by Paul Volponi
“I’ll stand here till it’s over,” said Stove with some real attitude.
I wouldn’t go easy, even with it one-on-two. I made a move like I was going to shoot, then passed the ball to J.R. alone under the basket. But the Wrecker took one giant step inside. And the second the ball left J.R.’s hand, he slammed it across the court, all the way to the fence.
The thud echoed through the park, and the Wrecker and Stove just stayed quiet, waiting for one of us to bring the ball back.
I knew right then that we were in trouble. Only I wouldn’t let myself believe it.
Next, I dribbled the ball up top and faked a pass to J.R. Then I headed for the hoop with a full head of steam. I stopped on a dime, and the Wrecker flew past me a step. I floated up a shot as high as I could. But the Wrecker wound up his long right arm and sent the ball flying over the fence into the street.
J.R. and me just looked at each other, and neither one of us would move for it.
“I’ll get the ball. You two stay here and think about how good you are,” cracked J.R.’s pops.
Soon as Stove left, J.R. and me nodded our heads to the Wrecker and bolted out the other end of the park. We could hear Stove calling after us from the street, but we wouldn’t turn back around.
Acorn gave that guy the perfect tag—because he could wreck any confidence you had in your game. I tried to stay out of Stove’s sight for the next couple of days. Only it was worse for J.R., because he had to go home.
But I was just a kid back then. I don’t take any more lessons from old-timers. I do the schooling now. And I don’t care that Deadeye’s Fat Anthony’s boy. I’m about to make him look stupid out here.
I blow past Deadeye, like his high-tops were nailed to the ground. I let go a wide-open jumper. It feels perfect. Only the ball goes halfway down into the rim, before it rattles back out.
“Damn!” I scream, slapping both my thighs.
Fat Anthony probably thinks I missed that shot on purpose, and that makes it even worse.
On defense, I’m all over Deadeye, and won’t even let him touch the rock. Then one of our kids slaps the ball loose, and it rolls right in front of me. A pile of players dive for it. It’s all arms and legs. But before I can grab it, the ball bounces off some kid’s knee, right to Deadeye. He’s standing by himself, and he buries the shot.
“Dead-eye! Dead-eye!” cheers the crowd.
“The old man’s cookin’ with gas!” hollers Acorn. “Non-Fiction takes the lead, ten to nine.”
Mitchell’s calling for a time-out. But I can’t hold back. I get my hands on the ball and take off for the other basket. Most of our guys are headed for the bench, and it’s like I’m going one-on-five.
Two white jerseys mug me, and we’re fighting for the ball.
Hamilton runs over, yanking one of them away.
Then Stove grabs hold of me from behind as the sound from his whistle nearly splits my eardrums.
I rip the rock away from the last dude, and Stove falls face-first on top of me. My eyes are wide open, looking straight into his. Everything Stove’s been chasing after me for is staring him in the face.
I shut my eyes tight. Then I jerk away with the ball, and Stove crashes to the cement. When I open my eyes, the spot where J.R. got killed is right between us. Stove sees it, too. One part even had to get painted over, where J.R.’s blood got in so deep it wouldn’t wash out.
Mitchell runs out to us, screaming at Stove for not calling a foul.
I jump up and keep behind Mitchell, all the way back to the bench.
“Sorry, Coach,” I say. “I didn’t see you calling time-out.”
“Then how’d you know that’s what I was doing?” pops Mitchell, before he pulls the team around him.
Kids are jawing at me for running off on my own. Then Mitchell clears his throat, and everybody gets quiet.
“They’re just on a run,” says Mitchell. “Every good team makes one in a game. Let ’em get it out of their systems now.”
“Somebody better wax grandpa’s ass!” snaps Greene from over Mitchell’s shoulder. “Mustard’s the only one with any fight in him. It’s supposed to be a war out there!”
“Mustard, you hear the crowd callin’ that old dude’s name?” asks Mitchell, without waiting for an answer. “Then go take back what he just stole from you!”
I walk onto the court with everything inside me ready to explode. Part of it isn’t even basketball anymore. It’s something dirty—something that hates me, and I hate it right back. I want to stomp on it. The same way I want to stomp on that fuck for what he did to J.R.
Then everything inside me falls flat.
Deadeye’s not on the court. He’s sitting on the bench with his warm-ups on, like he’s through for the game.
Anthony’s wearing a fat grin, like he just played me for everything. And if I had the money he paid me in my fist right now, I’d ram it through his teeth.
“Faggot Anthony and Dead Dick—two cowards that can’t finish a fight. That’s what they are,” spits Greene.
Stove blows his whistle to start play, and I push myself up the court.
Stove
Anthony’s got Mackey’s attention too good, and that makes me want to puke. It’s that damn bet. I know it. And I have to know if that had anything to do with my son.
Ever since I lost J.R., I’ve been catching sight of people’s eyes. I want to look straight inside them for something more—something they might be keeping from me. Mackey’s eyes were empty in front of mine. Maybe he’s built up a wall so high, he’s hiding the truth from himself. But I can’t let it stay like that.
There’s light flashing from eyes all around me. It’s the kind of light that keeps me going. The kind that connects you to people—some of them you hardly know.
Then I hit a splinter of dark, and it’s like getting punched in the gut out of nowhere. And there’s no way of telling where it came from, or who might have slipped up, showing what’s really inside.
6
A KID ON our squad sticks his hand in front of a pass. The ball hits the tip of his finger, dead on, and everybody hears the pock as it pops out of the socket.
He’s screaming, holding his hand tight against his stomach. Lots of kids got their heads turned, probably feeling the pain shooting through their fingers, too.
Only it’s worse for me.
I can still see J.R. twisting on the ground, and hear that one bad scream he let out when he first got stabbed.
It was the worst sound I’d ever heard. I wake up every morning with it tearing through my ears. And it hits me even harder when I’m at Rucker Park.
This was the one place I could sidestep everything that had me tight—my mom’s husband, school, shorties, everything. Now I can’t even open my eyes all the way here. I don’t care how much paint they slap on that spot. It’s still J.R.’s blood out there.
And I keep running over it with my kicks, like it’s nothing to me.
“It’s just a finger,” says Greene. “Tape it up to the next one, or get me a kid off the bench with more heart!”
Mitchell subs for the kid and brings in Junkyard Dog.
“Here come the Dawg,” announces Acorn, with the crowd barking.
Junkyard Dog’s one of the toughest park players around. That’s because he’s naturally mean, and even kids on his own team give him extra space. But it’s a different game with refs on the court. If Dog misses a wide-open shot, or his man scores on him first, he’s going to pound somebody for sure. He can pick up two or three fouls inside a hot minute. That’s why he’s not playing for Fat Anthony. He can’t control himself. And it’s not just basketball—he’s the same way on the street. But he’s that tough, too, and that counts for a lot in a war like this.
“You keep a tight leash on Dog,” Fat Anthony calls to Hamilton.
Fat Anthony’s working Hamilton like he’s got the only whistle on the court. Stove’s almost invisible to him. That’s because he’s got too much time around Fat Anthony to
be played like that.
I wish I could pretend Stove wasn’t here, too.
And that everything I did never happened.
Non-Fiction scores. Then I come back and nail a long jumper in my man’s face. The next time I touch the rock, Hamilton blows his whistle, pointing at me. There’s a streak of blood on the ball that comes off onto my fingers. Only I don’t have a cut. Players are eyeing each other up and down to see who it’s coming from. But it’s J.R.’s pops that’s bleeding from the bottom of his hands. I guess he scraped them bad on the concrete when he fell on top of me.
Stove goes over to the scorer’s table to get patched up.
I stare at the blood, and my hands start to feel like they’re on fire. I shake them, trying to get the blood off. But it sticks. Then I press my fingers together hard, like I could make it all disappear by squeezing it down to nothing. But when I pull them apart, the blood’s deeper into my skin, and shows my fingerprints clear.
It’s the same blood that got J.R. born.
I just want it off of me.
“Try this!” says Mitchell, throwing me a towel.
I wipe my hands on it, but the blood won’t all come off. Stove’s almost ready to go, and my hands are still burning.
Greene brings me over a bottle of water and pours it on my hands. I rub them together, and the water runs through my fingers onto the floor in a puddle. Then it soaks into the ground, the same way J.R.’s blood did.
“Get all that shit off,” says Greene. “You need to keep a good grip on the ball.”
I look at the bling hanging around Greene’s neck and want to twist it so tight that he can’t breathe. Then the next time he opens his mouth, nothing will come out.
Play starts up. We’re ahead by two points, and I wish the game could finish right there. Then Fat Anthony would be off my back. I’d walk away with the trophy, and whatever I had left inside of me that I didn’t sell.
My hands are aching. I touch the ball, and the shock runs up my arms. I can feel something between my hands and the rock. The blood’s gone, but my hands still feel dirty. I wipe them across my jersey and shorts. Nothing helps.
Finally I put my head down and try to play through it. But that good feeling of a basketball in my hands is gone.
Junkyard Dog’s got his man outmuscled down low. He flashes open through a crowd of players, and I dish him the rock quick. Dog snatches the pass and dunks it so hard over his man that he knocks him flat to the ground.
“That’s the In Your Face Disgrace Jam,” sounds Acorn.
The whole park’s woofing.
Dog pulls both arms back and takes a running start at me. He slams his chest into mine to celebrate. My face is right up in his. Part of me wants to tell him how I’m really fucking our squad over. Then Junkyard Dog would wipe the floor with me like I deserve, instead of pounding chests together.
“You the Mustard, I’m the Dog!” he shouts.
But I never open my mouth back.
The guy who got dunked on is dragging his ass up court. Fat Anthony’s all over him because he’s got his head down.
“Don’t you quit on me,” sparks Anthony. “I’ll put the bite on you ten times worse than Dog ever could!”
Quitting’s a disease, and it’s contagious, too. Coaches don’t ever want to see you lose confidence. Fat Anthony will humiliate your ass in front of the whole park before he lets you put the idea of losing into other players’ heads.
During the tournament one year, Fat Anthony’s squad went into halftime ahead by almost forty points. So he put all his subs in to start the second half, and the other team went on a real run. But Fat Anthony never brought his starters back into the game, and Non-Fiction’s lead got chewed down to ten points with just a minute left.
Anthony rode one of his subs up and down the court. J.R. and me were watching together. That sub was sweating more from hearing Fat Anthony than playing the game. He was shook bad. But the worst part was that he had a look on his face like the other team might really win.
There were just a couple of seconds on the clock when Fat Anthony finally sent somebody in for him. Only the kid didn’t go back to the bench. He yanked his jersey over his head and handed it to somebody in the crowd. Then he walked out the side gate and headed down the boulevard, busted up inside.
I remember J.R. and me holding our sides from laughing so hard.
“He was like a kick-me dog,” said J.R. “Fat Anthony planted a foot up his ass just by using his mouth.”
“But Anthony’s smart, too,” I said. “You can bet another guy won’t ever give up on him. That was a lesson for the whole yard to learn.”
That kid used to play at Rucker Park all the time. But after that, he never came back.
Non-Fiction won the tournament that year. At the championship game, Fat Anthony fit that kid’s jersey over an empty chair at the end of the bench for motivation.
Anthony pointed over to it and said, “Look at what’s left of that quitting bastard! No arms! No legs! No heart! Nothing!”
Now I’m thinking that kid got off lucky. He only lost his pride for a little bit and bounced before Fat Anthony could cut a bigger piece out of him. I bought Anthony’s rap from top to bottom. And it cost J.R. everything.
Maybe that kid’s in the crowd right now laughing at me, or crying.
Greene
That’s right, stick it to them. It all belongs to us—everything out here.
“You’re wearin’ my name! Never lose my name, boyz!”
From a group home to having groupies. Just crown me fuckin’ king. I’ll free-style my ass off right here, and spit out a brand-new hit.
“I flow like a river.
They call me Rhyme Giver.
From the North to the South, I keep on blazin’ with my mouth.”
It’s like printing money with my own picture on it. Sharp tongue, sharp clothes, sharp car, sharp women—that’s my game. All smooth and easy like. Just nobody better cross me—sharp teeth, too.
Anthony thought he could pull a fast one on me and set one of his rats loose in my house. But a snake can swallow a rat whole anyday. That’s nature—the way God made it. Everybody’s got their price. Buy and sell. That’s the whole world.
7
NON-FICTION MAKES a steal, and Stove sprints up court, following the play. He’s headed straight for me. Only I don’t move my feet. My knees lock tight and I hold my ground. Stove hasn’t looked up yet. So I stick out my chest, like nothing he’s got could make a dent in me. Then I close my eyes, waiting for the hit. But all I feel is the wind coming off Stove as he runs by.
I catch back up, but Stove isn’t looking at me. His eyes are glued to the game.
“Baloncesto es todo,” J.R.’s mom used to tease Stove. “Our apartment could be on fire, and as long as your family wasn’t inside, you wouldn’t take that stupid whistle out of your mouth till the game was over.”
Right after she died, Stove almost lived at Rucker Park with J.R. and me. I guess neither one of them wanted to be home without her. But it was different after J.R. got killed. Stove didn’t set foot inside Rucker Park till tonight. And I didn’t want to be here, either.
When the ball’s in my hands, I’m in control. I move left, and everybody goes with me. Then I dribble right, and kids shift back that way, too. It’s all at my speed, and the rhythm I want to play. But deep down, I don’t have a handle on anything. My mind’s racing in every direction, and my heart keeps switching sides.
I shake the dude playing defense on me and get into the clear. Then I raise up to take a jumper. The dude comes flying back at me, waving a hand across my face.
“You got nothin’,” he says as I let the ball go.
I’ve heard crap like that all my life, and it never threw me off. But this time it sinks in, and the shot clangs off the iron rim.
“I make the loud noises here, Mustard!” screams Greene. “You stick to that sweet swish sound!”
I wish Greene had stayed in the stu
dio. That he never came to Rucker Park, and that Fat Anthony never talked me into any of his bullshit.
The morning after our first tournament game—almost a week before J.R. got killed—I was riding high from Acorn blessing me with my tag. I got to the park by eight thirty, but nobody else was around. So I laid out on the benches and closed my eyes. There was nothing I needed to hide from then. There was just the orange light from the sun sneaking under my eyelids, and a warm feeling on my face.
That’s when I heard a car door slam.
“Looky here, it’s Hold the Mustard—just got born last night,” said Fat Anthony. “Can’t your family afford you a bed?”
Fat Anthony took a brand-new basketball from his trunk and pumped it full of air. Then he tossed it over the fence to me.
“I’ll be right with you,” he said, making a call on his cell.
When he finished, Fat Anthony came inside the park and started feeding me passes. I must have canned eighteen out of twenty shots from across the circle.
“We need to make some money together,” said Anthony, straight out.
I knew everything Stove said about him was true. But Fat Anthony had been connected to some of the best players to ever come out of Rucker Park. He helped them pick the right college and stayed tight with them money-wise while they were still in school and poor. Then he got them a real agent to make a run at the pros, or to play somewhere in Europe.
Maybe I wasn’t going to be the best college player in the country and walk right into the pros. Maybe I was going to be somewhere in the middle and have to scrap for a shot at playing anywhere. Then having Fat Anthony in my corner could be big—real big.
“You know J.R.’s got some real talent, too. But his father thinks I’m some kind of bandido,” said Fat Anthony. “Maybe he’s been looking at too many WANTED posters down at the post office where he works.”
And we both laughed out loud at Stove.
“You don’t have any problems with winning all your games, do you?” asked Anthony. “You’re okay with winning them the right way?”
I knew he was talking about betting on our games, and me making sure my squad won by less than the point spread. I’d heard enough about Fat Anthony to know I had to trade something for him pushing me to the pros.
