by Marc Aronson
Now there is only Ruben, a garble of screaming voices, the ball before him, and open space. He streaks past half court, across the three circle, and at the free-throw line explodes with one long stride up and up. For a single, split-second, slow-motion moment, the boy rises like a dolphin breaking the surface of still water.
High. Higher.
His arm wheels back over his head. The ball feels small in his grip. The hand comes down. Take that! Clango-bango!
Ruben plunges into the fence behind the backboard, bounces off the loose mesh, and spins to see —
The basketball? Where is it? The ball, catching the rear of the iron and caroming off, sails out and away. At half court, an amazed Caesar hauls it in like an outfield fly. Then he turns around, smiling, and lopes to the opposite basket for the easy final shot.
Ruben slaps the fence with his open hand.
Players pound backs, high-fiving, wiping their faces, clutching fence wires to keep from dropping. Ruben is still, feeling the energy wash up all around him. Caesar nods as he walks past with his water bottle.
Something makes Ruben turn to the spot where Geronimo sat on his folding chair.
He slams the fence again. Stupid loser! Blew it! It was there for the taking. Should have just laid it in. Should have, should have . . .
“Remember, Kid, nothing recedes like success.”
Suddenly Ruben’s anger and irritation are swallowed by a laugh that comes from deeper down. That wisecracking old fart! He was always one step ahead of —
“Hey!” Togo and Ronnie the Bull come up and slap at him, pushing playfully at his shoulders, dancing imitation-like from one foot to the other. “You got hops, K-man, you got hops!”
“Yo,” says Baby Z, tossing the ball to him. “How’s about you in the game after next? We short one.”
Ruben tugs at the bandana on his head, pulling it down tighter, then looks up, smiling and dribbling with one hand.
Th-thump.
Th-thump.
“Yeah,” he says. “What else we here for?”
It ain’t about hype
or how high you rise;
game recognize game
by the fire
in your eyes.
Forget being like Michael Jordan. I wanna be like Spike. Who wants to be the actor when you can move the actors around the board like knights and rooks? It’s the filmmaker’s world, and the spectators stand in line to buy a ticket to watch, be wowed, and talk about what you did.
Over a thousand hopefuls apply to NYU Undergraduate Film and TV every year, but I’ll be one of the few to get in. I’ve got my essay, all the paperwork, the fee. The only thing left is to shoot this documentary, then send it all to admissions.
Documentaries are the way to go. I’ve seen every doc Spike’s made. The Original Kings of Comedy. 4 Little Girls. When the Levees Broke. Kobe Doin’ Work. And more. I’ve screened them all here, at the IFC, soaking up Lee’s technique. In a few years, everyone will be watching my film here at film lovers’ paradise. For now I go guerrilla with my old Canon digital, and there’s no better place in the West Village to go guerrilla than in the —
My pocket buzzes. I take out my phone.
Where U at? I got next.
I text back a quick, I’m there, and reach for my backpack, rising from my seat. “ ’Scuse me. ’Scuse me.” I push past knees and grumbling in a row of Spike lovers and haters.
Last Saturday I hopped the train down to West 4th Street and met this guy, another senior. He saw me shooting three lovelies in short shorts on the handball court with my Canon; I saw him posing after hitting a three. He wanted a highlight reel, and I needed a subject for my film. We struck a deal.
Around here, you say “ESPN” and everyone knows you mean Eddie Newcastle. That’s a funny dude, except he doesn’t know he’s funny. I tell myself, it’s about the gig, not the actor. Doesn’t Spike deal with difficult actors on every set? I’m up for it. I’m a filmmaker. With film footage, some editing, and a back story, I can turn ESPN into the baller his mouth and profiling say he is. It’s all about the filmmaker, not the actor. By the time I finish shooting and editing his high-profiling goofy self, I’ll transform him into that clutch shooter the scouts look for. Now, that’s some magic. But I can pull it off.
My pants pocket buzzes, but I let it go. The Cage is directly opposite the theater. It’s not like I have to travel. Just cross 6th Avenue and I’m there. I step out of the dark theater with my Canon in hand so I can come out shooting.
You can’t miss ESPN. His head is shiny from full-mask goggles and gleaming from a white headband that matches his wristbands. Goofy. I aim from across the street, lining him up while I wait for the light to change. He sees me, starts animating, “Where you been?” with arms outstretched, palms open like that white marble Jesus on the Brazilian mountaintop. Isn’t that what they called Ray Allen’s character in He Got Game? Jesus? I shake my head. Ray Allen, ESPN is not. I gesture back to say, Put your arms down, Jesus. I got you. I got you.
The light changes. As I cross, I look down into the canyon of glass and brick Wall Street buildings where 6th begins. An army of yellow cabs stand docked at the red light, set to charge up the avenue. I stop. I gotta have this shot.
“Hey! Hey!” ESPN shouts. “Whatcha doing, man? Over here. Shoot this way.”
Actors don’t yell cut. That’s my call. I ignore him and stand firm on a manhole cover.
The light changes and the yellows advance up 6th, heading straight at me. It’s a game of chicken between the cabs and me, and I’m shaking. The cabs honk, swerve; the drivers yell at me. But I gotta have that footage more than I want to live. The last cab whooshes past, and I run across the street, laughing. “Got it! Got it!” I only wish I had someone from class to shoot me shooting ESPN running the Cage. That would have been cool. A “making of” the documentary like Spike does.
I meet him at the fence instead of going around the Cage to get inside.
“We have a deal,” he says.
It’s hard to take him seriously when his face is coated in Plexiglas, but I stifle the smirk. It’s gonna be a long day. “Dude. Hold it together. I’m here. I’m ready.”
“Well, act like it. This is my highlight reel.”
“You need to calm down. Next game hasn’t even started,” I say. “Chill while I grab some flavor for the setup. You know. Get the street vibe. The Village vibe. And when the game starts, I’ll be on you, and it’ll be all you.”
“That’s what I wanna hear.”
I go to work. I shoot the train station elevator as it opens to grab a crowd coming out of the subway. That’s my angle: the Cage as a magnet pulling all kinds of watchers, ballers, and regulars. The Mecca. First I’ll show the cabs. The crowds. The buses. From uptown, downtown, and crosstown, all rushing to the Mecca. All hail the Cage.
Now the people. I get the schooly-old black dude in his purple turban, long purple tunic, gold beads. I get his maroon Pumas and the Puma gym bag slung over his shoulder. He’s straight out of Bethlehem. One of the Wise Men coming to worship. Then I pan the spectators, the bodies lined up, two men deep, clinging to the outer frame of the Cage. I pull in close on black, brown, tan, yellow, white, fingers hooked through chain link. Then mouths instead of eyes. The Cage is tight. The crowd is hungry, wanting to be on the inside, running and gunning. Suits and messengers, all “used-to-bes,” playing through the players. All hail the Cage.
And then there’s the lovelies, whose nail-tipped fingers also grip the chain-link fence. I grab those long-spined cheetahs in minis and shorts staking out the prey. I forget about ESPN, although he’s there in the background, going, “This is my film. My film.” But those summertime calves and thighs are too lovely to miss. Six-inch heels talking to concrete. Look-a-here, look-a-look-a-here. The Canon loves the lovelies.
“Hey, man. We gonna do this or what?”
I click the pause button. Do actors tell Spike?
“Flavor, man. Remember? Like I said
, when the game starts up, I’ll be on you. OK? All you.”
“Top-ten player of the day,” he says, shooting and making an imaginary outside shot.
He steps away in time for me to grab this head full of honey-brown locks bouncing my way. The face flashes a cheesy lip-glossed grin my way. I’m not the only one scoping. I guess that’s what the lovelies aim for. To stop play inside the Cage for a quick holler. A few guys on the inside oblige, and sure enough, that’s all she wants. I take aim. Girls love being shot. No such thing as a girl who doesn’t. I call out, “Hey, Lovely. Over here.” She swings her head to me, all teeth and lips, proving my point.
I want her to speak, but she doesn’t. She just keeps walking, so I call out, “¿No habla inglés?” She won’t turn around and give me that close-up. One more try in my best fake Boricua, “¡Mira, mira, ’oni!” All girls wanna talk to the camera. Canon loves the lovelies, and the lovelies love the Canon.
But then some dude in the Cage turns, looks my way. Says, “What?” like De Niro in Scorsese’s Taxi Driver film. Like, Are you talking to me? Are you talking to me?
All I said was “Mira, mira,” but he acts like I’m calling him out and he’s waiting. I stand with my Canon. He stands with the ball. It’s like Gary Cooper staring down guns in High Noon. So I hit RECORD and shoot. The Puerto Rican De Niro turns away.
ESPN’s now hot because I shot some other dude inside the Cage. All I can see are those goggles . . . the admissions panel screening my short, checking out the shiny alien, and promptly tossing my reel — swish — into the “see ya” pile.
I make a wardrobe call.
“Lose the goggles, E. Looks bad.”
He shakes his head. His slick, shiny head. “I paid good money at Niketown. The goggles stay.” Actors, man.
The baby of the bunch, a skinny kid with a faded red rag on his head, yells over, “Prime Time!”
Eddie eats up the respect from the kid. He soaks it up and tightens the band on his goggles instead of removing them.
I pull in close on Red Rag and catch the hunger. Note to ESPN: Enjoy the respect. Today it’s “Prime Time.” Next week same kid’ll pull the plug on you man-to-man.
I shoot the Shirts huddling while the Skins still work it out. Both baskets in the main court and the third basket on the side have been taken over by practice shooters.
I pass the next few minutes shooting Fat Man selling his water on the side, another guy selling crates of schooly-old LPs, tape cassettes, and CDs, and Drip-Drip-Artist who, like her paintings, is covered from jacket to shoes to hair in drippy pastel paint.
A ponytail guy around my age leans against the Cage, hugging his ball. Like Red Rag, he’s got the hunger, so I get close. All I have to say is, “What’s up?” and he starts talking about flying over from France to play, and standing on the outside. Got his ball and everything and afraid to enter the Cage. I don’t ask if I can shoot him. I hit RECORD and let him talk. Everyone wants to tell their story. So I get his hunger and fear. Nice.
I shoot ESPN trotting down the lane for an easy two off the backboard. Overshoots.
“Hey. Hey. Not that,” he shouts, spotting me. “Only top-ten plays.”
I ignore him.
This schooly-old Latino wearing a collar like a priest jumps in front of my Canon. “Oyé. You making a movie,” Papi Loco says.
I say, “A film.”
“What’s this film’s about?” His scrutiny is fake. He wants to be in my short. He wants to talk.
“A baller,” I say.
“Baller? Which one? Caesar? ¿Mi sobrino?”
I point to ESPN.
Both laughter and disgust fly from his mouth. “That’s no baller. Not that dude. Film my nephew. He’s the real deal. Like me, back in the day.”
“You ran the Cage?”
He is pure animation. A storyteller to the masses. Suddenly the priest collar makes sense.
“Oyé, Fellini.”
I laugh. “Get it right, Papi. Spike Lee, not Fellini.”
Papi Loco doesn’t care. “See these lips?” he says. “Beso el cielo cada vez.” He purses his lips and smacks a long wet one into the air. “And I didn’t need no hundred-dollar sneaks to kiss the sky and dunk that ball.” That’s aimed at ESPN, and I’m loving it. Schooly-old versus Niketown.
“You want to hear stories? Stories about real ballers from back in the day? I got stories for you, Fellini. Back when the Spanish Doc, the Goat, Pee Wee Kirkland, guys like that ran the Cage. Back when me and Geronimo used to hop on the blacktop, when it was a blacktop.”
Why not? Let the priest confess his story. Bring the flavor with his old guy conjugation: I used to be . . . I coulda been . . . but now I am a spectator.
He tells me his name, Charlie, and I mentally ditch the “Papi Loco” even though he still calls me Fellini. It’s OK. The admissions panel will love Charlie. That old tiger got stripes.
“Tío, what’s going on?” It’s the Mira Mira, Are you looking at me? dude.
They pass some rapid Spanish back and forth. The tone Charlie raps says, it’s cool. Still, Mira Mira peers into me with no trust, but I don’t care. Charlie waves him off, conjugating cool: “It’s cool, Caesar. I’m cool. He’s cool.” Mira Mira gives me another De Niro glare and gets back to his practice shots.
Mira Mira is faking that De Niro glare hard. He knows he wanna be the subject of the film. He knows he wanna be immortalized.
So, I do like Spike did in 4 Little Girls. I don’t milk emotion from Charlie by asking how he felt back in the day. I just let him talk. The genius of filmmaking is finding the heart, the story, in all that footage. The actor doesn’t make the film. It’s all about the filmmaker.
Finally. The game starts up again. The Asian twins rise from the cement curb only for Waco, the Great White Shaq, to tell them to sit down. “Other dudes waiting,” he says. His word is law around here.
The Skins back Waco up, and the Shirts leave the twins hanging. Skins still need a man on the court, since the other ball-handling white boy’s gotta leave. I make sure I grab the two white boys passing more than a handshake between them before one slides.
Waco looks over the bench. I film the ballers waiting for next with their backs to me. French kid sits at the far end. He’s there, but he’s not the Kobe sub Waco’s searching for.
Waco points to a dude in prison cornrows wearing a schooly-old Scottie Pippen Bulls jersey. The dude rises like a giant unfolding himself, but he’s not all that tall. Just broad and square.
I turn to get ESPN sinking one from the half court. Finally something to save the reel. But that’s when Waco says, “Skins,” and the dude tears off his shirt and oh! That’s no Kobe. That’s a girl in a black bra. A girl!
I shout out, “Girl! Girl! Do it again! Do it again!” She hears me but won’t turn around. So Mira Mira taps her shoulder, says, “ ’Nique,” and points to me and my Canon.
She spits on the blacktop and turns her back.
What?
I’m kicking myself. I coulda faked that ESPN shot. I can’t fake the shot where she takes off her jersey and transforms from “he” to “she.” And she won’t turn around. I am kicking, kicking, kicking myself.
I enter the Cage.
The guy who she sat next to gets up and snags the jersey off the blacktop. At least I get that. Him snagging the jersey and giving it a good shake. He takes his time folding it but keeps his eyes on her while she’s running and gunning.
ESPN shouts, “On me, on me,” and lets his man sweep past him. No surprise there.
I focus on the game. Try to live up to my end of the deal. ESPN makes a few nice outside shots. He gets a few oohs, but he’s allergic to the paint. The crowd knows he won’t play defense.
Then ’Nique serves up a no-look reverse layup without stopping to watch the ball spiral and drop straight down through the net. She draws some crowd cheer, but doesn’t stop to bask in the nastiness of her shot. She’s already down the court. Back to D.
&
nbsp; Now I’m on her. All her. She’s keeping up with the run, although no one’s passing to her. I don’t think she cares. She stays on her man, tries to make something happen. Go for a steal, her arms long and ripped.
The guy she’s guarding tries to send her a message. I can’t blame him. Who wants a girl guarding him? Red Rag and Mira Mira are all hands, open, free, shouting, “Open! Here!” but the guy wants to keep it. He lowers his head and bulls into her chest. Stays there, no refs to save her. He just goes for her cushies, pressing with his head and shoulder, waiting for her to “girl” on him. Cry or slap him.
I stay tight on her face. That’s not a crying face. I see it in her eyes, and I pull back to get the full body, knowing something’s up. Stay on her. Stay on her. My man doesn’t realize her wingspan is ridiculous. She reaches in, sucks up the ball in her massive hand, spins strong-side for the steal, and passes to Waco for the stuff. Crowd is still oohing while ’Nique trots backward, ready on defense.
I can’t even fake interest in ESPN. I make the recasting call and cut ESPN altogether. A couple of three-pointers won’t wow the admissions panel, but this girl will. I gotta have that shot. I gotta have that girl to save my reel and get me in.
Oh! She catches the wrong side of a size 14E and some shoulders and goes down. She pushes up off the blacktop, dusts off, and runs. And I got that. Canon loves her heart. Her skills, but damn! Why does she do it? Take that punishment? Keep running and gunning?
I squat next to the guy who grabbed her jersey. “Hey.”
He nods.
“Look. I’m doing this film.”
“A movie?”
“Documentary,” I tell him. “For school.”
He nods, says, “Oh,” like he knows what I’m saying but he doesn’t have a clue.
“I’m shooting your girl.”
He smiles at that but stares straight at her, following her, coast to coast. I put the camera on him. “ ’Nique, right? Monique?”
“Dominique.”
“Sweet,” I say. “How long she’s been coming to the Cage?”
He shrugs. “Long time. She rings me, says, ‘Scotty, swing by. Let’s go shoot some hoops.’ ” He reddens. “She shoots. I watch.” He licks his bottom lip, meaning he doesn’t want to look crusty for his close-up. If Scotty wants to be in it, maybe she’ll want to, too.
