes,” Gibson says. “But, man, that kid is out of control.”

  “Already got welts from those ‘bows,” Xavier says.

  “It’s bush league stuff too,” Jones says. “I mean, yeah, all those elbows. But he keeps stepping on my feet when I’m going up for a rebound. Driving me crazy.”

  Everyone looks to Fuller, expecting him to chime in. Instead, he just sits at his locker, shoulders slumped. He’s taken off his mask and it dangles from his hand as he stares into space. The look is part fatigue and part frustration, both of them simmering toward anger.

  “You okay, Fuller?” I ask.

  He shakes his head slowly. “I’d be okay,” he says, “if I could get a stop on that kid to shut him the hell up.” He lifts that mask up like he’s going to fling it across the room. But he stops short, just grabbing it with both hands and shaking it like the whole ordeal is its fault. This is about as emotional as I’ve ever seen Fuller. It makes me burn against Thurmond. He hasn’t done anything to me but offer a crack about me being nothing but a spot-up shooter, but at this point I hate him on Fuller’s behalf.

  “Hey!” Murphy yells, his voice knifing through the locker room. He’s got that fire in his eyes that hasn’t gone out since the moment Gibson and I left his office. “You’re all hurt because some sophomore thug is swinging elbows and talking shit. But you’re so busy worrying about him, you’re losing the game that matters. We’ve stopped helping on Drew’s drives. We’re losing shooters on the perimeter. We’re getting worked on the boards.” He stops, his chest heaving from the effort. He glances over at Kid, checking to see if he’s got anything to add.

  Kid steps forward. “We’ve all been there, boys. But nobody’s going to shut Thurmond up for you. Only way to get revenge is on the scoreboard.”

  After that, Murphy diagrams a few sets for us. He shows us how they’ve beaten us a few times, then gives us a new offensive entry to start the second half. Then he gives us a few minutes just to catch our breath before we head back out to the court.

  As soon as we exit the locker room, Thurmond’s at it again. He glares from Pike’s end of the floor. Then he saunters out toward midcourt to get my attention. I know I should just ignore him, but I can’t help myself. “What?” I snap.

  He smiles. All cocky. “Man, my boy Drew told me you had some quicks to you. I ain’t seen none of that. You just any other shooter. Ain’t no D-Bow here no more.”

  I feel my blood rise. I know he wants me to lose my cool, so I just take the hit and remember what Kid said—only way to hurt him is to beat him.

  Soon enough, we’re back to live action. We have the ball first. We use that entry Murphy drew up. It’s a slick little ball screen for Gibson out top while Jones and Fuller double for me. All the action is going toward my side, but it empties out the lane for Xavier to slip that ball screen. It works like a charm and Gibson bounces it to Xavier right in rhythm. Only Thurmond isn’t about to let us start the half with a dunk. He peels off of Fuller late and flat hammers Xavier at the rim.

  Xavier goes down hard, landing on his shoulder. The refs jump in immediately, but it doesn’t stop everyone from stepping up to Thurmond. But all it amounts to is some chest-puffing and jawing. The refs separate the players. They check to see if Xavier’s all right. And then they call a regular foul on Thurmond. No flagrant, no nothing. Just his second whistle, same as a hand-check out top.

  Our crowd goes nuts. They’re screaming for him to be tossed, hurling obscenities at the refs. I glance at my family and see Jayson stomping his feet on the stands. He walks down the aisle a couple rows and I think he’s about to storm the floor—but he’s just trying to get a few feet closer to the refs so they can hear him.

  Then I look at Thurmond. That smile again.

  All we can do is play through it. Xavier splits the pair to make it a three-point game. And then the noise really starts. Murphy’s not the only coach to draw up a special at half—Pike comes down and throws a new set at us. Sure enough, it ends with Thurmond popping free to the rim. Fuller hustles to challenge, but all he does is get a face full of Thurmond as he throws down a nasty dunk. He hangs on the rim for a second—just a hair short of what the refs would whistle for a tech—then draws his knees up into Fuller’s face. Fuller falls back and his mask goes flying down to the baseline.

  This time it’s Murphy who loses his cool. He’s almost to midcourt, stomping his feet and gesturing at the refs to call something on Thurmond. He gets a whistle all right—a big fat technical for leaving the coach’s box.

  The crowd starts throwing things—plastic water bottles, wadded up popcorn bags, whatever they can get their hands on. It’s an ugly scene. A tornado swirling around Thurmond who’s finally accomplished his goals. When the dust finally settles, Drew walks to the line to sink the technical free throws. Then, on the in-bounds, he shakes Gibson and drains a fifteen-footer. It’s a six-point possession, and suddenly we’re down 36-27, all out of sorts.

  The boos rain down as Gibson walks the ball up. I know they’re not directed at us, but I can’t take it—this kind of scene in the Marion East gym. Four years I’ve busted it here, and it seems like everything is falling apart around me. Then there’s Thurmond—nodding and clapping, nodding and clapping.

  Gibson enters to me on the wing, and I don’t even think. I just catch and—boom, gone. Drew flashes at me, but I dart toward the baseline. Then it’s a power dribble toward the rim, with Thurmond racing over to challenge. I explode toward the rim, Thurmond rising with me.

  I keep rising, head near the rim. I cock back
the rock. Then I put that thing right in Thurmond’s grill. A moment later, I land. I hear the whistle for the and-one. And I hear the crowd erupt—it’s a wild, guttural scream from all corners of the gym. Pure release for seeing someone finally give Thurmond his.

  Thurmond tries shrugging it off, walking along the baseline and shaking his head. I follow him. I don’t have to say a word. Just a long staredown to let him know who’s boss. A ref comes over to pull me away, and I let him. No sense in getting T’d up now. And only then do I realize it—I was so in the flow that I wasn’t even conscious of what I was doing. That rip past my man? That rise up and over Thurmond? All those old quicks, all that old burst. It’s back. I’m back.

  The roar of the crowd keeps rolling down in waves. It subsides just for a few seconds while I drain the freebie, then swells again. We’re still down six, but our people feel it.

  After Drew brings it up, they get it to Thurmond on the short corner—a step beyond his range. He’s got a wild look in his eyes, frantic to show out after getting punked on the other end. He lowers his head, puts it on the deck baseline. Fuller just flicks at the rock, taps it off Thurmond’s knee and out of bounds. Our crowd loves it. And I see Fuller chirp just a little at Thurmond. Unable to take his own medicine, Thurmond wheels toward Fuller and gives him a quick shove. Finally, the refs catch him. It’s an automatic T. And a quick trip to the pine for Thurmond. Just a few seconds ago, it was the home crowd losing its cool, but now—heading to the bench—it’s Thurmond boiling over. When his coach gets in his ear, he pulls away from him. Shouts over his shoulder as he hulks away. A few teammates get up to calm him down, but he just keeps jawing. And our crowd loves the whole show, riding him mercilessly.

  Our comeback is just as merciless. I drain the technical freebies. Then, when we enter it and I catch on the wing, all I have to do is lean—just a slight shudder toward the baseline—and my man jumps like he’s been electrocuted. Amazing what a rip and throwdown will do to the D. It gives me all the space I need to launch a trey. Money. Trims the lead to one.