by Katz, Bob;
“So, EZ,” Dad glanced at me, keeping one eye on the road. “What’re you going to do about it?”
“I quit.”
“How’s that?”
“I quit.”
“You quit basketball?”
“It’s a dumb sport. I stink at it. I’m done.”
“Quitters never win.”
“Neither do losers.”
I’m not sure what I meant by that, and I’m glad Dad didn’t make me explain. We crossed the bridge and drove up Glen Ridge Drive. Our house was at the end of a cul-de-sac of nice homes. A yellow “For Sale” sign was propped on our side lawn, and a gleaming black Land Rover was parked in front. A man and a woman—both nicely dressed—climbed out of the car and stood gazing at our house.
“Dad,” I asked. “What would you have done if that had happened to you? If you made a stupid play and by accident it turned out great and suddenly everyone thought you were great?”
Dad took his time responding—I could see he was thinking. He paid no attention to the smartly dressed couple in front of our house. His gaze was aimed beyond all that, above the roof, above the trees, beyond the ravine, beyond all that lay immediately in front of us; a small hint of joy crept into the crinkled corners of his eyes.
“I always wanted the ball. I was always ready to shoot, soon as it touched my hands. My only mistake…”
The man and woman from the Land Rover came toward us, waving to get our attention. I waited for Dad to say more, but he never did finish that sentence.
Chapter Five
The sale of our Hunter Lane home, the stupid incident with the Otters, and the ugly newspaper articles about Dad’s business—all that took place a couple years ago. A lot has changed since then. My dad’s trial was delayed a long time due to complications I never really understood; then, Dad agreed to plead guilty right before the trial began. Mom tried to comfort us by saying that Dad had agreed with the court to face the consequences of his actions, which demonstrated what a good man he really was. He was sentenced to three to five years at a prison a few hours away. We were supposed to feel okay about that, both the length of his sentence and the location of the prison. That’s not how I felt.
We were on a tighter budget now. Mom found a two-bedroom apartment for us that was across the ravine, near the Nelsonville line. The apartment was on a bus route that stopped at Highcrest School and was convenient to her job at the East Ridge Medical Clinic.
Mom was incredibly busy, raising the two of us by herself. She left the house in the morning at the same time we left for school, and didn’t get back until dinner time, when she made us supper. Sometimes, when she was running late, I made peanut butter sandwiches for my brother and myself—which was fine, even when we’d had peanut butter sandwiches for lunch.
My brother’s jam-packed athletic “career” was another complication in my mother’s busy schedule. ZZ was the best player in his age group for every sport he played. In baseball, he’d pitch as many innings each week as league rules allowed and hardly ever gave up a run. Oh yes: he always batted third and the coaches on the other team were always screaming for their outfielders to move Back, back, back! when he stepped to the plate. In soccer, he was the fastest and most aggressive around the ball, and invariably got switched to goalie if his team was ahead with less than five minutes to go. Basketball, well, what can you say? With his quick feet, sure hands, soft touch, and boundless self-confidence, Zach, not I, was the true chip off the old block.
Throughout the year, Zach would have games scheduled several times a week, in one sport or another, and practices on days when he wasn’t playing in organized games. When Mom couldn’t get to ZZ’s games, she had other parents record videos of him—usually blurry wide-angle shots of ZZ lining a double down the third base line, weaving the soccer ball downfield through a cluster of helpless defenders, dribbling behind his back—what a show-off!—before tossing in a hook shot. Mom would invite me to watch, but I declined. To me, these videos were the very definition of boring. I mean, they never showed him striking out or muffing a shot. Which I guess is what I wanted to see.
I did quit basketball, as promised, after that embarrassing incident with the Otters. Yet the sport stayed on my mind. A lot of kids have secret fantasies that can come in handy when their spirits are low. Usually they’re silly dreams about becoming a movie star or a space explorer or a billionaire or an only child. My fantasy was different. It was realistic, not silly.
I was starting to grow taller. My dad had always told me that he’d been short for his age all the way through his middle school years. We’d learned a little about genes this past year. It’s pretty interesting how chemical material inside your parents’ bodies—that you can’t even see without an incredibly strong microscope!—determines what you look like and even how you behave. That’s a lot to think about. People said I had my dad’s ears—big for my skull size with droopy lobes. Why couldn’t I have his height too?
Zach and I shared a bedroom. Believe me, it wasn’t my idea. Sometimes at night when he was slurping and snoring and I couldn’t sleep, I‘d lie awake staring at the greenish glow-in-the-dark moons and stars stuck to the ceiling, and I’d fantasize about basketball. Stupid, I know, but I couldn’t help it. I’d grab the pass, cut swiftly to my left, and I’d hear the announcer’s soothing voice, “That EZ kid, he just makes it look so darn easy out there!”
It was in my genes.
That August before the start of sixth grade, I had a lot of spare time. I wasn’t enrolled in a day camp. Mom was never around. In addition to her work at the medical center, she’d taken a part-time job in the evenings as a cashier at Kohl’s out at the mall. ZZ was on a baseball team that seemed to play more frequently than the Cleveland Indians. When he wasn’t playing or practicing, he was hanging out with teammates on the other side of the ravine—at houses that had trampolines in the back yard, refrigerators filled with Coke, and giant TV screens in the living room. Or so he told me.
Troy Rutledge lived in that same neighborhood where ZZ’s friends lived. I’d never been to Troy’s house, but other kids who’d visited called it a “mansion,” and there weren’t many of those in Longview. Apparently Troy’s house had a living room with a pool table, an outdoor swimming pool, and half of a basketball court with a glass backboard. Some kids were invited over after school to drink Cokes, play games, and hang out. I was never invited, and told myself I didn’t care.
“You should get friends,” ZZ once took it upon himself to advise me. “It’s more fun than being alone.”
ZZ wasn’t a mean kid, but it was a mean thing to say.
So I was pretty much on my own that summer. With a lot to think about, because that’s how I am. And so I thought: why not use these long summer days to practice basketball? No games, just practice, by myself, with nobody around, just me and my thoughts and my Wilson indoor-outdoor round ball with the micro-pebble surface. If I failed to improve, so what? But if I did get better, and taller, and stronger, and quicker…well then, the announcer would simply have to declare the truth: “That EZ sure has game!”
I spent two afternoons scouting from one end of Longview to the other for the right court. Setting off in the morning on the #62 bus, I’d transfer to the #17 at the town hall. It was important to avoid any park that had day-camp activities going on, which also meant eliminating all school playgrounds.
The court that I eventually settled on wasn’t just good for my purposes; it was almost ideal. It wasn’t located in a park or by a school. It wasn’t located near houses or apartment complexes or office buildings or stores. It stood alone—no swing sets, no ball fields or backstops, no tennis courts, no clearings for skating rinks or fire pits for picnics. The basket-
ball court was situated on the edge of a lonely county forest preserve, marked only by the narrow trail of an abandoned bridle path. I couldn’t imagine why a court was e
ver built here. So I imagined it was intended just for me.
This remote basketball court was the last stop on the bus line before crossing the river into Nelsonville, in a section people called “The Narrows.” I’m not sure why this part of town merited its own nickname. It was different. The homes were smaller and the paint was usually peeling; some of them had dirt-patch lawns with junk out front—rusting air conditioners, discarded tires, and the like. You didn’t usually see that where I lived. Or rather, where I used to live. Where we lived now in Longview, there really wasn’t much junk left outside except by the dumpster. But there weren’t any manicured lawns either.
People usually referred to Longview as middle class, or “average.” Which means that, on average, our parents earn an average amount of money. We covered the concept of averages this past year in math. Some kids didn’t get it, but it’s pretty simple. Basically, an average is a number but it’s really more of an idea—it’s a way of understanding when something, or someone, is typical, and using numbers to do this. I understand it better than I can explain it.
I know I’m good at this stuff, and it is sort of fun solving logic puzzles, especially those Martin Gardner brain-teasers that Santa brings me every Christmas. But I don’t see where it makes much difference. Mom says that someday I’ll realize that being good in math is more important than athletic ability. She’s always staying things like that to make me feel better. And I always tell her not to bother—I feel fine.
Troy Rutledge was in my class and he couldn’t seem to grasp the concept of “average.” Our teacher, Ms. Maltzen, asked me to help Troy.
When a town is “average,” it does not mean it’s the same as other towns. When a person is average, it does not mean he is the same as everyone else. I tried to explain this to Troy. But all he seemed to care about was sports and, in sports, being average was not a particularly wonderful achievement.
“You’re average, EZ,” Troy sneered. “I am not.”
I stood my ground. “We’re all part of some average in some category.”
“Maybe you are, EZ. Except in math. You are definitely not average when it comes to math.”
Deep down, Troy was pretty nice. I kind of hoped he’d invite me over to his house to drink Cokes and shoot pool. I wanted to be his friend, but it seemed he only liked to hang around with kids who were good at sports. That wasn’t me—not yet.
Chapter Six
The basketball court in The Narrows was shorter than the official length, but it was good enough. The metal backboards had once been painted white, but most of the paint had since chipped away. The rims were rust-colored and one was noticeably slanted with a huge dent right above the rim, like it had been hit with a rock. Neither hoop had a net. “Nothing but net” wasn’t going to happen here, even for LeBron.
But best of all, there was nobody around. Sometimes I’d see a couple of mothers with strollers, taking a short cut to the river path. Cigarette butts mashed into the dirt and crushed beer cans flung into the tall weeds suggested that older kids hung out here—probably after dark, but I never saw them.
Once I figured out the best bus times and routes, I followed a routine that worked perfectly for the rest of the summer. After Mom left for work, dropping ZZ at day camp on the way, I’d head out with a sandwich (peanut butter on whole wheat), a sixteen-ounce Gatorade (orange), and my ball in the backpack. With bus transfers and long waits in-between, it took nearly an hour to get to the court.
The bus was rarely full and I mostly sat alone. Once I ran into Rafael Ott and his mother. I would not have thought they would be a family that didn’t have a car. His mom was a nurse and his dad had some big job at the hospital, although he wasn’t a doctor. Rafael had been on the Otters with me (no, the team was not named after him; that was just a coincidence). He moved over to sit beside me, and I had no choice but to be sociable.
“We’re heading over to Nelsonville to buy a car,” Rafael said. As if I had asked. “What’re you doing?”
My stop was coming up. The bus slowed and I stood, hoping to get away without answering.
“Hey, EZ, is this where you moved to? The Narrows?”
That struck me as a good explanation—better than having to admit I was sneaking away to the furthest part of town to practice basketball where nobody could see me.
“Yep.”
“See you in school,” Rafael said as I moved down the aisle.
I liked to arrive by mid-morning, before the day got too hot. I began my practice at the end of the court nearest the grove of trees. There were fewer cracks in the pavement here, and the cracks were not as jagged or as wide as the ones at the far end. The asphalt still showed the faint white lines marking the lane and the free throw line—“Charity stripe” is what my dad called it, I guess because it was so easy for him to make those shots.
The other advantage to practicing at this end of the court was that the line of tall Norway spruce cast a cool shade until nearly noon. It was quiet and peaceful. Our family didn’t go to church, but this is what I imagined it must have felt like, being at peace and alone with your thoughts.
My routine was the same every morning. Fifty lay-ups from the right side, followed by fifty from the left, dribbling and shooting with my left; then fifty down the middle, alternating shooting hands; then twenty shots in a row from each of six different compass points rotating clockwise from one corner around the key to the opposite corner. This last segment of the drill was particularly exhausting because I missed most of the shots—the ball would carom crazily off the edge of the court, and I would force myself to run, not walk, to fetch it. I was working on my conditioning as well as my offensive skills. It was quite a workout.
Then I would take a breather. A TV time-out, I’d tell myself. There was a thick, old tree stump situated almost where the scorer’s table would have been if this were an official court. Flat and wide with soft green moss on one side, the stump made for an excellent sideline bench where I could cool off. The only sounds were the heavy panting of my breath and the clickety-click of a busy woodpecker going at it somewhere high above. I’d take a long deep gulp of orange Gatorade. Sitting there, the stump brought to mind a book I’d read called The Giving Tree. The book was sad, but I appreciated the way the tree looked out for the boy as time went by and they both grew older. It would be cool to have something as solid and trustworthy as a tree looking out for you.
After the break, it was game time. The same match-up every day—The Eagles (my team) vs. The Hot-Shot Cheaters, who were heavily favored to win.
Treating it like it was a real game, I walked to center court to shake hands with the captain of the Hot Shots. I’d seen this done on TV and liked the way the two opponents—soon to aggressively go at each other—would share a silent moment of camaraderie. “Good luck,” I muttered aloud. The captain of the Hot Cheaters snarled and refused my hand.
OK, Hot Shot, so that’s how you want it to be? Game on!
For the next two weeks, the mornings flowed by in just the same way. Then one Thursday, right before game time, a voice rang out from the forest, “Oh, say does that star-
spangled…”
It was a real voice, a man’s voice, gruff yet up to the challenge of carrying the tune. Of course, I knew the song. Everyone did. But where was it coming from?
“…ba-a-an-ner yet wa-a-ve…”
I spun. There was no one in sight.
From the grove of spruce, a strange little man emerged. He wore a bright red bandana covering the top of his skull, pirate style, beneath which hung long, gray hair. Baggy denim coveralls with purple suspenders and a rainbow-colored Hawai’ian shirt dotted with yellow pineapples made up the rest of his outfit. He moved with a limp that looked painful. His singing grew louder as he approached.
“O’er the la-a-nd of the free…”
The old man moved directly to my tree stump. He made
a rather grand show of dusting it off—as if the tree stump needed to conform to his standards for cleanliness. Satisfied, he plunked himself down like he’d been escorted to a front-row box seat.
“Mind if I watch?” he asked.
I absolutely minded and quickly considered my options. I could politely ask him to leave or I could postpone the game and slink off home.
The old pirate didn’t wait for an answer, but clapped his hands twice, and—with the deep, crisp, clear voice of an announcer—declared, “Play ball!”
Well, I thought, why not?
I bounced the ball once, twice, mostly to calm myself. At this half-hidden court, the silence was broken only by the thump of the ball and the swoosh of the breeze through the spruce boughs. Finally, I mustered the courage to tell him, “Sir, I prefer to be alone.”
Patiently, the pirate just stroked his chin, as though he was contemplating the best solution to a complex puzzle. Then he spoke in a voice that was cheerful, not scary. “I was like that myself when I was a kid. Still am, actually.”
Did this odd fellow expect me to actually have a normal conversation with him? Was he totally crazy? I felt certain that I could outrun him, however, if he came too close. But he stayed on my tree stump, looking quite content. Crossing one leg over the other, he clapped his hands again. “Okay, already. Play ball!”
I crouched low, preparing for the opening tip-off. Jumping was not the best part of my game. Nothing was, really, and this morning was already a big mess. The whole point of practicing way out here in The Narrows, where it was shady and peaceful, was to be alone and free—free from the presence of other people; free from anyone’s opinion except my own; free to pretend that I could, like those commercials say, Be all that I could be.
If I’d wanted people to watch me practice, I might as well have gone to the courts near our apartment, or headed over to the Highcrest School playground. Heck, if I’d wanted people watching, I would have tried out for the team.
