This Way Home

by Wes Moore

  Elijah nodded.

  Harold cupped a hand over his mouth for privacy, even though they were the only ones on the patio. “If you want to get a piece for protection, I can hook you up.”

  “We’re okay,” said Elijah. “Thanks, though.”

  “It’s cool,” said Harold. “I’m just saying.”

  And because the seagulls had eaten their food, Harold packed a bag for them, which they carried home and ate on Elijah’s front stoop. The concrete still held some of the day’s heat, and it was quiet and comfortable.

  “How come you didn’t tell me you mixed it up with Bull?” asked Michael in between bites of his second foot-long.

  “Honestly? I was proud of myself for handling it all on my own.”

  “Sounds like you did handle it,” said Michael. “Shit just comes back around, though, don’t it?”

  “Yeah. But you were right there to back me up. Thanks, man,” said Elijah.

  “No problem. I always got your back. You know that.”

  “I do,” said Elijah. “I really appreciate it.”

  “Shit. That’s what brothers are for. You still worried about them jerseys?”

  “Forget it. Let’s just focus on the tournament and making it through to the finals.”

  THE BOYS MET early at Michael’s house, their spectacular uniforms concealed beneath plain gray sweats. Elijah’s mother was busy in the kitchen with Michael’s and Dylan’s mothers, preparing snacks: sandwiches, bananas, granola bars, and plenty of Gatorade, kept cold in an Igloo cooler filled with ice.

  “Picture time,” said Dylan’s mother. “You boys get close together. Smile for real, none of those pinched, fake ones.”

  They posed in front of the door, Michael in the center with his million-dollar grin, flanked by his two best friends. Their arms hung loosely over each other’s shoulders. At the pop of the flash, Elijah wondered if they’d look different at the end of the tournament. Could they really compete in the adult division, against college guys, hard-core street ballers, and trash talkers with more muscle and body ink than skill? They would, because they had to.

  Elijah’s mother pulled him down to her level so she could kiss his cheek. “Have fun and don’t get hurt. I’ll be in the stands watching.”

  “Okay, Mom,” he said. “I love you.”

  —

  THEY ARRIVED AT the Battlegrounds fifteen minutes early, feeling loose and warmed up. The surrounding blocks were closed off to traffic, and close to two thousand people were packed into every conceivable space. Food carts sold everything from pizza and hot dogs to Greek and Thai. Other vendors sold T-shirts, baseball caps, and even sneakers.

  It took them a few minutes to navigate through the crowds and find the registration table. They peeled off their sweats and waited in line behind another team.

  “How come everybody’s looking at us?” asked Dylan.

  “Because we look good,” said Michael.

  At the table, a guy in a T-shirt that said “Volunteer” scrutinized their IDs. “You boys aren’t old enough for the adult division.”

  “It’s okay,” said Michael. “We automatically qualified because of our standing in the eighteen-and-under division last year.”

  “Yes,” said Dylan. “And here’s our parent permission forms, and a letter from our high school coach.”

  The volunteer checked the coach’s signature. “You boys play for Bernie Walters? Why didn’t you say so? He told me he had some real players this year.” He shuffled the papers into a stack and set them aside. “What’s your team name?”

  “Elijah’s Army,” said Dylan with obvious pride.

  The volunteer wrote down their name and handed them each a blue plastic bracelet that fastened with an adhesive strip. “Okay, guys. Make sure you keep your bracelet on until the tournament is over. If you take it off or attempt to transfer it to another player, your team will be immediately disqualified.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Dylan.

  “We’ve got a strong field of competition this year, boys. You’ll be playing against teams from Atlanta, Richmond, and DC. And remember, it’s single elimination. Are you ready?”

  They nodded.

  A different volunteer pointed to several giant dry-erase boards affixed to the fence. “At any of the boards,” he explained, “Elijah’s Army will be listed as the very last team, number sixteen. Go on over, find that number, and you can see who you’ll be playing. Games begin in twenty minutes. Good luck.”

  “Thanks,” they all said.

  The meager patch of grass and gravel surrounding the Battlegrounds was a mob scene. Several TV crews worked the crowd, interviewing players and fans indiscriminately. The boys maneuvered through the people and stood before one of the big dry-erase boards.

  “There.” Dylan pointed at the first bracket of games. “That’s us, team sixteen.”

  “IT SAYS WE’RE playing team number seven,” said Michael. “B City Shooters. Court two. You guys heard of them?”

  Elijah and Dylan shook their heads. Games were under way on six of the Battlegrounds’ eight courts. Fans pressed up against the fences watching, cheering, and booing. The boys walked past Jones, who was still in his spot under the live oak tree, presumably giving odds and taking bets. He was wearing his banker’s hat and another one of his crazy T-shirts. This one said “Naturally Fly.”

  “Elijah’s Army,” said Jones. “Looking good. I’m giving you boys favorable odds this morning. Don’t let me down.”

  They slapped hands with the bookie as they walked by; Michael stayed back and exchanged some private words with him. They shook hands, both grinning broadly.

  “What was that about?” asked Elijah when Michael caught up.

  “Just placing a little bet,” said Michael.

  Court two was ringed with a smaller, quieter assortment of fans. Michael threw his arms around his friends’ necks and pulled them in close. “You see that dude?” He motioned with his eyes toward a guy in an orange polo shirt.

  “Which one?” said Dylan.

  “The one with the thermos and the notebook?” asked Elijah.

  “Yeah, him,” said Michael. “He’s a scout.”

  “You think he’s here to watch Elijah?” asked Dylan.

  “He ain’t here to look at my fat ass,” said Michael. “Let’s make our boy look good out there.”

  They opened the gate and walked, single file, to the center of the court. Elijah gathered his teammates around him and put his hand in the middle; the others did the same. “We don’t need fancy speeches, do we?”

  “No,” said Dylan.

  “Uh-uh,” said Michael.

  “Because we’ve been playing on these courts since we were little. This is our home.”

  His teammates nodded.

  “So let’s get out there and show them how we treat people who try to take our home,” said Elijah.

  The referee, a middle-aged guy with a gray brush cut, gave the opening instructions. “Bags and gear against the fence, boys. You got three minutes to warm up.” They dropped their bags and sat down to watch their opponents.

  “You don’t want to warm up?” the ref added.

  Elijah shook his head. “We’re ready, sir. Just tell us when it’s time to start.”

  The ref shrugged and called for the Shooters’ captain, who couldn’t have been more than five-foot-seven on a good day. He looked fit, though, and had a springy walk that suggested his legs might have a couple of surprising moves in them. His teammates were taller but not by much.

  “Nice uniforms,” said the Shooters’ captain. “How much those cost?”

  “I don’t know yet,” said Elijah. “Haven’t gotten the bill.”

  “Okay,” said the ref. “Game’s ten minutes long with twenty-one-point sudden death. Field goals are one point each. Anything beyond the white arc is two points. Observe the take-back line on any conversion, and remember, all free throws are dead balls. No questions? Good.”

  ELIJAH LIN
ED UP defensively with his teammates. He checked the ball back to the Shooters’ captain and then waited for him to pass it back into play. It was not a good start. The little man snuck a quick bounce pass under Elijah’s arm. His teammate shook Michael loose, and as soon as he caught the pass, he hurled it at the backboard. It wasn’t even close! The ball floated like a big orange moon until the third guy, the captain again—all five-foot-seven of him—leapt over Dylan’s head and tipped it through the iron.

  Elijah shook his head in disbelief. “Nice shot.”

  “Thanks, man,” said the captain.

  Dylan carried the ball to the line looking more than a little sheepish. “Did you see that? Little dude can jump!”

  “I saw it.” Elijah smiled and stuck out his hand for a slap. “Now how about we show that scout over there how fast you are?”

  “Okay by me. I can feel my ADD kicking in; I haven’t taken my meds in three days. Saving up my energy.”

  As the game developed, both teams traded points, neither yielding an advantage. At the twenty-minute mark, Elijah clamped a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “We need a turnover, bro. You ready to do your thing?”

  Michael nodded, understanding. “I’ve been waiting for you to call it.”

  At the sound of the ref’s whistle, Elijah dropped deep, guarding his man loosely, giving up way too much real estate north of the foul line. But he knew Michael was behind him, crouched low, just waiting for the shooter to plant his feet. And when he did, Elijah peeled to the side; Michael pushed off on his thick, powerful legs. He rose up high for a man of his breadth and swatted the ball with one oven-mitt of a hand, spinning it off his fingertips. Two players launched into the air for the rebound, both acutely aware that the fate of the game might be at stake.

  If there had been any question as to who would return to earth with the ball, Elijah answered it with an exclamation point, sharp elbows scissoring the air to protect his newly acquired possession. His Kobe 10s touched down on the pavement for a microsecond and then bounded away toward the take-back line.

  Elijah paced the backcourt with the ball, looking for an opening. Any opening. But the opposing team’s captain was practically glued to him, poking and whipping his arms in a desperate attempt to strip the ball. Elijah dished it to Dylan, who drew the captain’s attention and then hooked it right back into Elijah’s hands. Elijah spun and pivoted, blowing by the second guard. But as he approached the last man back, Elijah appeared to step—no, climb through the air—over him, feeling every bit like a force of destiny bent on rolling the leather off his outstretched fingers and into the ring of steel.

  Elijah had no clue that he’d caught the attention of the scout, who had just burned his lips on a cup of scalding coffee. “Jesus,” he said to a couple of guys standing next to him. “Did you see that?”

  Even if Elijah had known, he wouldn’t have cared, because at that moment, he had transcended himself. Gone were any thoughts of the tournament, or even his teammates. Airborne, arms stretched high and wide, he had entered that elusive place of basketball perfection where time flows in a circle instead of beating like a geared clock or a fallible heart. He had become movement. Purpose. Grace.

  But the other team wasn’t ready to give in. They bore down in the final minutes and worked the inside with quick passes and a clever reverse layup; it rolled the lip of the rim dangerously, and popped out.

  Twenty-five seconds left on the clock.

  Michael snagged the rebound and heaved it to Elijah, who backpedaled toward the line. As soon as he toed the paint, he loosed a high floater to Michael, who pulled it down safely and handed it off to a sprinting Dylan.

  Ten seconds.

  Dylan dipped one shoulder and then the other but made no move. His guard crouched, low and nervous, waiting. No one on either team knew what the hell he was doing; he was too far back for a shot, and yet he made no move toward the goal.

  Three seconds.

  Dylan stopped dribbling and straightened his body. The rest of the players could only watch, helpless, as his feet lifted gently off the pavement for a perfect jumper. It was too risky a shot, at least eight feet behind the two-point line. But the ball dropped through the net with barely a ripple. Elijah’s Army had won their first game.

  THE SECOND GAME, which was technically a quarterfinal, was over almost as soon as it had begun. Every player on the Pete’s Irish Pub team—clad in vintage Boston Celtics uniforms—was a sharpshooter, which should have spelled doom for Elijah’s Army. Fortunately, they were also well into their thirties and forties and possessed the soft, paunchy middles and bandy legs to prove it.

  Two minutes after the initial whistle, Elijah’s Army was up, seven to two. Five minutes later, they ended the game by scoring twenty-one points.

  “We’re doing it,” said Dylan.

  “Hell, yes,” said Michael.

  But there was little time to celebrate as the boys were ushered straight into their next game. This time the players on the opposing team were enormous, all well over six feet, with broad, muscular shoulders. Each one was covered in tattoos: tribal symbols, snakes, and a couple of naked women. One guy, the forward, had a scaled serpent wrapping itself around a massive shoulder and arm. The tattoos contrasted vividly against white jerseys with the team name spelled out in dripping crimson: Killer Ink.

  “Whoa,” said Dylan. “Remember that dude?”

  Elijah looked up to see Neck Tattoo, the bruiser they’d seen playing weeks before. He wore mirrored sunglasses and a Raiders cap turned backward.

  “I’m not guarding him,” said Dylan. “No way.”

  “Come on,” said Elijah. “Nobody in this tournament can touch your game. You can believe it or not, but either way it’s true.”

  “That dude scares me,” said Dylan. “He’s freaking intimidating.”

  The captain of the other team—the one with the serpent—didn’t shake Elijah’s hand or wish them a good game. Instead, he sucked his teeth and then spat, as though the sight of Elijah gave him a bad taste that needed to be gotten rid of.

  “I know about you,” he said.

  Elijah frowned but said nothing.

  “I ain’t afraid of Money, and I sure as hell ain’t afraid of you.”

  “Good for you,” said Elijah. “Nice neck tattoo, by the way. It makes you look tough.”

  Throughout the first half of the game, Elijah’s Army struggled to break through the opposing team’s defense. Every time they tried, Killer Ink drove them back relentlessly, forcing them to take jumpers and outside shots. But Elijah could see the frustration in Neck Tattoo’s eyes; he hadn’t expected real competition from a bunch of high school kids.

  Late in the second half, Elijah decided to try something crazy. Instead of checking the ball to Neck Tattoo, he rolled it ever so gently. Neck Tattoo watched it, incredulous, and then responded by firing it back at Elijah’s head. Elijah hit the pavement to avoid being decapitated as the ball sailed out of bounds and into the fence. A high blast of the referee’s whistle brought everyone to attention. The small, paunchy man in the black-and-white-striped shirt approached.

  “You,” he said to Neck Tattoo. “Come here.”

  While the ref gave his lecture, Elijah used the time to huddle with his team. “Okay, listen up. On offense, I’ll find a way through. On defense, force Neck Tattoo to his left. He’ll want to push back around to his right, but don’t let him. Use your body, and plant your feet if you have to. One free throw is going to win this game.”

  “Okay,” said Michael. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and he’ll twist his ankle stepping on Dylan’s face.”

  “Very funny.” Dylan offered a morose grin.

  After another check-in that was only slightly less murderous, Elijah dished it to Dylan, who was quickly wrapped up and passed it back. Just as quickly, Neck Tattoo jumped into Elijah’s face, bumping him with his chest, half an inch shy of a foul. Elijah allowed himself to be bullied back to the line, where he dribbled, high and loose,
waiting.

  Dylan read the setup and streaked from the backcourt as Elijah shot a bounce pass between the big man’s legs. Dylan took the pass on the run and drew a foul as he put up what should have been an easy layup. But the blow to the back of his neck sent him sprawling, and the ball rolled twice around the rim before it dropped through. The crowd went nuts.

  IT TOOK DYLAN a full minute to pick the bits of gravel from his knees and elbows. But he toed the foul line with a big smile, waving and blowing kisses to his new and adoring fans.

  Elijah patted him on the back. “You got this.”

  “I know.” Dylan bounced the ball once and then buried his free throw. The final score at the ten-minute mark: sixteen to fourteen.

  Elijah leaned back against the fence as Dylan and Michael were practically swallowed up by dozens waiting to shake hands and congratulate them. One man stepped from the crowd and waved to Elijah. He wore a white polo shirt with an orange Syracuse cap.

  “Elijah,” he said. “I’m Sam Lehigh, from Syracuse University.”

  “Hi.” Elijah didn’t believe it, but he shook the man’s hand anyway. It had to be a joke.

  “Your coach, Bernie Walters, has been talking a lot about you.” Sam pointed to a nearby bench. “Can we sit for a minute?”

  “Yes,” said Elijah. “I mean, yes, sir.”

  —

  THE WHOLE WAY HOME, Elijah studied Sam Lehigh’s business card. He turned it over and over, trying to find the flaw that would reveal it as a fake. But it was real enough. Across the front, orange-and-blue lettering said: Sam Lehigh, Recruiting, Syracuse University, Carmelo K. Anthony Center, Syracuse NY 13244. And on the back, a personal cell number.

  “We’ll talk more after your game tomorrow,” Sam had said. “But call that number in the meantime if you or your mother have any questions I can answer.”

  Elijah was nearly delirious with excitement when he burst through the front door. Syracuse University. His mother wouldn’t believe it. But he’d show her the business card, and she’d see. What she really wouldn’t believe was the fantasy he’d built up around his father coming to watch him play in the finals. A part of him knew it was childish, but hadn’t his mother said dreams were important? Well, this was his dream, and he was ready to make it come true.