The Outside Shot

by Walter Dean Myers

  The day after I got back I got a call to go to the administration office. When I got there a clerk told me that I had to sign some papers. She found them and handed them to me and told me where to sign.

  “What’s this mean?” I asked. I could see it was some kind of form about a change in curriculum but I couldn’t figure out just what it was.

  The girl took the paper and looked it over.

  “Oh, you’re dropping math,” she said. “That’s what it says here. Did you apply to drop math?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said. I signed the paper and she took the carbon that had been attached to it and gave it to me.

  “Aren’t you on the basketball team?” she asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Good luck Wednesday,” she said. “I heard that Pepperdine has a great team.”

  “We’ll do our best,” I said. I tried to sound casual. Outside I sat on the steps of the building and looked over the paper I had just signed. It was a request for discontinuation of a course or courses. The math teacher’s name was signed on the bottom, granting permission. That brought me down to twelve credits. I was getting four credits in physical education, three in psychology, three in American history, and two in athletics. That left me with just two real classes.

  It got me down. Because I wanted to think about myself going to school for more than basketball. I also figured that if something happened and I wasn’t on the team, I would be down to six credits.

  The whole thing was jive. I looked at the time, it was almost two thirty—if I had been still taking math, I would have had to hustle to get to the class. It was true, math was kicking my butt, but I didn’t want to say the fight was over. Not yet, anyway. I went back to Orly Hall and stretched out across the bed. I felt like I needed a drink. Since I had been in college I hadn’t had a thing to drink, not even a glass of wine, but I felt like I needed it now.

  I fell asleep and didn’t wake up until Sly shook me for dinner. I didn’t feel like eating. I was hungry, but I didn’t feel like eating, or anything. Sly said that they were going to have a poker game in the room and asked me if I wanted to play. He knew I didn’t want to play. I didn’t particularly like it when he was having the games, either. A bunch of guys sitting up all night smoking so many cigarettes the whole room would smell for a week.

  I told Sly I was going to get something to eat. I thought about taking a walk, maybe checking out a flick. My mind flipped over to Sherry and I thought about calling her, then changed my mind. I wasn’t in a good enough mood to deal with anybody.

  Sometimes they had free movies at the Forum, which was like a little theater near the School of Liberal Arts. When the flicks were not free it was when they had some kind of foreign flick showing and half the people in the theater would be professors. Juice said they called them art films to let everybody know from the get-go that they weren’t supposed to understand them. Sometimes they would have rock concerts on film, then it would be pretty nice. When they had the Police the whole audience got into it and started dancing in the aisles. It was pretty hip. When I checked the schedule they were having a documentary, which didn’t interest me. I looked at the bulletin board on the first floor, looking for something to do, when I saw a notice for ballplayers.

  The Milan Panteras, an Italian professional basketball team, will be holding tryouts for basketball players at the YMCA in Muncie on Saturday, December 2nd.

  A lot of guys who couldn’t make the National Basketball Association in the States went to Europe and tried out for teams there. The money wasn’t as good as it was in the States, but it was still professional basketball. I thought about it and wondered if I would have a chance to make a team. The way things were going, my college career didn’t look that bright. I checked the date again and told myself that maybe I’d check it out just to see what the tryouts were like. Then I went off campus to a flick.

  They had this double feature. One was about an American werewolf in London. That was out-and-out disgusting. The other was about a European werewolf in New York. That was just stupid.

  Pepperdine College came in the following week. They had the best-looking cheerleaders we had seen yet. Each one of their girls was a star! We couldn’t keep our eyes off of them during the warm-ups.

  Teufel said that Pepperdine used to have a dynamite team but they weren’t doing too well the last couple of years.

  “They’re trying to make a comeback. They got a big boy named Purdy in the middle and this kid Hunter, who’s as good as any guard in our league,” Teufel said. “According to the scouting report Hunter shoots from outside and drives well, too. What we want to do is to take away his outside shot and make him do his scoring on the inside. That way they’ll either have to keep their big man off the boards to make room for him or take a chance of jamming the lane. Mac, play this guy tight outside, make him go past you if he can. Wortham, Dr. Bond did the scouting report and he said Purdy got called for four three-second violations in his last game. That means he likes to stand around and wait for the ball to come to him. You make him work. If he’s that lazy and still gets his points, it means he knows what to do with the ball once he does get it. Now, let’s go out there and play some ball.”

  We got the ball on the tap and Hauser fed Larson, who made a head fake like he was going inside and then pulled up for a short jumper. We were up by two. Larson got the ball again after Wortham had rebounded and fed Neil, cutting off Wortham. We were up by four. Then everything went wrong. Larson picked up two quick fouls and this guard that coach Teufel was talking about was eating McKinney up. Teufel switched Hauser to Hunter but Hauser couldn’t do nothing with him, either. We started falling behind. Mac was off, so the only game we had was on the inside. Wortham wasn’t doing much with his man, either. He was holding their center, who played a little like Go-Go, only he wasn’t as good as Go-Go. He didn’t have Go-Go’s moves but he was bulkier and as strong as skunk pee.

  Mac got a finger in his eye and the ref called time out. I thought sure I was in, but Teufel told me to sit down. Now, the way I figured, I was the only guard we had that could hold Hunter. The brother was sweet, but he was also one of them cornbread dudes with muscles in his neck, along the side of his head, everywhere. The dude would twitch his nose and the muscles alongside his head would pop up. He was sweating, stinking, and even grunting a little. But the coach put in Skiptunis instead of me. Skipper was a Catholic boy from Altoona, Pennsylvania. He was one of those guys that whatever you told him to do, he’d go in and try to do it just the way you told him. Teufel told him something and he ran out onto the floor.

  We had the ball, and wherever Skipper with his skinny behind and acne went, the cornbread brother would follow him. Soon as Skipper got his hands on the ball, bam! Hunter took it away, drove all the way down court, and slammed it in backwards. When they brought the ball down, Larson switched over to Hunter, leaving nobody on his man. The ball went over to Larson’s man, Wortham jumped over at him, and then I heard this scream.

  I looked over to where the scream came from and the cornbread brother was on the floor holding his neck. The referee called a time out but he didn’t call a foul. They scored, then we scored, then they brought the ball down again.

  The same thing happened, Larson left his man, Wortham switched to Larson’s man, and Hauser just stood there and waved his hand. I didn’t watch all the way, but I did turn back to Hunter just as Skipper elbowed him in the back of his head about as hard as I had ever seen anybody elbow a guy.

  The ref called the foul on Skipper, and Hunter made a shot from the foul line, then missed the second shot but they got the rebound. This time Hunter got the ball at the top of the key. Skipper backed off and let Hunter drive down the lane. Wortham, Skipper, and Larson came over and took a shot at the brother. He fell to the ground and they called another foul on Skipper. Hunter had a bloody nose and they took him out of the game. Teufel had what he wanted. Then he took Skipper out of the game and put Mac back in.

  In
the second half we went ahead, and even when Hunter got in again, there wasn’t too much Pepperdine could do about it. He was backing off and they didn’t give him much support. They made a little flurry at the end but we still won by five points. I didn’t get into the game at all.

  After the game I asked Neil how come the refs let us get away with roughing the cornbread brother up like that.

  “ ’Cause he doesn’t have any press,” Neil said. “And his coach doesn’t have any. If he had a name or his coach had a name, we couldn’t do it. That’s the way it is.”

  I hadn’t thought much about the differences between playing ball in Harlem and playing for Montclare. Leeds had said that there was a big difference, and suddenly I was beginning to see it. In Harlem you had to be good, you had to be able to stand up and grab your space, because there was always somebody trying to grab it from you. You made a move to the hoop you had to do it strong, because there was always a brother there waiting to stop you if you were weak. But anybody could make a move. When you got the ball you did what you could do.

  At Montclare it was different. There were players who could bend the rules enough to get an edge even against a better player. There were players who could put the ball on the floor a split second after they had moved their pivot foot and it wouldn’t be called a violation. There were people who you could beat on, and some you couldn’t touch. But when they got to the pro leagues the only name was money and you had to play street ball again, you had to be good. That’s why the college teams were full of players that won trophies and went on to sell insurance while the pro teams looked like street ball all over again. Still, I was beginning to like Montclare. There were good things about it. You could look around at the students and you could see they expected to do something with their lives. That was a good thing to see, and I wanted to be a part of it. I wasn’t, yet, but I wanted to be a part of it.

  Eddie’s mother called me at the dorm and said that Eddie’s father was coming by the next day.

  “Yeah?”

  “He …” I could tell she was upset, but I didn’t know what to say. “He comes by once in a while and he just … just badgers Eddie so. I told him that you were teaching him to play basketball.”

  “And now he wants to see how well Eddie plays?”

  “And now he’s going to play him a game tomorrow.” Her voice was husky, and I figured she had been crying. “I wonder if you could come by. I mean, if you’re here, Eddie will at least try.”

  I didn’t want any part of it. Mrs. Brignole’s business was her business. I didn’t need the hassle. But I felt for Eddie. I remembered a time when I had been playing at Marcus Garvey Park and my father had said that he would come by. He didn’t come until the game was almost over. I was standing at the foul line when he showed up. I was so scared of missing that shot that the referee had to tell me twice to shoot the ball. Then it didn’t even reach the rim.

  The house that Mrs. Brignole lived in was set back on a lawn that was too big for the house. It was the kind of lawn that people have more for show than for anything else. I rang the bell and Mrs. Brignole answered the door. She was smiling and told me to come in.

  “Carl, this is Lonnie Jackson,” she said. “Lonnie’s been working with Eddie over at the clinic.”

  “Hi.” Carl Brignole stood up and shook my hand. He was about six feet tall with gray eyes and dirty-blond hair. He was the kind of guy who shook your hand like the harder they squeezed the more man it made them. I took an instant dislike to the guy, which wasn’t too hard, because I hadn’t really liked him when I walked in the door.

  “Heard you play ball for Montclare,” he said.

  “Right,” I said.

  “I played football for Tulane,” he said. “You want a beer or something?”

  “It’s too early for beer,” Mrs. Brignole said.

  “June’s got times for everything she does.” Carl Brignole went to the refrigerator and took out two beers. “You want one?”

  “No,” I said.

  “You here to coach Eddie, eh? Come on, let’s see what he’s learned.”

  I could see Eddie tighten up at once. He bit into his bottom lip and then he made a little jerking move with his hand. I got an idea.

  I followed Carl Brignole through the kitchen and through sliding glass doors out to where a basket was set up over the garage door. I saw Mrs. Brignole in the mirror behind me. She had her arm around Eddie’s shoulders.

  “You know what,” she said. “I think we should skip basketball today. Eddie hasn’t been feeling too well, and—”

  “Bull!” Carl Brignole picked up the basketball and bounced it. “How good does he have to feel to play one game of basketball? Come on, Eddie, let’s see how much your big-time coach has taught you.”

  “Hey, I think you’re taking advantage of Eddie,” I said.

  “Oh, yeah?” Eddie’s father’s jaw tensed and he squared his shoulders. “What makes you say that?”

  “Well, if I’m going to coach Eddie, I should have an idea of how you play. Why don’t you play me a game first, and then I’ll know how to coach him.”

  He stood for a moment looking at me. Then, slowly, he lifted the can and finished his beer. Then he threw me the ball.

  “Seven baskets,” he said.

  Seven baskets, sucker, I thought to myself. Check out how it feels.

  I took the ball out, made a move by him, let him catch up to me and then went up and dunked the ball. He took it out, tried to dribble around me, couldn’t, then stopped and tried a jump shot. I didn’t slap it completely away, just back where he could get it and try it again. He tried it again and I caught the ball in midair and turned and hit an easy jumper over him. He took the ball out and threw up a shot from about twenty-five feet that missed everything.

  I made the next three baskets in a row. I felt good, better than I had for a while. No way he could even score on me. He couldn’t dribble for two cents and kept trying impossible shots from way out. I decided that I wouldn’t even let him have that. This little game was for Eddie, I said to myself.

  Eddie and his mother were standing over to one side, near the house. I threw the ball to Eddie’s father to take out, but instead of standing back and waiting for him, I picked him up as soon as he had the ball. He tried a ridiculous long jump shot and I went up and slapped it away. I glanced at Eddie.

  There was a small move, but I saw it. It confused me. I looked into Eddie’s face and it was sheer misery. I couldn’t believe it. Here his father had been bullying the kid for all of these years, was ready to bully him again, and still he was rooting for him. I looked at Carl Brignole. There was desperation in his face. He needed to win. The bully didn’t like being bullied. I took a deep breath and backed off. He dribbled close to the foul line and I jumped out at him, as if I were going for the ball. But instead of driving past me for the easy layup, he panicked and shot the ball. He ran for the rebound and I glanced at Eddie again. Yes, he wanted his father to win.

  I let him get the rebound and go to the hoop. He made the layup. I let a jumper go off the side of my hand, and he got the rebound and scored again. I missed another jumper intentionally, and he blew the layup. It wasn’t even going to be easy to let the fool win.

  I made the next basket and then let him slowly come back. The guy was huffing and puffing so hard I thought he’d have a heart attack before the game was over. But finally, after missing so many easy chances I could have puked, he finally won.

  “You’re not bad,” he said, leaning bent over against the fence as he tried to catch his breath. “Especially for a freshman. You’ll probably make first team next year.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  June and I stood in front of the glass doors and watched the game between Eddie and his father.

  “I don’t believe he’s actually giving him a chance,” she said. “I really don’t believe it.”

  “Maybe he’s just changing,” I said, knowing darn well that Eddie’s father
would probably never change.

  The game was supposed to be the first seven baskets. Eddie played hard and his father let him make the game close, but he made sure that his son didn’t beat him.

  Afterwards we sat around and Eddie’s father told me how wonderful he was at Tulane and how all the scouts had asked him to have an operation on his knee so that he could play in the National Football League.

  “The way I figured,” he said, “you start letting them cut on you and they never stop. I know some guys were cut open two or three times and today they can hardly walk. You see I still have good legs, good and strong.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  I hung out with the Brignoles until close to one o’clock and then I told them that I had to split. Carl Brignole walked me to the front door. He said that he was glad that I was coaching Eddie because he could see a little improvement.

  “I’ll be around this way in the fall again,” he said. “Maybe we can get together for a beer.”

  I told him I’d be looking forward to it.

  That Saturday we didn’t have a game or practice. I told myself that I was just going to the Italian team tryouts to see what they were like. But I took my sneakers and some practice shorts that I had in the room. I took the bus to Muncie and then I took a cab to the Y where they were holding the tryouts. It was like a circus or something. It looked like anybody that had a pair of sneakers showed up. A good half of the guys were black. Some were young, some were old. One guy was about six nine. He had gray in his beard and he was losing his hair in the back of his head.

  You had to sign a sheet, saying how old you were, who you had played for, that kind of thing. They also asked if you spoke Italian, I hung around where they were signing up for a while, and then I went up in the stands without putting my name down. I wouldn’t have used my right name, anyway. If you tried out for a pro team, you lost your amateur standing and couldn’t play for a college.

  I saw Ray once I had reached the spot in the stands where I wanted to be. He had on gray cutoffs and a sweat shirt. There were a lot of guys on the floor, maybe fifty or sixty, trying to warm up. The guys that were running the show were Americans, not Italians, as I thought they would be.