by Derek Hayes
Karl unscrews one of the light bulbs, stretching his shirt so that he doesn’t have to touch it directly. He puts it on top of the lamppost and waits for us to react.
“Ignore the little fucker,” I say. “He just wants our attention.” My soldiers obey me. We play in diminished light. Karl loosens a second bulb and in doing so he’s shaking the post. The bulb on top rolls over the side and falls to the tarmac. Shards of glass spray the legs of Tilley and Manny, who are drinking slushies on the sidelines. Tilley walks over to the lamppost and tilts back his head to stare at Karl. I’m concerned that he might shake the post, causing Karl to topple from his nest. I yell at Karl myself, tell him to get the hell down. Just then this woman shows up. She’s maybe thirty years old, maybe forty. It’s hard to tell. Her hair’s thinning in places and she’s got a scowl on her face.
“Get on down from there, Karl,” she says. “What’s he doing up there?” She says this to us irritably. I’m not sure if she’s embarrassed or if she’s trying to intimidate us. “I’ve got my hands full at Nickleby’s. He should be able to hang out here for a few hours after school. I can’t afford a babysitter.”
“No problem, ma’am,” I say.
Karl has by now joylessly descended the lamppost. She grabs him by an ear and takes him away.
Karl is using a discarded ball that he’s found in the bushes and is taking shots on the rim opposite to the play. More than one person is practicing with him, jumping in to shoot on the unoccupied rim, checking the swing of the action, careful to get out of the way after a steal or a long rebound so as not to bother us while we’re running up and down the court.
Games are to seven. With up to fifteen players waiting to get onto the court, we take each point seriously. The rims are unforgiving, so most of us slash to the basket, bullying our way through our check. Long debates over fouls hinder games while those on the sidelines righteously demand the resumption of play. I’m asked to mediate but my response is always the same: “I didn’t see it.” Often, one player grabs the basketball, says “My ball!” and then takes it to the top of the key. If the defence concedes, the game resumes grudgingly. If not, there can be trouble.
I warn Karl to get off the court more quickly — by taking an extra shot each time, he runs the risk of interrupting the game. He responds playfully, teasing me by taking his time, just missing the onslaught of our big athletic bodies running his way.
After numerous close calls, Karl takes a shot just as I leak out on the break. His ball bounces to the centre. He pounces on it. I see him in my peripheral vision as I sidestep in the other direction for the outlet. I catch the pass and turn my head down court. With forward momentum and the two-hundred-and-sixty pounds of bulk I’ve accumulated over the years, I drive into the little boy, my shoulders and head just missing his, my right thigh slamming into his upper torso. Karl and I hit the asphalt. I get up on my feet first. That little fuck. Blood’s trickling down my leg. I pick up one of the balls and hurl it at him. The ball hits him squarely in the stomach. He doubles over and staggers off the court. It is then, blood running down my shin, staring at the boy’s back as he ignobly departs, that I have a particularly unforgiving thought. After all, we can’t censor all the time the way our brains operate. The thought I have is this: why can’t the little man’s mother shear the thicket of hair on his head? Why can’t she wipe the tomatoey stain from the collar of his shirt? Why can’t he brush his teeth once a day, washing the tawny drizzle from his gums and teeth?
It’s Friday night and we’re in the middle of an epic game. I feel guilty about yesterday, and have bought Karl a slushy. I’m waiting for him to come so I can give it to him. Only then will I be able to concentrate on my game. Adrian keeps giving me problems inside. I’ve got to figure out a way to get my shot off.
Off in the distance Karl’s crossing the Gardiner Expressway. The setting sun doesn’t provide much light so I can’t see his face. As he nears the sidelines I see the smeared blood on his neck and forehead. He’s picked the scabs on his knees. His hair looks matted with dirt. My lieutenant Tilley Saunders, a buddy since grade school, says, “The little freak.”
“You sick sick little man, Karl,” I say. “What the fuck is that in your hair? Is that shit in your hair?”
Every court has its general. At Jameson district I am this man. I decide who plays and when. My soldiers get me slushies from the 7-Eleven. It wasn’t always like this. I once was a soldier myself. A Jamaican man, Marcus Johnson — must have been about twenty-six when I was twelve — took me under his wing in a formative period of my basketball development, and whipped my African-Canadian ass into shape and, more importantly, mentored me in the etiquette of street ball. From soldier to general was less a matter of cunning and more a matter of timing. Marcus got married, had a kid, and then another. He gradually grew fat and then one day he stopped coming. I became the next general. Admittedly, if anyone comes here and asks for the general, some of my soldiers might play dumb, you know, just to mess with me.
“Go clean yourself up, Karl. Don’t come back till you’re normal.” I decide to keep the slushy, and I start drinking it.
Karl laughs eerily. “I want to play in the game,” he says.
“Get out of here, Karl,” I say. “You’re freaking me out. Go get cleaned up.”
He puts his head down — the weight of what I have said is far too heavy for someone his age. Shouldn’t he be playing a video game? He leaves along the Expressway, the same way he came. My immediate thought is boy, thirteen, holds up 7-Eleven with knife and is sent to Craigwood Detention Centre. I’m a decent person. I should have taken him under my wing, I know. Marcus was good to me, after all. I’m better than this. What can I say? I’m busy at the office. I come here to let off steam. He really isn’t my problem. Even if I want to help I can’t. Karl is gone.
Today is Sunday, a great afternoon for a run. Adrian is dribbling the ball on the wing, which is a mistake. I’m crowding him now, forcing him to the paint where Manny, a skinny seven-footer, can hedge and double-team. Only thing is — Manny’s a no show. Adrian springs off two feet and thunders down a one-handed dunk.
I grab Manny’s shirt. “You’ve got to come with the double,” I say.
At the other end I throw a pass to Tilley, but he hasn’t come off the screen so the ball haplessly bounces into some nearby shrubs.
They’ve got possession now. Adrian’s got the ball at the top of the key. It’s about time that I foul him hard. I’m going to mercilessly hack his arms. Bruise him a little so that he’ll think twice about dunking on me, but wait — what the fuck? He’s shooting a three — an NBA three at that.
“You were late again on that double, Manny,” White Rawlins says, and everyone laughs.
I grab the ball and walk across the court to where he’s standing. I’m travelling, but I don’t care. “I’m going to knock you silly, White Rawlins, if you keep it up.”
White Rawlins doesn’t like his nickname. I didn’t first call him this to eliminate confusion — nobody in the neighbourhood knows of a black ‘Rawlins’. I named him on an impulse and it stuck. He is at heart no different than me.
We both feel a pressing need, highly ambitious at our age, to be NBA players — a hybrid between Gary Payton and his histrionics, though without his craziness, and Alan Iverson’s cool reserve. White Rawlins has cropped hair, a sunburned nose, soppy eyes, and shorts that hang low on his hips like those worn by the disaffected street youth that I run into daily, though White Rawlins is a twenty-three-year-old FedEx driver and looks silly emulating the shorts-to-knees style. He perpetually annoys me.
“I’m on your team, James,” says White Rawlins.
“You’re not on any team, White Rawlins,” I say.
Tilley checks the ball and then feeds it to me in the low post. I protect it with my left elbow, lower the shoulder, and pop right into Adrian’s skinny frame. He’s not gonna get to it this time. I knock him back, gaining some space. I reverse pivot, and with th
e ball high above my head I try to kiss it off the backboard. After having been dislodged from his spot in the key, Adrian is quick off his feet. His long fingers extend to the ball. He lightly taps it to his teammate, but he also hit my elbow.
“Foul,” I say, with authority.
“That was clean,” says White Rawlins.
I calmly give the ball to Tilley Saunders, who is standing at the top of the circle.
“You lowered your shoulder,” says White Rawlins. “And besides, he got all ball. Why are you calling a foul?”
“Look White Rawlins, I’ve got a ‘live and let live policy.’ I tolerate your presence on this court because you add to the atmosphere. You’re even amusing sometimes. But you’ve got to understand something. I don’t want to hear you make nonsense calls from the sidelines.”
“I didn’t call shit. You did. I’m saying it was a non-call.”
“No. You’re wrong. Now look here, White Rawlins. I’ve let you do your thing for as long as I can remember, but I work hard at the office, and I come to this court so that I can release the toxins from my overworked body, so I don’t need to hear your shit. Now I might tolerate your presence here, but you’ve got to shut your mouth while the game’s on.”
We lose.
In between games White Rawlins springs onto the court and tries twice to dunk a weathered volleyball. On his third attempt he squeaks in a weak two-finger dunk, hangs on the rim for a second, then falls to the ground, crosses his skinny arms and flexes, mouth open, and growls in imitation of Rasheed Wallace. This is he. He’s defined what it means to be ‘White Rawlins.’ Only thing is — it’s not natural. It’s like he’s driving down the express lane of Highway 401 in second gear. His effort is aggression turned inside out. Everything I know in life comes down to one principle. It’s this principle that I call “Easy easy.” Easy easy on the court. Easy easy with Susan and baby Anita. Easy easy with momma — more or less. Easy easy at the office. I want to impart this principle to White Rawlins, but I can’t. He’s got to somehow stumble onto easy easy himself. It’s a journey, really. I want to give him what he needs to get there, some reassurance that I like him, but I’ve got my own issues — this dude, Adrian, blocking my shot and all.
So I yank White Rawlins’ low-hanging shorts, which don’t yield much even though they look like they’d collapse to his ankles with even the slightest provocation. “You need to have some worth,” I say. “You never get into any game. You might as well get us some slushies.” I grab his hand and slap a twenty-dollar bill onto it. “You can’t come back without the slushies, White Rawlins.” I point my finger in the direction of the 7-Eleven on the other side of the Gardiner Expressway.
White Rawlins takes a few steps away from me, and says, “I’m not buying you anything.” He has no clue what to do with the cash. To leave with my money means he can’t ever come back. So he walks over to me and in full view of Tilley and Manny he throws the crumpled twenty-dollar bill at my feet. I detect some soppiness that until this evening has been dormant in his eyes. I’m not heartless. Of course I pity the man. White Rawlins walks to his car, which is probably for the best. I see myself through the eyes of my soldiers — a general who mercilessly cuts the inept to strengthen the whole.
“Someone tell White Rawlins he’s banished,” I say, weakly. I’m walking back to the key. Two gone in two days. Oh well. “Let’s go. I’m not done yet,” I say to Adrian. But I don’t really mean it.
White Rawlins returns, but not to the game. He’s back with a curious little kid, who is wearing a shiny Toronto Raptors jersey. White Rawlins has bought a rubber basketball, and they’re shooting at a rugged half-court at the other end of my park. I first bump into them in the 7-Eleven. I’m there for a hotdog. White Rawlins and the kid are filling their slushies with ice. I’m slow to identify the boy. Karl’s hair has been neatly trimmed. He looks strangely out of place in the Raptors jersey. I recognize him because of his eyes — they’re large and imploring and unmistakably his.
I’m curious to see what White Rawlins is doing with Karl so I follow them to the other end of my park and watch from behind a tree. I want to make sure White Rawlins is up to nothing sordid. My lieutenant, Tilley, is supervising the main court while I’m on reconnaissance.
He has Karl doing some strenuous ball handling drills. “Isaiah dribbled a basketball in line while waiting to get into a movie theatre, Karl,” White Rawlins says, which is something I didn’t know. The rat-a-tat of the ball bouncing from the asphalt to the tips of Karl’s fingers mixes with the sound of White Rawlins’ whistle. Karl doesn’t complain about these drills, but a problem soon develops when White Rawlins, insisting that the best players at the college level play tough defence, has Karl chopping his feet, with his knees bent, his butt down, and with his back straight.
“I’m not doing any of this defensive stuff,” Karl says. “I’m going back to the other court.”
“We’re going to watch the game against the Timberwolves tonight, Karl. Just a little more. You’re starting to do good.”
Marcus’ beautiful large hand gracing my forehead. “You’re really starting to come along James. I’m really proud of you. Now go on out there and shoot another two hundred.” From the shoulder, like a shot put. Nothing but twine. And again that beautiful large hand on my head, confirming my sense of self-worth.
Karl has his head down, his back stooped and he’s sliding sluggishly across the pebbly surface, which would be poignant if it weren’t that his stance is all wrong. He’s crossing his feet, and at times bending at the waist, which are huge no-nos. Even White Rawlins should know this.
Deer flies are taking dives at the hotdog I’m eating. This is of course irritating but what is this? Giggling? When I was Karl’s age I never giggled when doing drills. White Rawlins is chucking the ball gently at Karl’s back each time he passes. Karl’s doing his slides lackadaisically, ignoring White Rawlins, who is trying to be funny. He glances in my direction. So does White Rawlins. Are they laughing at me? Getting even in their own way? This is all wrong.
This evening I’m point guard, though at two-hundred-and-sixty pounds I’m perhaps out of position. “Clear out,” I say. “I’m gonna show this pup a thing or two about how we do things on my court.” I’m dribbling so that my body is in the way, backing Adrian into the paint. I’m in no hurry at all. I fend him off with my left arm, which weighs about the same as him and I shift to the basket, scooping the ball and laying it up. But on release I let go of Adrian, who, somehow, is off his feet, trapping the ball on the backboard.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” I say. “You’re hacking me every time. My game used to be easy easy till you started fouling me.”
“What are you on about, James?” Tilley says.
“What am I on about? Is it easy easy now?” I say. “No, it’s fucking not easy easy. I used to be the one blocking the shots. I used to be Kevin Garnett.”
“Maybe if you stopped eating hotdogs you’d block a shot or two,” Adrian says.
“That’s it,” I say. “You leave me no choice. Get the fuck off my court.”
Some of the guys groan. This is how they support me?
“I didn’t know blocking shots was a crime. Are you banishing me now, James?” Adrian says.
Enough is enough. The kid has disrespected me for the last time. I can’t hit him. What can I do? I can kick the ball. And so I do. I hoof the ball clear across to the other end of the park.
“I’m not getting that,” I say. My eyes are buggy. That Adrian looks unfazed aggravates me all the more.
“I’ll go and get it,” Adrian says.
There’s no fear in him at all. I get the feeling he pities me, which clearly won’t do. “Just wait a second, bro’,” I say. “I’m acting like an asshole. I’m gonna get the ball. Quit fucking blocking my shot though, will ya?”
Adrian laughs. Everyone else laughs a little.
But I’ve got to get the ball. I’m pushing things tonight. Even tho
ugh it’s my court I’ve got to be careful about how I impose my will. I don’t want a mutiny or anything. So I take a short cut and run through the flowers in the garden, which causes the old surly men on the park benches to grumble. The ball is rolling toward the decrepit half court, where White Rawlins and Karl are still playing.
Three days have gone by since I banished White Rawlins and they’re going strong. The July sun beats down on the playing surface. I return to the same spot behind the tree. White Rawlins is showing Karl how to do a reverse lay-up, which is okay except that White Rawlins is demonstrating this incorrectly. He’s gliding under the hoop along the baseline from the left side of the court to the right, hooking the ball against the boards with his right hand, which I am sure feels right to White Rawlins, and which was endorsed by none other than Dr. J, but his form is off. It defies the laws of biomechanics. You should hook the ball with your left hand, so as to keep your body from floating away from the basket. I laugh out loud to show them I don’t approve. They pretend I’m not there, which is ridiculous when you consider that I’m not hiding and my girth is twice the diameter of the maple tree.
From the court behind me, “Yo James!”
I turn around, disoriented.
“Yo James! We’ve only got one ball. Hurry the fuck up.”
“I’ll be there in a second, Tilley,” I say.
Karl is now doing push-ups. His lean triceps are glistening in the sun. “Karl, come on. I need you to run with us,” I say.
“Come on. It’s show time.”
Karl looks up, as if surprised to see me. “What?” he says.
“You’re going to run with Tilley, and Manny. Time to play. Enough of White Rawlins’ drills.”
Karl stands up and slouches his shoulders, not sure whether to come or not.
“Karl’s still got two hundred shots to take, James,” says White Rawlins. “We’ll join you guys a little later.”
