07-Shot

by Parnell Hall

  This wasn’t a foul shot. I dribbled once to my left, stopped, pivoted, went up for the shot.

  The ball clanged off the front of the rim.

  A miss.

  But a shot. A controlled shot. Not an awkward one-handed fling. My left shoulder hurt like crazy, but it had done the job. Fair enough. The doctor had said you could do anything you were able to do.

  I went after the rebound, my left arm flopping at my side. I got the ball, dribbled back to the top of the key. Faked right, went left, went up. Clanged the rim again.

  Got the rebound and did it again.

  And again.

  And again.

  Until the shots started dropping through.

  I must have shot for forty-five minutes to an hour. Then I hung it up, literally, hung my arm back in the sling. I put the ball under my other arm and walked out of the park.

  My car was still double-parked. I went to the pay phone on the corner, called Alice, told her never mind the car, I’m going for a ride.

  “Oh yeah?” she said. “Well, two cops called.”

  “Who?”

  “Thurman and Reynolds. Wanted to know when you’re gonna call back.”

  “Tell them something noncommittal, like go fuck themselves.”

  “Great. Where are you going to be?”

  “If you don’t know, you don’t have to lie.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be around.”

  I hung up, called Sheila Webb, made sure Raheem was home. I got in the car and drove up there.

  The pusher wasn’t in evidence. Or the neighborhood kids. Too early for them, I guess. I parked in front of the building, went inside.

  Sheila Webb was surprised by my appearance. So was Raheem, when she finally got him out of the bedroom. He looked at me, said, “Hey, man, what’s with you?”

  “I don’t always dress like a cop. Today’s my day off.”

  “So what you want with me?”

  I smiled at him. “Come on, Raheem. Let’s you and me take a ride.”

  He frowned. “What for?”

  Sheila said, “Raheem. Go with the man.” She didn’t know what was up, but after our talk the other day, I was O.K. in her book. The boy needed a father figure. If I wanted to play Big Brother, that was all right with her.

  He came. He looked at me real funny, but he came.

  Outside, he looked up and down the street a lot, like he didn’t want his friends to see him leaving with the crazy honky. But there was no one around. We got in the car and drove off.

  For a while we rode in silence. Then Raheem began to fidget, then to glance around. He looked in the back seat, saw the basketball.

  “Basketball?” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  We drove across 145th to Broadway, headed downtown. We’d passed 125th before he said, “Where we goin’?”

  I glanced over at him. “You and I are gonna play a little one-on-one.”

  Up to that point, I’d felt perfectly good about what I was doing. Then it suddenly hit me. Jesus Christ, some fucking liberal. What a racist schmuck. The kid’s tall and black, so you automatically assume he can play basketball. For all you know, the kid’s never played ball in his life.

  Not to worry. Raheem thought a minute, pursed his lips and cocked his head.

  “Straight up or take it back?”

  39.

  HE KILLED ME.

  He beat me fifteen to six, but it wasn’t really even as close as that. I hit a couple of set shots late in the game he probably could have blocked if he was really trying.

  The problem was the kid could jump. He was half a head shorter than me, but he could outjump me all day long. And in one-on-one, rebounding is the key. Particularly when you’re playing straight up, which is what Raheem had asked me, and what, given the choice, he opted to play. For those of you who don’t play basketball, in a half-court game, which one-on-one is, you are, of course, both shooting at the same basket, so if you get the other guy’s rebound, the question is can you go right back up with it and score—straight up—or do you have to first clear the ball out behind the foul line before you can shoot—take it back. As I said, Raheem chose straight up, and as soon as we started playing I knew why. The kid could outjump me no sweat, which meant if I missed a shot all he had to do was grab the rebound, go back up and stick it in. Which he did with amazing regularity. By the time he was finished, I was exhausted, humiliated and my arm hurt like crazy.

  “Run it back,” I said.

  Raheem, who was dribbling and twirling the ball near the basket, looked over at me. “Huh?”

  I jerked my thumb. “Run it back.”

  He crinkled up his nose, squinted at me as if to say, are you sure? Which wasn’t a stupid question. I was breathing pretty hard after chasing him all over the court the first game, and I hadn’t put up much of a fight.

  “Your ball,” I said.

  He shrugged, dribbled out beyond the foul line and tossed me the ball. That’s a courtesy check. To make sure I’m ready before he starts. We do it after every basket. I threw the ball back to him, signaling the start of the game.

  The first game, as I said, I’d been tired, I hadn’t played well and I’d forgotten the fundamentals. That’s partly because he was a kid. A ten-year-old kid and shorter than me. And awkward to boot. I hadn’t expected much. Particularly in the way of shooting. But it doesn’t matter how awkward you are—if you can touch the rim, you can drop the ball in. Raheem’s jumping ability had caught me flat-footed—literally. That wouldn’t happen again.

  Back to the fundamentals. A shorter man can keep a taller man from getting the rebound by boxing out. And a taller man is anyone who can jump higher than you. So I had to consider Raheem Webb a taller man and act accordingly. When the shot went up, I had to box him out. The idea is simple—you play the man instead of the ball. The first game when he’d shot I’d been going for the rebound. No more. Now I’d go right for him.

  So when Raheem dribbled in and shot, that’s exactly what I did. I went to him, wheeled around, boxed him out. The rebound was mine.

  Except he made the shot.

  One nothing.

  I took the ball, flipped it back out to him. We were playing winner’s outs, of course. He tossed me the ball for the check and I flipped it back. He took it, dribbled at the top of the key. I hung back—if he wanted to shoot from there he was welcome to. He didn’t. He turned, keeping the ball away from me, and dribbled into the lane, keeping his back to the basket. I stayed between him and the hoop, my good arm up, letting him dribble the ball. If he made a hook shot, I couldn’t stop him, but hook shots weren’t really his thing either. He’d have to turn to shoot.

  He did and I was in his face. He faked left, went right, went up. I couldn’t block him, but I bothered his shot. The second it was off, I wheeled around, boxed him out, blocked him away from the board.

  The shot, an awkward two-hander, hit the rim, bounced off the backboard, hit the rim again and dropped through.

  Two zip.

  Third time’s the charm. Raheem came dribbling in, backing his way to the basket, and I kept in front of him, forcing him out. He turned, stopped the dribble. Faked up. Once, twice, three times. Then shot a two-handed set shot that glanced off the backboard and caromed right in.

  No fair. He wasn’t supposed to make that kind of shot, not even from six feet out. In my book a two-hand set shot has no right to go in.

  Three zip.

  Raheem dribbled in again, bouncing the ball lazier now, with the careless arrogance of one who is winning easily. I stuck to my game plan, just stayed on him, waited for the shot. When he went up, a two-hand jump shot, awkward as can be, I had already boxed him away from the basket before the damn thing hit the rim. It caromed off the other side, bounced away out of bounds.

  My ball.

  I trotted across the court, picked up the ball, bounced it in to Raheem to check. He bounced it back to me.

  I
dribbled slowly down to the top of the key. Raheem, as usual, held back in the lane waiting for me to make my move. I dribbled up to the foul line, slowly, easy, no need to rush it, and straight off the dribble went up for the shot.

  Swish. At least if there’d been a net it would have gone swish. As it was, it hit nothing. Just sailed through the circle of steel.

  Three, one.

  Raheem chased down the ball, tossed it back to me. I threw it to him for the check, got it back and immediately began dribbling in. Again slow and lazy. I dribbled past the top of the key to the foul line and went up for the shot. Same thing. The ball hit nothing, smooth as silk.

  Three, two.

  This time when Raheem checked the ball, he came out further before he threw it back. I knew he’d play me tighter now, get a hand in my face, try to make me miss.

  He was standing just short of the foul line, waiting for me to get there, go up for my shot.

  I didn’t. Instead, I fired it up from the top of the key.

  Swish.

  He turned around and gave me a look, then went trotting after the ball.

  Three, three.

  Tie game.

  And suddenly it’s the battle of the century. Never mind that it’s a middle-aged man with a bad arm against a ten-year-old kid with a bandaged head. This is war.

  I don’t know how to describe what happened next. Suffice it to say that I played over my head, shocked the hell out of a gawky kid who couldn’t quite believe it was happening, and actually made a game of it.

  Most of it was a blur. I was playing through pain and on my second wind, having passed exhaustion somewhere back in the first game. But under the circumstances I was playing well, and the long and the short of it is we got to fourteen, thirteen his, he missed a layup, I got the rebound, dribbled to the foul line, let fly a jumper, and swish!

  Fourteen all.

  Game point.

  And my ball.

  I remember what happened next as clear as day.

  He’s cautious giving it to me. He doesn’t want to get too close, let me throw a fake before I have to dribble. On the other hand, I had shot from there before. Maybe I’m just the type of fool to risk the whole game on a twenty-five footer.

  Maybe, but not today.

  I fake right but go left. Put my whole body into it, lean, actually, step forward on my left foot.

  But that’s a fake too. As the ball leaves my hand, I’m dribbling right. Not the best fake in the world, but effective. He’s half a step behind. Hustling to make up lost ground.

  Which is when I reverse again. Suddenly cut back to the left across the top of the key. He sees me do it, but he can’t turn in time. I dribble and I’m flashing sideways across the foul line. A good move, but I’m headed away from the basket not toward it, he’s already recovering, and before I could stop and shoot it, he’ll be on me blocking the shot.

  But I don’t stop. In full stride I raise the ball, twist just my hand, and, without even turning my head, let it fly.

  It is a shot that used to drive my high school coach bananas. Because no right-handed person can shoot running parallel to the basket to the left. The other way, yes, you’d be shooting across your body in a natural motion. But going left across the foul line you can’t shoot with your right. Particularly without turning your head. It’s simply a shot you are not supposed to take.

  I used to take one almost every game. And the coach could never say anything because the damn thing usually went in.

  It went in now. I saw it with my peripheral vision. It went straight in. No backboard, no rim, no nothing. Just a perfect arching, spinning shot. The soft touch, as the coach used to say.

  The soft touch.

  Fifteen, fourteen.

  Game.

  I let out a deep sigh, clenched my fists. A victory gesture. That’s when the exhaustion hit. I bent over, breathing deeply, my hands on my knees.

  Raheem said, “You gotta win by two.”

  My head stayed down a few more seconds, then came slowly up. By two? No one said anything like that. Any rule like that has to be spelled out before the game. Or at least before it occurs. At fourteen, fourteen, he could have said, “You gotta win by two.” It wouldn’t have been kosher, but we could have had a discussion and I might have actually agreed. Which would have been a large concession on my part, since I had the ball. But no, the kid waits till I plunk it in and then says, “You gotta win by two.”

  I was pissed. Really pissed. I had to tell myself, you’re dealing with a ten-year-old kid. But even that didn’t cut it. I wanted this victory and I’d fought for it hard. If that sounds stupid to you, then you’ve never played the game.

  And I needed a victory right now. So what if it’s only a ten-year-old kid? Somehow, some way I needed to win. I felt I deserved to win.

  And, in that instant, I could see it being taken away. I could hear myself explaining to Alice, “Well, I beat him fifteen to fourteen, but he said, ‘You gotta win by two,’ and—” It just wasn’t fair.

  “Fine,” I said. “Win by two.”

  And I walked up to the top of the key.

  Which made Raheem realize he hadn’t retrieved the ball. Slightly embarrassing, if he’d really been thinking you had to win by two. Obviously, he hadn’t, the thought had just occurred to him.

  He said nothing, chased down the ball, dribbled it back. He came up close, tossed me the ball. I tossed it back to him to check. He held the ball, but he was looking in my eyes. I knew that look. He was telling me I wasn’t going to score.

  He flipped me the ball. I didn’t set him up with any fakes this time. When the ball was coming, I was going. I caught it in mid-stride, went around him to the right, down the side of the key half a step ahead and put up a half-layup, half-hook from just outside the side of the lane. It hit backboard, rim, backboard, rim.

  And dropped off the side.

  Where Raheem promptly stuffed it back up.

  Fifteen all.

  And immediately drove down the lane.

  Sixteen, fifteen.

  I don’t know how to explain how badly I wanted to win. All I can say is, I was on that kid like glue. The fact he got the next shot off at all is some small miracle. I boxed him out, got the board, went back up and stuck it in, even with his hand in my face.

  Sixteen all.

  This time I foxed him again. A twenty-five-footer the second my fingers touched the ball. But I wasn’t going for the rim. The second I shot, I was around him, going for the hoop. My shot hit all backboard, off to the side. It caromed down to me for a layup. The only legal self-pass in the game.

  Seventeen, sixteen.

  In your face, Raheem.

  Next shot I faked the same thing. The second my hands touched the ball. Faked the shot-pass and the sprint for the hoop. And he went for it. Backed off a step.

  Which is when I pulled back and let fly.

  The twenty-five-footer I mentioned before. The shot I was disparaging as the desperate gamble of a total asshole.

  I can still see the ball. Arcing through the air. Spinning. Spinning with the soft touch. Curling out and down and through.

  Game.

  No pretense this time, no hanging my head and leaning on my knees. I sat down. Sat down right where I was standing. Sank down on the asphalt and sat.

  I sensed, not saw, Raheem come stand in front of me. I opened my eyes, but didn’t raise my head. Saw the shoes, the two black legs.

  And then the voice. “Two out of three?”

  I didn’t bother to answer, just waved him away.

  Two out of three my ass.

  He was quiet in the car going back. Just sat there in the front seat next to me, never said a word. He hadn’t argued much about the game I wouldn’t play. Even a ten-year-old kid could see that wasn’t gonna go.

  So far he hadn’t commented on my win, hadn’t said, “Good game,” or anything like that. In fact, he had said nothing since the question, “Two out of three?” I wondered if h
e was sulking ’cause I wouldn’t play the third game. Or maybe ’cause I’d beaten him in the second. That had to be a bit of a shock. Lose to a short white guy who can’t jump. With his arm in a sling, no less. Well, not during the game, of course, but my arm was sure back in the sling now. My shoulder hurt like hell, but I didn’t care. For the first time since I got shot, I actually felt good.

  I don’t know how to explain how important it was for me to beat Raheem. I mean, this was not the battle of the century here, just a gimpy old man versus a ten-year-old kid. But it really mattered to me. I think part of it was, I wanted to help the kid, and I realized somehow I’d never really have his respect unless I won. Because if I lost, I’d still be a fool in his eyes. One more person he could get around.

  But that was just part of it. And a small part. Because, deep down inside, basically, I just needed to win.

  Just for me.

  I pulled up in front of Raheem’s door. The pusher and two of the kids were standing in the street. As Raheem got out of the car, the guy’s eyes narrowed and he took a step toward him.

  I was out of my car in a flash, sling and all. I came barreling around the front of the car, planted myself between him and Raheem.

  I poked my finger in his face. “You stay away from the kid,” I said. “You don’t go near the kid. You make a move on this kid, you’re history. Just let me hear you give him any trouble, I’m runnin’ you in.”

  For a second I thought he was gonna tear me apart. But, my basketball clothes not withstanding, odds were the guy still figured me for a cop. And you don’t kill a cop with your bare hands in broad daylight with witnesses. Bad for business.

  He just glared at me, shook his head slightly, as if in disbelief, then turned and walked away.

  I turned to find Raheem standing watching him go. His mouth was actually open. He watched him go the whole length of the street, till the guy turned the corner out of sight. And even then he kept looking.

  I put my hand on his shoulder. “Come on, Raheem. Let’s go.”

  He looked up at me then. I was taller than him, even though you wouldn’t know it on a basketball court. He looked up at me with awestruck eyes, with the respect I’d been trying to win from him in the game.