The Necessary Hunger

by Nina Revoyr

  The other player, who was slightly shorter than me but a good thirty pounds heavier, laughed dismissively. "Naw, why? Who the fuck is she?"

  Telisa shook her head. "Well, I feel sorry for you, man, 'cos you about to find out."

  Then the ref came into the circle. He asked if we were ready, decided that we were, tossed the ball up, and started the game. Q lost the tip, and the other team set up their half-court offense and scored on their first possession. It was my fault—one of their guards slipped right past me—and I was pissed at myself for being distracted by the conversation at the circle.

  When we got the ball, Telisa dribbled up the court deliberately, waiting to see what kind of defense they'd spring on us. It was a zone. We moved the ball around to see how well the defense adjusted (fair, not great), and then Telisa hit me on the right wing. I made a head fake and moved past the first defender, and then got hit hard enough by the center on my way up to the basket that my shot wasn't even close. No matter, though—I had two free throws coming. We got into position, and I made the first shot. Then, just after the ref handed me the ball again, my friend on the other team piped up.

  "Yo, how come you ain't little like the rest of your people?" she asked.

  Again, I just looked at her, but I saw Q bristle. Telisa, who was standing next to the player, said, "Girl, you diggin your own grave."

  I sank the second shot and we ran back to set up our defense.

  The first quarter was close, and our two teams were trading baskets. My tormentor, number 5, was a decent player—she kept muscling past Pam for easy baskets, and then laughing whenever she scored. When I moved over to the left side of our zone and sent Pam to where I had been, number 5 just followed Pam and wouldn't let me have a crack at defending her. This was the type of situation where I would have loved to have gone player-to-player—that way I could have stayed on her case all day—but their center was 6'4" and awesome, and there was no way Q could have handled her alone. Fortunately, though, they couldn't handle us, either. All of their size and bulk meant that they were also very slow, so Telisa was doing damage at the guard position, and there was no one who could stop my drives. I had ten points in the first quarter, six of them coming from layups I made after burning someone out at the wing.

  After one of these layups, a play on which I'd also been fouled and so had a free throw coming, number 5 nodded in appreciation. "You pretty good, Viet Cong," she said. "You know how to talk in English?"

  Q spun around and glared at her, but the girl didn't notice. I bounced the ball at the free throw line and tried to control my own anger. It didn't work—I bricked the shot, which only angered me more.

  The second quarter was more of the same. The game was close, and we were mad, and number 5 kept up with her comments. Q stayed quiet—it wasn't in her nature to talk shit—but Telisa had a running conversation with the girl, letting her know that every time she messed with us, she was going to pay for it with points on our side of the scoreboard. Things reached a boiling point just before halftime, when the other team's center was shooting a free throw. Number 5 screwed her face up and started speaking gibberish, and I could tell that this was her approximation of an Asian language. One of her teammates, who was clearly tired of this performance, asked, "What the fuck you doin?"

  "I'm talkin like a Viet Cong," she said, gesturing in my direction, "so that girl over there can understand me."

  Q was on her in an instant. She flew across the key and shoved number 5 so hard that her big, heavy body reeled back ten feet. Telisa and I grabbed Q before she could go after her again; her goggles were askew and she was baring her teeth. The ref, who either hadn't been hearing number 5's pronouncements or didn't care about them, hit Q with a technical foul. We all had to stand behind the half-court line while their point guard sank the two penalty shots.

  I took the opportunity to try and calm Q down. "Don't let her get to you like that, girl," I counseled. "Just put it into your game. She wants you to react, and we can't afford to lose you if the refs decide to throw your ass out."

  She nodded, but still looked furious. I didn't blame her—I was mad too. Somehow, though, we made it through the rest of the half without further incident. Number 5 shut up for a while, and we poured on the scoring, taking it to her side of the court as often as we could. I burned her badly a couple of times, but refrained, with some effort, from rubbing it in. It wasn't that I was morally opposed to trash-talking—in truth, it was sometimes very satisfying. I was not above telling someone after I'd scored on her that she'd deserved it for fouling me all game, or telling a big talker after we'd won that if she planned to talk shit in the future, she had better be able to back it up. But those were rare occasions. Most of the time, I let my playing speak for me. Number 5, though, was making things personal in a way I didn't like, and that was exactly why I'd stayed silent for the first half of the game—if I even started to express what I felt about her, I wasn't sure I'd be able to stop.

  Coach Fontaine didn't know what was happening, but he knew we were upset, so at halftime he gave us Standard Fontaine Halftime Speech No. 8, the one about keeping our emotions under control. None of us really listened—this had nothing to do with him. As we warmed up for the start of the second half, we looked at each other solemnly, knowing we had some serious work to do.

  The other team was ready to play too. We led by four at the start of the third quarter, but they quickly tied the game on a couple of jump shots. Number 5 laughed right in my face when their point guard made the second one, and I had to just stand there for a moment and clench my fists so I wouldn't go over and punch her. On the next play, Telisa took the ball down and passed it to me on the left wing, and I immediately lobbed it in to Q. Number 5 collapsed on her, so Q kicked it back out, and I sank the shot from the wing. On their next possession Pam made a steal, and we set up our offense again. I lined up on the right side this time, got the pass from Telisa, and pump-faked to lose my player. Then I took two dribbles around her and went up for the shot from the right corner of the key. Swish. I looked at number 5, who was standing under the basket, to let her know that her lesson had just begun.

  In the third quarter, the game became mine. I had entered The Zone. When you're in The Zone, you feel invincible; and ridiculous, impossible things become as easy as breathing. The basket suddenly seems as big as a swimming pool; rebounds fall at perfect angles and present themselves to your hands; you know how all the players are going to move, as if you'd programmed them, or told them where to go. Everything seems clearer than usual; it's like putting on a new pair of glasses, or suddenly understanding a language that you've been struggling to master. A player in this condition is also said to be unconscious, and this is a good way to describe it. There's a certain feeling of unreality when you're playing like that, and the best way to take yourself out of The Zone is to acknowledge the fact that you're there.

  The crowd, sensing what was happening, began to titter. People came in from the snack stand, returned from the bathroom or the parking lot to watch the show. I ripped down rebound after rebound, made diving steals, drew the other team's defenders to me and then left them in the dust. We were up by eight or ten through most of the fourth quarter, and we knew we had the game in the bag. Number 5 had been relatively quiet, and I thought she was finished talking, but then finally, as I was shooting a free throw with a couple of minutes left, she said, "Hey, is it true y'all eat dogs?"

  That did it for me. On our next possession, after they'd scored, I had Telisa give me the ball right under our basket. I dribbled toward number 5, who was retreating down the center of the court. When I got close to her she tried to guard me, sliding sideways to my left and just in front of me. Then, at midcourt, I spun hard backward and to the left, pulling the ball around with my right hand and barreling into her with my shoulder. It was a body block my father would have been proud of. She went down with me on top of her, and as we fell, I gave her an extra elbow in the gut. I heard the breath come out
of her when we hit the floor.

  "You keep your goddamn mouth shut from now on," I growled, "or else this basketball's gonna go in it."

  She looked up at me, eyes wide and voice silenced at last, and then the ref rushed over blowing his whistle. He added insult to injury—she hadn't established position, so the call he made was blocking, on her.

  After I stood up and brushed myself off, Q and Telisa came over to make sure I was all right. They'd seen the whole thing and Q was grinning. "I thought you said to put it all in the game," she said.

  We would win by ten, and after the free throws I was about to make, I'd finish the day with forty-one points. I put my hands on her shoulders and shook her a bit. "Q," I replied, smiling, "I just did."

  * * *

  That game was our last win of the tournament. The next day we lost to Compton, which was Natalie's team. There was no shame in such a defeat—they were the fourth-ranked team in the state, and we only lost by five—but still, each loss felt like a failure to me, and now I was banished to the stands for the rest of the week. My team had made a good showing for itself, though, and both Q and I got messages from scouts—through two or three different intermediaries, since direct communication was not allowed—that they'd been impressed by our performances. Q was thrilled about this, and I was happy for her. She'd played three good games and her timing could not have been better. As for me, I was feeling pleased too. My display in the second game had been one of the highlights of the tournament, and I knew that my vengeful little trick at the end, rather than putting people off, had only served to increase my toughness quotient. Better yet, though, my performance had impressed a more important critic—my housemate. Raina had cheered loudly and enthusiastically through all of our games, and always clapped me on the back when I went to join her in the stands.

  "Girl, you kicked ass these last few days," she said after our loss, which had been another good game for me, although not transcendent like the last one—and not enough to give us the win. "Shit, it's fun to watch you play."

  And that compliment from her—and the smile of appreciation that came with it—meant more to me than any of the comments or praise that were floating down the stands from the vultures.

  Raina and I came to the games together for the last two days, to watch the semifinals and the final. We cheered for Natalie's team in their semifinal victory against Lydia Slater's team, and then cheered for them again as they fought it out with a San Diego team in the final. I was disappointed, of course, that my team was out of the tournament, but on the other hand, it was a nice change of pace to hang out at the gym without having to worry about staying focused for a game. Our AAU crowd sat together on both of those nights, and when I looked around at our little group I noticed how relaxed people seemed—how sure of themselves, and of their right to the space they took up. We were admired and envied by all of our peers, and coveted by dozens of respected institutions. We were all proud and brash and convinced of our worth, and I found myself wondering if, twenty years from then, any of us would still be feeling that way.

  Other things, silly things, went on in those couple of days. A bunch of the neighborhood girls came up and asked me to sign their shoes. Raina had several guys following her around, and whenever she left the stands to go to the bathroom or get something to drink, they'd all descend upon her and try to impress her with their wit and charm. She'd listen to them, amused, and wait politely through their obvious efforts. She was actually very kind—she never told anyone off, or cut them short, or made them feel bad in any manner. But when they asked for her number, she'd decline their requests, smiling, and say it had been nice talking to them.

  She was markedly less polite to the couple of guys who approached me. At one point during the semifinal game we were standing in line for a drink, and a guy who'd been trying to impress me all tournament came up and stood beside us.

  "Come on, Nance," he said, trying to strike the proper balance between solicitous and cool. "Just let me take you out one night. I've been waiting for someone like you—I mean, where you been all my life?"

  Raina laughed out loud. She said, "Hiding from clowns like you."

  He looked flustered, and went away. I actually felt a little sorry for him, especially since he reminded me of the one guy I'd dated, when I was a freshman, a poor soul I'd fooled around with for two dull months before I finally admitted that I wasn't interested in boys. I laughed too, though, and looked at Raina. "Thanks for defending my honor."

  "Anytime," she said, grinning, and I wondered why she'd bothered.

  Certain girls tried to talk to us too, and in this case, I got more attention than Raina did, because most of the girls in the family were aware that she was taken. Needless to say, I wasn't interested. All I wanted to do was hang out with my AAU friends, and as the final game wound down—with the San Diego team beating Natalie's pretty handily—I found that I was conscious of the minutes ticking away. I didn't want to leave this haven of friends. But more than that, I was afraid I'd never spend time with them again—not like this, not all of us at once. We were seniors, and the next summer, for the first time since seventh grade, there'd be no camps, no tournaments, no Junior Olympics. There'd be no more of the traveling party that the summer basketball circuit had become. Sure, I'd see these friends, maybe all of them, but it would only be one or two at a time. Never would we function as a group again, and I was afraid, as I sat there, that this was the last time we'd all be together, that we'd all leave in a few months and disappear into our separate and uncertain futures.

  * * *

  After the awards ceremony, which I had to stay for in order to pick up an All-Tournament trophy, Raina drove off with a couple of her friends, and Natalie and I went to grab a bite at Wendy's. Natalie was 6'3", and squarely built; she was one of the few people who could make me feel small. She was extremely dark, the daughter of a Kenyan father and a black American mother, and so stately and impressive that I was sure she was descended from royalty. Over hamburgers, fries, and Frosties, she talked about her disappointment at having lost that day; her excitement about leaving California; and her relief at having signed early with Ohio State. She talked a bit about Charles, her boyfriend, and about how sad she'd be to leave him. He was only a junior, so they'd be separated for a year, but then he was planning to move out to Ohio after he graduated. Natalie told me he couldn't wait to be through with school.

  "And there's some strange shit goin down with that team, girl," she said, and the bite of burger in my mouth turned to stone.

  "What do you mean?" I asked.

  "I think the head coach is trippin 'cos he knows all the players are behind Eddie Nuñez."

  I managed to swallow, and took a sip of my Frosty. "Oh yeah?"

  "Then, a couple weeks ago, he called in some of next year's seniors, and gave 'em this speech about leadership and team unity. He said he heard certain players been questioning some of his decisions, and that talkin behind his back like that was just gonna end up dividin the team."

  I dragged a couple of french fries through a puddle of ketchup. "And Charles was there?"

  "Yeah," Natalie said, "and so was Eddie." She took a bite of her burger, swallowed, looked at me. "And then one of the guys mentioned something about your dad, and Coach Henderson said he wasn't sure if your dad would even be back next season. He said they been 'having their differences.'"

  This was all news to me. I said, "Really?"

  "Yeah. And the guys ain't happy. I mean, your pops is their friend, you know what I'm sayin? And he's the one they listen to, not Henderson." She stuck a fry in her mouth and chewed. "And have you heard what's goin on with your dad and that fool Eric Henderson?"

  I kept my eyes on my food and tried not to look too concerned. "What do you mean?"

  "Well, there's this rumor goin around that one of Eric Henderson's teachers passed him last year in a class he should of failed, and now your dad's got Eric in a class. I guess he been messin up again, not doin his
homework and shit. And in the last few weeks before Christmas vacation, Eric wasn't showin up at all, almost like he was daring your dad to do something about it."

  I couldn't think of anything to say.

  "I don't know, girl," Natalie continued. "Charles and the guys is pretty upset about the whole thing. They say that if Eric Henderson's the starting quarterback again next year, they just gonna keep lettin him get hit till someone fucks him up good."

  "Jesus," I said. "I can't believe this shit."

  "I know," she said, shaking her head. "I think Eddie's finally startin to get pissed too. And he should be. He's the shit. Charles says that if Eddie would of played this year, he could of been the best quarterback in the league. And he's a cool guy too. Real laid-back. Charles and them been hangin out with him more since this whole big mess got started." She shook her head again and looked at me sadly. "I don't get it, you know? I don't know why people in power gotta fuck with other people like they do."

  "I don't know either," I said.

  By the time we left Wendy's, it was already dark. As we walked out to the parking lot, I heard a sharp crack, which sent me scurrying behind a car. Natalie laughed.

  "That's a firecracker, fool," she said, and then I remembered it was New Year's Eve. This realization only comforted me for a second—people would be shooting guns that night, firing rounds into the air at midnight and probably several hours before. That was why I, and most of the people I knew, intended to stay inside.

  Natalie and I talked about our plans for the night—she was hanging out with Charles and his friends, and I was going over to Q's to watch Dick Clark—and then we said goodbye and took off in our separate cars. I got on the 91 freeway, and as I headed west I could see the last traces of daylight, a strip of gray against the bottom of the sky. I let my eyes blur a little, and the red from all the taillights bled together in my vision. The radio offered me songs that I would normally have been glad to hear, but that night, as I drove home, I hardly noticed them. My head was swirling with the things that Natalie had said about my father, and with the questions that arose if those things were true. Was Larry Henderson arranging to have him fired? Would Eric Henderson really challenge him so openly? What would my father's course of action be if Eric continued to cut his class? The trip back to Inglewood, which usually took about forty minutes, seemed to pass in half a second. I took the 91 to the 110 to the 405 north, got off at the Manchester exit. Only another ten minutes from there to home.