Hold Love Strong

by Matthew Aaron Goodman

  And I did it all, moved as I moved and said what I said, for one reason and one reason alone. That reason was I had to win. And I did so any way I could, legal or illegal, whatever I could enact between white lines painted on concrete and hardwood. I was vicious. I’d rip your face off if need be. I’d hammer you with elbows, forearms, and knees. And you couldn’t hurt me back. No matter how much you tried, you could do nothing to me. There was no attack, no elbow, no bruise or blood or pain that you could inflict that fazed me. Talk about my mother, talk about my uncle, tell me my aunt was a whore, say whatever and still nothing. My body, my mind, and soul were not composed of precious, fragile parts. I threw myself after loose balls. I collided. I clawed. I wrestled. My knees and elbows and the palms of my hands were so scarred and bruised, so toughened it seemed I’d crawled across mountains of rocks and broken glass since the moment of my conception. I could shoot through crippling hunger. I could dribble with tears in my eyes. I could play through the pain of blood blisters as big as quarters bulging from my heels, the balls of my feet, and in between my toes.

  The game resumed. The second half was a carbon copy of the first. Then with a minute left, a shot went up and every brother on the court fought for position, leapt and reached for the rebound. Twenty hands, one hundred wanting fingers. I leapt and reached and wanted it more. I landed and passed the ball to Yusef, our point guard, chewing a huge wad of gum, and I drifted up the court with the others playing in the game.

  We were down one point. Yusef passed the ball back to me. I took a deep breath and held it against my hip. Out of the corner of my eyes, I found Kaya in the crowd. Maybe the holiness I perceived her to emanate was not real, but like hands holding me upright, as tall and proudly as she stood, I felt the force of her gaze.

  “Right now!” someone shouted. “Right here! One time, Abraham. Take him!”

  This demand was not a shouting or a calling out. It wasn’t an asking to be heard or testifying. It was Donnel.

  “Let’s go!” he shouted. “Let’s go!”

  Donnel was full of hope, betting everything on me. So because he called my name, because Kaya believed, because my uncle was there and my grandma was alone when she no longer wished to be, and despite how tired and sore my legs were, I swore I was not going to let us lose.

  Then everything went silent. I surveyed the action in front of me. Lorenzo Davis, a skinny, perpetually angry-faced, unpredictable brother with his two self-proclaimed penchants, basketball and guns, announced by the tattoos on his arms, guarded me. I took a deep breath and looked over his head. How to describe the movement before me? Run your lips over every inch of your lover’s body. There were no obstacles, no impossibilities. A calm came over me, dressed me with omnipotence.

  On the sidelines, Alton Johnson reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick wad of cash. He licked his fingers, plucked two fifties out of the stack, and held them in the air for everyone to see. Then he smacked them down on the concrete.

  “A hundred,” he called out. “A hundred dollars says Abraham ain’t got shit.”

  From his spot on the baseline, Donnel looked at Alton and his money. Then he pushed a smug smile through his lips, like smoke, billowed and fattened on nothing. He jammed his hand in his pocket and yanked out a folded stack of cash so thick it could have been a brick if it wasn’t green and made of paper.

  “A, what you want?” he shouted to me. He licked his finger and counted out twenties. “Huh, nigga? You want CDs? New Jordans? Fuck it. You want an airplane? C’mon. Which hand you gonna do this nigga with, left or right?”

  Titty, who in a matter of six months had become chiseled and squared jawed and the tallest, strongest brother I knew, planted himself in the paint and raised his hand shoulder high.

  “A,” he said, calling on me to pass to him, his defender pinned behind his back. “Here. A!”

  Who doesn’t possess the potential to be a hero? I took one last look at Donnel. Then I glanced at my grandma and Kaya. I looked at my uncle. His arms were folded. He unfolded them, clapped twice, and bending over, he planted his hands on his knees and looked as if he just might join me for the last moments of the game. I took a deep breath. And then I looked into Lorenzo’s eyes and took a quick glimpse at the halo of the rim. I hunched over, slowly dribbled the ball with my left hand, then I bounced the ball between my legs to my right hand. There were an infinite number of ways I could go, an infinite number of actions; pass, drive, shoot. I sliced my arm through the air.

  “Move!” I called out, ordering Titty and everyone on my team to get out of the way. “Watch out!”

  Donnel dropped to his knees and pounded his hand on the concrete. “Let’s go, nigga! Let’s go!”

  I licked my lips, tasting the sweat, my flavor dripping down my face. Then I turned my back to Lorenzo and used my hip to back him down. He planted his forearm across the small of my back and pushed with all of his strength.

  “You ain’t shit,” he muttered. “You nothing.”

  I talked to myself, told myself it was over, we were going to win. The only sound became my breathing, my voice, the drum of the ball on the court. I wiped the sweat from my forehead with my free hand, then dragged my hand down my cheek. Then I suddenly wondered what would happen if we lost. What would Donnel say? What would we do? And I lost my concentration and dribbled the ball off my foot and it rolled away, toward the other team’s basket. I couldn’t believe what I had done. For a moment, I deflated and my arms hung at my sides. Lorenzo raced for the ball. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Donnel. All of him had fallen forward so he was not just on his knees but on his hands and knees. And his mouth was open. And his eyes were on the edge of brokenness. No, I thought, no. It couldn’t be. I wouldn’t let it be. I clenched my fists, turned, and chased Lorenzo.

  I caught him, and like starved men hot on the trail of the world’s last morsel of food, we grabbed and pulled on each other’s jerseys to keep the other from getting to the ball. The referee didn’t blow his whistle. We ripped and tore more. Then Lorenzo lowered his shoulder and swung his arm like a club and the blow knocked me to the concrete and all I saw was him scooping up the ball and taking off down the court, the echo of dribbling, the hammering of a nail. It was over. We were going to lose.

  But Donnel refused. He wouldn’t let it be. He leapt to his feet and charged after Lorenzo. His fists and knees punching holes in the air, Donnel tripled Lorenzo’s stride. Lorenzo reached the foul line. One dribble later, he was eight feet from the basket. He picked up his dribble, took the two allowed steps, and leapt. And then, from ten feet behind, Donnel launched himself through the air and a moment later, he exploded into Lorenzo’s back, thrusting his forearm through Lorenzo’s spine as if he were trying to cleave him in two. Lorenzo flew through the air and landed on the concrete, tumbling into the legs and feet of the people standing on the baseline.

  The ball trickled away from his lifeless body. There was silence; a vacuum. No one, not even me, could believe what had just happened. Donnel lay on the concrete for a moment. Then he picked himself up and began to walk away, flicking gravel out of the bloody wound his crash landing had made of his elbow.

  “Hell no,” he muttered. “We ain’t losing. Hell motherfucking no. We ain’t going out like that.”

  Suddenly swirling to his feet, Lorenzo retrieved the ball and threw it at Donnel as hard as he could, and the ball slammed against the back of Donnel’s head, and then, between the moment of impact and the moment the sound of the impact registered in everyone’s ears, Donnel’s eyes exploded wide with rage and he swung around and went at Lorenzo without thinking, with all of the helplessness he refused but was consumed with.

  “No!” shouted my grandma from the sidelines. “Donnel! No!”

  But it was too late. Donnel ran at Lorenzo. He lifted his knees high. He brought his arms back like wings. He was an eagle descending, accelerating toward its prey. When he reached Lorenzo, the collision was the sound of raw meat pounded by a sledgeh
ammer, wet coupled with the crack of ribs, and because Lorenzo had not had the time to put his hands up and protect himself, his arms and legs and head flapped like wet flags each time Donnel pummeled him. Donnel was merciless. He pounded with his forearms and he pounded with his fists. Lorenzo groaned a horrendous tearing groan. Donnel kneed him in the stomach. He was desperate, reckless, endless.

  As if pulled by an incredible gravitational force, I rushed toward the mangle of Lorenzo and Donnel. So did Eric. And so did my Aunt Rhonda and my grandma. And my uncle ran at them too. And so did the police, one with his gun raised above his head, fighting and pulling their way through the crowd. Then, just before I reached the mangle of Donnel and Lorenzo, their flying legs and fists, just as I reached to take hold of Donnel and pull him away, Lorenzo unfurled and swung wildly and hit Donnel so hard his head whipped to the side and a spray of sweat and blood splattered across my shirt. But the blow didn’t stop Donnel or even cause him to pause. He was from Ever, a Singleton. He hooked his hand in Lorenzo’s mouth and, holding Lorenzo’a face still with his grip, Donnel threw a punch that caught Lorenzo on the side of his nose and blood splashed everywhere; blood on the concrete; blood on the basketball; blood all over me.

  They kept fighting, no matter how hard we tried to stop them, grab them, pull them apart, keep them from killing each other, killing us. Donnel flailed. Lorenzo thrashed. Then, tangled in the crowd trying to stop the fight, lashed by the swirling whirl of arms, I lost my balance. I went backward then fought against the movement and lunged forward, and then I tumbled. I slid, slipped, and bounced. I was pulled and pushed, held and thrown aside. Everything rose over my head. Everything swallowed me. I was drowning. I reached out. I grabbed at shirts and legs. I clung to someone’s arm, but I lost my grip and because I felt as if I would fall forever, because there was nothing else I could do, I swung with all of my might. I hit someone, something fleshy and soft. Then I hit the concrete and I got hit back; in the back of the head, the side of the neck, between the shoulder blades. I was stomped on and pummeled. I was sure I was going to die. But who hit me? I swung more. I beat oxygen and light out of the air. I punched ankles and calves and knees. Hands came toward me. I didn’t know if they were fists or hands offering help. I didn’t know if brothers were trying to lift me up or beat me down. I swung and kicked and swung. For how long? Time was of no importance. I was battered, trampled.

  And then I was pinned on the concrete, three cops on top of me, a knee like a dull guillotine jammed on but not cutting through the back of my neck, drilling my chin into the concrete. The police cuffed me, ripped me to my feet. My hands behind my back, my chin and nose leaking blood, they led me through the crowd, everyone’s shirts torn, collars stretched, sweating, so confused and so used to such confusion their faces were the heartbreak of the already heartbroken. My grandma pushed through people. A cop stood in her way and told her to stop.

  “Back up,” he said. “Get back or you’ll be arrested too.”

  “That’s my grandson,” she shouted. “No! Let him go!”

  Then I was outside of the fence. I was being led to the police cars. There were sirens. More police cars were coming, speeding down Columbus Avenue. Behind me, my Aunt Rhonda screeched No! over and over again. Some people shouted my name. Others cursed the police. The cops opened the back door of their car, slammed a hand on top of my head, and stuffed me in. Then they slammed the door closed. I looked out of the window. I saw my uncle grab my aunt, restrain her, and pull her away as she screamed for me, then screamed for Donnel.

  All I could think of was him. Why had Donnel done what he did? Why was it necessary? And where was he? Had he been been arrested too? Or had he gotten away, taken off running so fast he flew?

  Suddenly, my grandma shoved the police officer aside. She took one fierce step forward, her face a tangled brown jungle, so baffled, so hurt it was without any identifiable feature other than her eyes, demanding as always. We made eye contact. Bloody and battered, I glared at her out of the window of the police car. I threatened her. Without a word, with just my eyes, I warned her. I ordered her to cease. Didn’t she see? I was nothing, and right where I was supposed to be, in the back of a police car, my hands yanked and cuffed tight behind my back. Blood trickled from the steel biting into my wrists. It dripped down my thumb. I made hate my face. I breathed deeply. My chest rose and fell. My grandma stopped walking. She glared back at me. Slowly, she shook her head no. I read her face. Didn’t I see? she begged. No, Abraham, baby. That’s not the case.

  IV

  For six hours the police held Donnel and I in the precinct’s small holding cell with a dozen other brown men. Occasionally, the police came and took a man away. Sometimes he returned. Sometimes a few new men were introduced to the lot of captives. Some of us sat on the floor. Others sat on one of the steel benches affixed to the left and right walls. Some stood. Some men slept, their breath a dragged pot through the rubble of their drunkenness. Others talked to one another as if the holding cell were a barbershop or a park bench warmed by the sun because they’d found a common subject to discuss, or they knew one another from the neighborhood or a previous stay upstate, or because if they remained silent humiliation and hurt would fill their throats and kill them. Some men were disheveled and seemingly eviscerated, their souls and faces raisins. Others were dressed in slick suits with matching patent leather shoes. Some men feigned satisfaction, as if they were finally a step closer to their real life, their truest true love, that perverse institutional wife who clothed, fed, and never complained about being wed to them. Then there were those who shouted and screamed their innocence, who snatched the steel bars by the throat and, in a range of tones from litigious to irate, expressed the details of alibis and constitutional rights. Other men laughed about everything as if the possibility of innocence in this world was so preposterous even the shouters, the screamers, and the bars were telling jokes. Then there were the handful of men, those who were the youngest and brashest and whose pride was so misguided they were righteous and pompous about what they had been accused of. These men whispered and bragged about how much dope they sold, how many times they shot and stabbed, how much money they had stacked and hidden so they were not worried about making bail. There were drunks, and junkies who were so high that whatever they said was meaningless and difficult to listen to. And then there were the men crying in their hands, worrying about what they would tell their lovers, mothers, daughters, and sons. Seeing that I was wearing basketball shorts and a bloody summer league jersey, and that my face was battered, some of the men wanted to talk to me about the game. Others wanted to challenge me.

  “You in here like you nice,” said one man. “Look at this nigga. Michael Jordan finally got done did.”

  I responded to nothing, no one. With my legs bent and my arms draped over my knees, I sat in the back corner of the cell with my back against the concrete wall. I stared at the concrete floor between my feet. I hadn’t ignored the fact that being arrested and held in a cell was one of the inherent possibilities of being from Ever. Police took us like groceries; eggs, milk, honey, whatever was on their list that day or night. But I also wasn’t sitting the way I was, like a crushed thinker, because of subjugation or oppression. It was how and why, and who had caused me to be where I was. No matter how many times Donnel tried to talk to me, I couldn’t look at him.

  He stood over me. “Come on, nigga,” he said. “It ain’t that deep.”

  But it was also not just that Donnel had caused everything because it was also that the cell was a choose your own adventure book. That is, each and every one of the men in that cell was a man I could one day be. Who knew? One could have even been my father. So I was in a cage of mirrors, confronted by the possibilities of what my life seemed destined to be. And there were no doctors or lawyers. No bookish teachers or wild-haired scientists. There were no Wall Street professionals, physics professors, politicians, or philanthropists. Of course, there were artists. There were poets and pa
inters and great saxophone players in that cell. Some had an idea about who they were. Some didn’t. But we all knew it was just Ever Park men in that cell, hardworking, resourceful men who before they committed a single crime were confronted by limited opportunity; men who adapted to it, men who refused to give in to it; men who had heard about limited opportunity so quit before they were forced to confront it; men who began being men at nine, ten, and eleven years old, when emotions most govern us; and men who used substances as if they were magic carpets, hot air balloons that rose over walls and aided their escape. Although my body no longer ached, and inside of me there was not a single throb or burn, I was full of pain, for I struggled with two notions. The first was that I was simultaneously fortified and destroyed by my nation, by those I loved and who loved me. The second was the insidious question: what chance do I have?

  “It was just a fight,” Donnel said. “Niggas get into fights all the time and they back home the next day. Don’t worry.”

  He was lying to me. I heard how his voice struggled with the act, how it creaked like an old wooden bridge at the peak of a roller coaster, how behind it were screams, eyes closed, hands in the air surrender. Donnel said that he’d solve everything. But more, he’d never let anything hurt me. He’d never let anything stand in my way. He couldn’t. He never had. He never would.

  “Nothing,” he said. “You know what I mean. Not nothing.”

  Donnel tried to convince me that he did what needed to be done, that he couldn’t let someone take something from us like that. And the referee should have blown his whistle.

  “They was cheating,” he said. “You and Titty got fouled like two hundred times. And they didn’t call a thing. A, look at me.”

  Donnel’s legs straddled my feet. He reached down, grabbed me by the chin, and lifted my face up.