Home Court

by Amar'e Stoudemire

  “That’s a fresh outfit,” said Mike when I plunked down my tray to join them.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Just something I threw together.”

  They didn’t need to know I’d done the throwing last night, and there was bigger news anyway.

  “Hey,” said Tavoris, leaning forward. You could tell he had something good. “There’s a big hoops tournament. Marcus and I just signed up.”

  “Oh, yeah?” said Mike. “What’s it called? Where’d you sign up?”

  “Sign-up sheet’s in the hallway,” said Tavoris. “Name’s at the top.”

  That’s just the way Tavoris was: He never said much more than he needed to. Marcus was the guy who you could count on to give you the scoop.

  Deuce knew that. He turned to Marcus and said, “So?”

  Sure enough, Marcus started telling us all about it. He remembered the name of the tournament, exactly where the sign-up sheet was, and even the names of some of the kids who’d already signed up.

  “Stevie’s on there; he’s the first name,” he said. “And Manny, Omar, and Ray, too.”

  Those guys were all really serious ballers. They were probably practicing together already. I got kind of a bad feeling. A tournament like that would take tons of time. I thought about all the other things I liked to do on the weekend: skateboarding, playing baseball and football around the neighborhood, maybe bowling with Junior. And I thought about all the things I had to do on top of that, too: work with my dad, homework. How was I supposed to fit a tournament in there?

  “I’m signing up as soon as we get out of here,” said Mike.

  “You know I’m down,” said Deuce.

  “What about you, Amar’e?” said Marcus.

  Everyone at the table was looking at me now. I squirmed in my seat, trying to think of something to say. I didn’t want to say no to my friends, but I didn’t really want to say yes either. Finally, I thought of something.

  “That reminds me,” I said. “I heard a pretty good joke.”

  The table was quiet. Everyone was still looking at me. Mike was the first to say something. “Yeah?” he said. He never could resist a new joke.

  “S’it funny?” asked Marcus.

  It was off the hook.

  “Okay, check it,” I said, trying to remember how the joke started. “These two friends are both huge ball fans, but one of them isn’t so bright. You might want to pay extra attention to that part, Mike.”

  Mike just waved me off like he always does.

  “Anyway,” I said, “they’re visiting a big basketball museum with their families. They’re in the part of the museum that shows the best teams from the 1970s, so there are framed pictures of all these teams, right?”

  I looked around to make sure everyone was still with me.

  “Yeah,” said Mike.

  “Okay,” said Marcus.

  “Sure,” said Tavoris.

  I knew I didn’t have to worry about Deuce getting lost, so I went on. “And under each picture, it says, like, ’70–’71, ’71–’72, and all the way up to ’78–’79. So the first kid is looking at all the crazy seventies styles, like the short-shorts and pulled-up tube socks, and the second kid turns to him and says — you guys ready?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Marcus. “What’d he say?”

  “He said, ‘I can’t believe all these teams lost by one point!’”

  They all busted out laughing. I did, too, but part of that was relief.

  “Oh, man!” said Mike.

  “That is one dumb kid!” said Tavoris.

  After lunch, Mike, Deuce, and I headed to history class.

  “Man,” said Mike. “I’m going to have to work on this paper all weekend. Four pages? That’s like a book!”

  “You haven’t even started it yet, have you?” said Deuce.

  “Of course not,” said Mike. “I got all weekend!”

  “Man, Mike,” I said, shaking my head, “you are hopeless.”

  “Yeah, just ’cause you two are probably halfway done,” he said.

  “Not halfway,” said Deuce.

  “Nah, me neither,” I said.

  “You started, though, right?” said Deuce.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I picked my topic and did some reading.”

  “Yeah, same here,” said Deuce. “Who you writing about?”

  “MLK, all the way,” I said.

  “Yeah, me too,” said Deuce.

  “Me three,” said Mike. “Those other names are ancient anyway.”

  “I just can’t figure out that last part: What he means to my life,” I said. “I can’t just say what he means to everyone — especially since the whole class is probably picking him. You know Ms. Bourne is always on us about ‘originality.’ I need to figure out something that’s just about me.”

  “Yeah, me too,” said Deuce. “That’s the tough part.”

  “Ha!” said Mike. “Bourne got you two nerds good!”

  “Yo, Mike,” I said. “You’ve got to do it, too.”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said.

  When we turned the last corner heading to class, I saw the big bulletin board in the hallway. I got that same feeling again, like I was cornered.

  “Here it is, just like Marcus said,” said Mike, pointing to a long sheet of yellow paper.

  “‘Lake Wales Youth Basketball Tournament,’” read Deuce. “‘A Wale of a Tourney.’ Sweet!”

  It was a sign-up sheet. There was a pen hanging from a string next to it. Mike had already picked it up and started signing his name. As soon as he was done, Deuce grabbed the pen and signed his. When he was done, he held the pen out for me.

  “Still a few spots left,” he said, a big smile on his face. “Hope we can be on the same team.”

  I didn’t take the pen.

  “’Sup, man?” he said.

  “I don’t know,” I said. I really wished I had another new joke. All I could think to say was, “A tournament?”

  My brother had played in some of these, maybe even in this same one. There was a lot involved: practices, waiting around between rounds, and a ton of games, everything from preliminary to championship and maybe even a “consolation round” for third place.

  “Yeah,” said Mike. “A tournament!”

  “This could take, you know, days,” I said.

  I was thinking of the next trick I wanted to learn on my skateboard, and those baseball and football games around the neighborhood. I was thinking of all that stuff….

  “Yeah,” said Deuce. “Days of playing hoops. Days of winning!”

  “I don’t know,” I said again. “People there are going to be really serious about it. You know I just like to play for fun….”

  I was feeling the pressure. It was tough to say no to my friends, especially when they were so into it. Deuce was still holding the pen out, but right then the warning bell went off.

  “Uh-oh,” he said. He let the pen drop, and we all hustled toward class. Saved by the bell, I thought, but I could see he was disappointed. I could see they both were, and I felt bad.

  “Let’s play after school. We’ll change clothes and head over to the court,” I said as we headed toward the door.

  They both gave me quick looks.

  “That’s more like it!” said Mike.

  “Yeah, we can talk about this there,” said Deuce.

  “Maybe,” I said. “If I’m not too busy dropping thirty points!”

  “In your dreams!” said Deuce.

  “And your nightmares!” I said.

  We made it to class with two seconds to spare, but we were all smiling when we got there.

  “Man,” said Mike. “It looks like the tournament has already started.”

  “Yeah,” said Deuce. “The NCAA tournament.”

  The kids crowding the court weren’t really college age, but they probably looked that way to five-foot-nothing Deuce. The side closest to us had three big kids on it, really going at it. They were definitely older, and all three were pr
etty tall. If I had to guess, I’d say they were in eighth or even ninth grade. It looked like one of them had the beginnings of a mustache.

  The other court had a hoop with an old, bent rim, and it was full of parents with their little kids anyway. We’d come all the way there, and we didn’t want to play P-I-G with first graders, so the older kids were our only option. We watched them play for a while. They were playing hard enough that you could hear their arms slap against each other when they crashed the boards for a rebound.

  “Maybe we should just come back tomorrow,” said Deuce.

  “Nah, just be cool,” said Mike.

  “They’ll probably let us mix in with them,” I said. “Or maybe they’re leaving soon.”

  The tallest player missed a long three. The ball hit the side of the rim and bounced toward where we were standing along the side of the court. Mike grabbed it before it could roll too far away.

  “Can we get in there?” he said, before throwing the ball back to them.

  Their tallest guy grabbed the pass.

  “Hold up, guys,” he said to his friends. Then he began sort of sauntering over toward us. He was a decent player, and he knew it. The other two followed him over. He dribbled the ball slowly, and you could see him sizing us up. As he looked at Deuce, he made a little sound, like half a laugh. That made me kind of mad, and I bet Deuce wasn’t too happy about it either.

  “He’s fast,” I said. “Lightning fast.”

  “Yeah?” said the big guy. He was standing in front of me now.

  “Yeah,” I said, standing straighter.

  He reached up and sort of scratched his chin with his hand, making a show of thinking it over. He sized me up again, and I stood as tall as I could. We were almost eye to eye. He ran the tip of his index finger over his mini-mustache. He had me there. He gave one more quick look over at Mike and Deuce.

  “Nah,” he said. “Come back in a few years, kids.”

  “Yeah,” said one of the others. “We might be done with the court by then.”

  Those two fist-bumped as they turned and headed back toward the hoop. Then the third one had to take his shot at us. “Feel free to stay there and keep throwing the ball back to us!”

  And just like that, they went back to their game.

  “Jerks,” said Deuce.

  He said it loudly, but not loud enough for them to hear him. They were jerks, but they were big jerks.

  “Yeah, bunch of clowns,” said Mike.

  “Is that a mustache or did he just drink a peach-fuzz milkshake?” I said.

  They could’ve at least let us mix in. Three-on-three is much better than playing one-on-two and alternating possessions, like they were doing now. We watched them for a while, but it just made us want to play more.

  “I guess we could dribble around on the side over there,” said Mike.

  That didn’t sound so great either. I looked over at my board and helmet, and then looked over at the road. There was a decent curb where I could work on my boardslide.

  “Nah,” I said. “I’m gonna take my board and work on some stuff. Not really room for all three of us along the side there anyway.”

  “Okay,” said Mike. “That’s cool.”

  “All right,” said Deuce. “What can you do, right?”

  As I was heading down to the road, I saw a kid named Roger heading toward the court. He was a year younger, but a decent guy, with a sweet jump shot. We’d played hoops with him before. If the other kids weren’t there, we could’ve run two-on-two.

  “Older kids are hogging the court,” I said. “And it’s kindergarten on the other side.”

  “Sucks,” said Roger.

  “Yep,” I said.

  We fist-bumped as we passed, then I switched my attention to the road, looking for a good stretch of curb. Once I found one, I got right to it. The idea is pretty simple: You get up some speed, and then try to sort of pop the board up and sideways onto the curb, so that the bottom of the board is sliding along it. I buckled up my helmet because, I mean, count the things that could go wrong, right? Then I took a few slow tries at it.

  It was harder than I thought it would be. I wiped out the first two times. I made sure I fell forward into the grass both times. But I like a challenge, so I guess I got pretty into it. Next thing I knew, it was an hour later. The underside of my board and my own underside were both a little scratched up, but I was starting to get the hang of it.

  When I finally looked up at the court, I was surprised to see Mike, Deuce, and Roger playing the older kids, three-on-three. I grabbed my board and headed up there to see what was up, but there wasn’t much left to see.

  I got there just in time to see the tallest guy on the court, ol’ Fuzzy Mustache, seriously rejecting the youngest one. Roger landed hard on his butt after the blocked shot, and the older kids grabbed the ball and scored easily. I guess it was game point, because as soon as it went in, my friends started walking off the court.

  “Uncool!” said Mike.

  “What happened?” I said, but in my heart, I already knew. Over their shoulders, I could see the older kids laughing and bumping their forearms together to congratulate each other. Meanwhile, Mike, Deuce, and Roger looked seriously beaten down.

  “Three-on-three,” confirmed Deuce. “They magically ‘changed their minds’ as soon as you took your wheelie-dealie there down to the road.”

  I looked down at my skateboard. I should’ve known. When they sized us up before, they didn’t decide not to play us because we were too young. It was because Mike and I were pretty much their size, and I’d already told them how fast Deuce was. They were afraid they’d lose to three younger kids.

  “Well, that stunk,” said Roger, kicking the grass.

  No offense to him, but he’s a year younger and a foot shorter than me. Once he showed up, I guess they liked their odds a lot better.

  “So they …” I started. I didn’t know exactly how to put it.

  “They let us have it,” said Mike.

  “Yeah,” said Deuce. “They went all out, knocked into us, pushed us around, and didn’t give us any foul calls. It was ridiculous.”

  “They’re just … you know,” said Roger, looking back over his shoulder at the older kids.

  “Yeah, I know,” I said. “They’re butchers.”

  “That’s the word,” said Deuce. “Anyway, I’m heading home. Gotta get some ice on this knee.”

  “Yeah, me too,” said Mike. “Gotta get some ice on this, well, all of me.”

  “Wow, guys,” I said. “Sorry about that. I didn’t know….”

  “S’okay, Amar’e,” said Deuce.

  “Yeah,” said Mike.

  “Not your fault,” said Roger.

  And maybe it wasn’t, but I still felt bad seeing them like this, beat-up and beat down at the same time.

  “Yeah!” I called out to try to get the bullies’ attention. Then I pointed over to the little kids on the other side of the court, still trying to get to P-I-G with their folks. “Maybe you can play them next!”

  They didn’t even bother to look over. All I could do was walk with the guys down to the sidewalk. I had to slow up because I was the only one without some kind of a limp.

  Once I got back home, I tried to calm down and forget about it by doing some more of that history project. I was looking forward to finishing up my reading on the civil rights movement. I read all about Martin Luther King, Jr., and the power of nonviolence. Those kids on the court could learn a thing or two from him.

  “Rise and grind!” said my older brother.

  In case I missed it, he clapped his hands next to my head. I cracked my eyes open. Sunlight was streaming into the room and he was standing next to my bed.

  “Come on, man,” I groaned, “it’s Saturday!”

  I wrapped the pillow around my ears and turned back over. I knew from experience that he wasn’t going away. He was up and dressed, and that meant that it was time for me to get going, too.

  CL
AP CLAP CLAP!

  “All right, all right,” I said, throwing the covers back. I had to get up anyway, but I wouldn’t have minded doing it on my own, without sound effects.

  I was halfway through watching my second cartoon — and all the way through my second bowl of cereal — when Dad came into the room. “Better get ready,” he said.

  “Already ready!” I reported.

  I had my work clothes on: just some old shorts and a T-shirt that had seen better days. Sometimes I helped Dad out with his lawn-care company. It worked out for both of us: He got an extra set of hands, and I got some spending money. I took my cereal bowl to the kitchen and then followed him out to the truck.

  “Gonna be a hot one,” he said.

  I looked up and felt the sun already strong on my face. He was right, but I knew he didn’t mind. He liked it here in Florida and liked being outdoors. As for me, I was just glad I’d gone with the shorts.

  “We’ve got to make a few stops,” said Dad as he double-checked the hitch on the trailer that had the mowers in it. There were riding mowers for the other workers, a smaller push mower for me, and a bunch of other stuff, like rakes and a bucket of work gloves and gardening equipment.

  “Yeah?” I said.

  “Yep,” he said. “Got the whole crew working today.”

  “Where are we working?” I asked.

  “One of the big places, right on the lake,” he said.

  “Nice,” I said.

  We climbed into the cab of the truck. I lowered the window on my side, and rested my arm there, letting my elbow hang out into the sun. I knew we’d be picking up a few of the guys and I’d have to scootch all the way over next to Dad when we did, but for now I was riding shotgun.

  “Try not to take up too much space over there,” said Dad, noticing how comfortable I was making myself.

  “Like father, like son,” I said.

  A quick laugh rumbled up from his big chest, and he turned the key to start the truck.

  I was the last person out when we got to the house where we were working. That’s what happens when you end up squished in the middle. I walked around to stretch out my legs as Dad started talking business with the guy who owned the home.