A boy made shit of me. I grabbed his hand and twisted it behind his back and bent his fingers, and he screamed and screamed. When the teacher got to us we were both crying, but I wouldn’t let go. I broke two of his fingers, so I got kicked out of the school.
At home, my dad cried, too. He said it was his fault. He said, “I am walking on my eyelashes. I am making such bad choices for us.”
“Walking on my eyelashes” in Poland means you have been knocked down on your face. My dad walked on his eyelashes because he was drunk every day.
I didn’t ever tell Renata this story. I tell no one.
TEN
THE PAST LIKE DIRT
Barry Roland comes for breakfast before Renata and me are awake. He is used to just walking in the front door.
“Adam? Hi? Mrs. Renata? What are you guys doing? I’m here?”
I groan and roll from bed. Even though it is an extra-long bed, sometimes it feels like I don’t fit right. All night I have been uncomfortable. Maybe because I am still wearing my uniform and my warm-ups and I am very sweaty, itchy, and disgusting?
“Be right there, Barry,” I hear Renata call.
Renata has turned on Miles Davis and is already rigging up the coffee maker when I get into the kitchen. Barry sits at the table eating a banana.
“Potassium?” he says, holding the banana up.
“Yes, bro,” I say.
“You guys won,” Barry says. “By a lot. I heard it on the radio.”
“Yes,” I say. “Austin could not run their offense against us.”
Renata presses go on the machine, then turns to me. “Did you sneak in when you got home? We didn’t hear you.”
“We?” Barry asks.
“Little girls and some man,” I say to him.
“Oh,” Barry says. “Okay.” He nods and smiles like he understands now.
“You know who he is!” Renata says. “He’s Regan and Margery’s dad.”
“Okay,” I say, because she is correct. He is not unknown. Our house is on the corner of a large property owned by the college. The little girls live in a bigger house on the other side of this property. Their dad is the professor who grows plants on the land and in a greenhouse attached to their home.
“His name is Michael,” Renata says to Barry. “He’s a biology professor.”
“He has gray hair,” I say.
“He’s actually not much older than me,” Renata says. She smiles.
And then I worry. Renata last smiled like this in Philadelphia two years before. Six months later, she was crying and crying because the man named Peter drank “craft” beer every night and shouted about how he couldn’t handle us, how he couldn’t be himself when we were in his space all the time. This was after he played Frisbee with me like a dad and moved his ten thousand smelly books into our apartment and made us watch nothing but public television. For three more months after he left, Renata couldn’t act like my mom, because she was too sad. I don’t want a repeat. I want Renata happy.
“I give Tiffany gray hair,” Barry says. “Because I eat all the groceries?”
Renata stares at Barry for a moment, then says, “I’m going to make you a big breakfast, okay?”
“What about me?” I ask.
Renata gives me a look. “Of course for you. Basketball stars have big appetites.”
I slink down at the kitchen table. My big knees slide up and thunk into the table’s bottom. “What do you know about basketball?” I ask.
“Nothing. But Michael is good friends with the college coach, and he knows.”
I don’t want to hear the name Michael again. I don’t want to feel so itchy in my clothes, either. “I have to shower,” I say.
“I have to shower, too,” Barry says. “But I’ll wait until after work.”
“Seriously?” Renata says. “Now?”
“I couldn’t shower with the man in the house,” I say.
Renata looks hurt.
“I’m sorry. I’m okay. I will eat breakfast. I’m fine,” I say.
“Okay, good,” Renata says. She smiles and makes an omelet.
I go to school without having a shower, but it’s fine. The day goes by and there is a just a short video session about our scary next opponent and a short basketball practice after. When I get home, I shower for forty-five minutes before the warm water runs out.
ELEVEN
LOSING MY MIND TO THE OWENSES
And then, the next week, things on the basketball court get bad. I have never even heard of the town called Marshall. It sounds to me like a city that should be in the far west of America, where cowboys ride their horses and shoot up banks and saloons. Maybe because I saw a movie with cowboys and a lawman called marshal? Everyone else on the team knows about Marshall basketball, though, because they are a traditional powerhouse in the state.
More bad news. The game is being held at Southwest Minnesota State University in Marshall. “This is a home game for these guys,” Coach Jenson says.
The bus rolls for two hours across frozen prairie lands. Our cheerleaders come. Our pep band comes. But not many fans drive on a windy Tuesday night to someplace near the border of South Dakota.
Marshall’s crowd dominates the gym.
During the warm-ups, I already know we are in danger.
Greg Day is very good at getting rebounds, but his beef makes him not good at defense. He doesn’t swivel his hips quickly or move his feet. To stay with quicker players, he often grabs with his hands and gets into foul trouble.
Marshall has many tall, quick players.
Most of these quick players are named Owens. In practice during the week, Coach Jenson has called them “the Flying Owenses.” Caleb Olson nodded. Through the years, many, many Owenses play for Marshall. They are like a dangerous crime family in a gangster movie. When an Owens boy is a senior, Marshall is unstoppable. Coach told me this at practice. He let that statement seep into my mind. Then he said, smiling, “We’ve got some weaponry of our own, don’t we?”
I nodded.
“Just play your game, Adam,” he said.
What else would I do?
But this year there are two senior Owenses, a set of twins who are both six foot five. There is also a little brother from the same family who is a sophomore named Joe. He is already six foot two. And then there is Kyle Owens, who is a big-time college recruit, and a junior, and a cousin of the others. He is six foot seven. I will guard him, because he is the best. All these Owens have sandy-brown hair and eyes that seem too close to their noses. Greg Day will guard one of the twins (the really good one named Tyler), except I know he can’t do it. He is simply not good enough.
The game begins. The Marshall crowd sings epic fight songs in the stands. The Owenses score around me. They all look the same. Can anybody guard these guys? They are an Owens machine, passing and passing and passing until one Owens is clear for a layup, usually Tyler, because Greg Day is not a real baller.
I can leap up over any Owens boy, though. I am faster than any one Owens out there. So there is me and my drives and Caleb’s shooting. Even though we are not an army of Owenses from the Marshall nation, we score and we stay in the game.
But then, the last twenty seconds of the first half, it goes very bad. Greg Day is still on the floor even though he has two fouls (because what is Coach Jenson going to do?). Tyler Owens curls at the key, sprints down the lane, gets to the rim. Another Owens tosses Tyler the ball perfectly. I collapse away from six-foot-seven Kyle Owens to try to help, but it’s too late. Greg Day is red in the face. He is so mad about getting beat down the lane. Instead of reaching for the ball, Greg Day tackles Tyler Owens like a football player. Tyler’s head bounces off wood. The crowd screams. The ref blows the whistle. Tyler lies on the floor and moans and groans. The crowd boos loudly. The officials bring on medics to treat Tyler, and then they huddle up and start talking about the fate of Greg Day.
The other Owenses all stand and glare at Greg like they will take off his head an
d shit down his throat.
Coach Jenson calls us to the bench to get us away from possible trouble.
“Just relax. Keep calm. We knew these guys would be good. You can’t lose your head again, Greg. We’re within striking distance,” Coach Jenson says.
But then the officials break and the referee assesses a flagrant foul. Greg Day is thrown from the game, and Coach Jenson loses his own head screaming and the crowd boos and shouts nasty words . . .
Air goes from my sail. I am heavy. Greg Day injured Tyler Owens. The refs were right to throw Greg from the game.
Except then, like a magical elf, Tyler Owens hops up, walks to the free-throw line, and hits two free throws plus a technical foul shot. He was not really hurt. Isn’t pretending to be hurt cheating? Then the Marshall Mustangs get the ball again, because of the technical. Tyler Owens scores on Greg Day’s replacement, Shane Tinley, who is maybe five foot nine in his mother’s high heels.
What can I do against this Owens machine that also cheats?
As the half ends, we are down by eleven points. And there is a bad fire in my belly. I know this is no good. I try to breathe, but I can’t.
Coach Jenson talks through halftime, but my fire grows. All I think: the Owenses are cheaters. I barely even hear that we’ll play zone defense in the second half. My job is to protect the rim. No dunks, no layups for these Owens cheats. I will crush them first. There is fire.
And my fire burns bright. Most of the Owenses are really only good at layups. Yes, okay, with me not guarding him, Kyle Owens, the big-time college recruit, has space to hit jump shots and he does, but their Owens machine is not running so fast. Now I am underneath the basket and no Owens can throw up weak-kneed crap. Every time they get the ball close, I see what they are up to and steal, swat, smash it back in their cheating Owens faces. The crowd becomes mad. They cry, “Call a foul! Thirty-four is fouling every time, Ref!” But I know I am not. These Owenses are slow!
Kyle Owens becomes more frustrated, and the family play gets worse. He begins to take shots from farther and farther away, without even getting into their family offense. I snarl at him. I get rebounds. I fire outlet passes to Caleb Olson. Caleb streaks down the court. I explode behind him. He shoots or he lobs the ball to me. Bang. Boom. Sploosh. I score many times. Caleb fires up three balls. We are both on fire.
As we hit the middle of the half, we are behind 41–44. I am coming for these Owens boys. Yes, I am getting very tired and have not been subbed out the whole game, and Caleb is red in his face and Shane Tinley looks like he might barf out his dinner, but I am coming for these cheating Owens boys anyway.
And then the sophomore Owens boy, Joe, does something bad. He dribbles at the three-point line in front of Shane. He looks down to me. Then, like lightning, he cross dribbles Shane. Shane, with his weak ankles, almost falls down, and Joe explodes into the lane. Instead of going for a shot, he lowers his head down and crashes into my chest, which is exposed because I am reaching straight up above my head to block his layup. I fall backward so hard, the wind is crushed from my body. My head hits the wood.
My sinuses drain. The lights get bright. Ringing comes in my ears. There are cries from Caleb Olson, shouts from Coach Jenson.
But does the Marshall Mustang crowd boo Joe Owens’s dirty play? No. They stand up to see if I am dead.
I’m not. He can’t hurt me.
Instead of acting like a man who is dying, I bounce onto my feet and jump around and shout, “Do it again, bro. Do it! See what happens next!”
Then the ref blows the whistle. He gives me a technical foul for taunting . . .
Me? I was just knocked to the floor. What about justice?
“Are you joking?” I shout.
Coach Jenson shouts, “No!”
But it’s too late. The bombs are already going off in my head. If Caleb doesn’t restrain me, I might be throwing punches at the ref. He can’t stop my mouth, though. My mouth is going on and on. I don’t remember what I shout, but Derrick Oppegaard, the pep band drummer who was nearby, later tells me I used every f-word in the book on the ref. I make bad threats.
Just like that, I’m kicked from the game. I deserve it, because I can’t control my emotions.
Still, Coach Jenson screams, “You fixed the game! You are stealing this, Ref!”
Coach Jenson receives a technical foul.
I slide onto the bench. My anger drains. My fear rises. What happened? What just happened? What if Renata finds out I am insane?
Joe Owens is given four technical foul shot opportunities. The crowd is silent. He hits one. He hits a second. He misses the third. He hits the fourth. Our few fans boo loudly as Marshall gets possession of the ball again. They shouldn’t boo. I did this.
The bottom falls from our team. Without me, the Owenses reign supreme. Within five minutes, Marshall has gone from their three-point lead to a sixteen-point lead. We only score a single basket the rest of the game.
And this rings in my head like a bell: The season is going away . . .
The season is going away . . .
Basketball is going away . . .
Now what? Now what?
And then it’s gone.
As time runs out, Coach Jenson gathers us. “Hold your heads high. You just had the best year in Northrup basketball history. We hung tough against the team that will take our division up at state. I can almost guarantee it. In fact, they could probably beat anyone in any division. That’s how good they are. Ten minutes ago, I thought we might take them.”
Greg Day cries. Caleb Olson cries. Shane Tinley has a towel over his face. I don’t cry, but I don’t know how to cry anymore. I am dizzy and drained.
“I love you guys. I love you guys. Heads held high,” Caleb Olson says.
I want to play more games with Caleb. I do not want him to be a senior. We hug. “I’m sorry I went crazy,” I say.
“That was on the ref, man. You just reacted to the bullshit,” he says.
I barely remember the “good game” line when we shake our opponents’ hands. I say no words to the Owenses, but I remember Kyle saying, “We’ll see you again, Thirty-Four.”
TWELVE
I CHOOSE THIS
I get up so early after the loss to Marshall. It has been a bad sleep. I tiptoe down the hall and go into Renata’s office. I don’t want to wake her up, so I try hard not to bang into anything. This isn’t easy, because I have big feet. I turn on her computer.
I have no brothers or sisters. I have no extended family, no aunts and uncles or cousins. In Philadelphia, at the Polish Culture Center Renata took me to each month for a meal and to talk Polish (I don’t talk Polish ever, now), everybody said it was crazy for a Polish boy to have no family.
What am I supposed to do with that statement? Pretend I have a hundred cousins so I am okay?
They told me I look Polish, though, because I have dark blond hair and dark blue eyes and a wide face and full lips and I am very white . . . that also describes many kids in Northrup High School. Do they all look Polish?
An old lady at the center named Magda said I must have lost my Polish part when I came to America, because I’m so quiet and don’t smile very much.
But I never smiled when I lived in Poland, either. My dad left me with nuns and only one small suitcase of clothes and two crinkled photographs, one of him giving the finger and one of my mom playing piano that I left in my pants pocket and it got washed and killed.
Was I not Polish when I lived in Poland?
This is who I am: my body wants to fight and basketball is as close as I can get to fighting without being taken by the police. And my heart wants to be warm and safe. Maybe I am not courageous, not loud enough to be really Polish? Having a big bed and a giant couch is more important.
But I feel alone, too. Maybe nobody at Northrup High School really looks Polish. I am awake to google Polish girls in images.
I don’t want the sexy poses, but only the regular girls my age who are smiling at fest
ivals or wearing traditional clothes for dancing or maybe taking a walk in the mountains with their families. I stare at one in traditional clothes, with thick brown hair. Green eyes the color of fields.
I think of Carli Anderson . . . Does she look Polish? Anderson does not sound like a Polish name . . . but maybe?
Then I hear footsteps. I hit a bookmark on the browser so it looks like I am just checking assignments at school. The light goes on in the study. Renata stands in the door wearing her nightgown.
“Wow. You’re awake already.”
I nod.
“What time did you get home last night?” she asks. “It had to have been so late.”
“Long bus ride,” I say.
Renata stares at me for a moment.
“What?” I ask.
“I listened to some of your game,” she says. “Michael had it on in his car.”
I stare at her for a moment now. I swallow. “Why in his car?” I ask.
“We went to dinner,” she says.
“Okay. Did little girls go?”
“They stayed home,” Renata says.
“Here?” I ask.
“No, Adam. At their house.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Renata blinks at me, like she’s trying to read my thoughts. Then she says, “The radio announcer called you a once-in-a-generation talent from southern Minnesota.”
I let this sink in for a moment. “Huh,” I say, but I think, I am not from southern Minnesota. I am Polish.
“I had no idea you were that good,” Renata says. “I’m going to have to come to games next year, even if I hate crowds.”
Next year. Next year. What can I do with myself without basketball? How can I go to school and see Kase Kinshaw who doesn’t see anything but a refugee? How can I make it until next year? This thought almost knocks me out. “Excuse me,” I say quietly, “but maybe, because I lost the game and didn’t sleep good . . . well. Maybe I can stay home and get rest today?”
“Do you feel sick?” she asks.
“My head.”
With her migraines, Renata is sensitive to head pain. She lets me stay home.
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