Julius would get so pissed at all the losing, he’d end up dragging Sticky down to a local park with the scuffed-up house basketball. This was back before Sticky could even dribble with his left hand. Julius strutting out onto the blacktop in his Scottie Pippen jersey and new Air Jordans. His fake diamond earrings. Sticky with his standard white T-shirt issued by the state. Standard old blue jeans, ripped in the knees by the resident who’d handed them down. Sorry-looking white Wilson low-tops.
Julius would kick Sticky’s butt in one-on-one, game after game. Back him up in the post. Block his shots. Swipe the ball when he dribbled. The whole time talking trash. The whole time giving Sticky this new game to fixate on. To obsess about. To do over and over and over until he got good. A reason to dribble back down on solo missions. Every day.
Return to the scene of the crime, where Julius had kept in on him until foosball frustration faded from his mind.
With all those jumpers Sticky shot by himself, sometimes long after the moon replaced the sun above the backboard, it wasn’t long before he was getting Julius in hoops, too.
Then Counselor Julius had nowhere to turn.
All right, Stick, Julius said, cupping the white ball in his hands and blowing on it. One more foosball game before this lady shows up, and I swear to God I’m gonna get you this time. We’ll see.
But you know the routine, how one game turns into ten and before you know it, Sticky’s two points away from taking thirteen straight.
He ran off the first seven or eight in a flash, mixed in a couple shutouts. And then a frustrated Counselor Julius came up with the idea of switching sides. Sticky went from whipping Julius with his back to the window, to whipping him facing it. Like that. And to top it all off, Sticky didn’t even give his full attention to that thirteenth game. He had one eye on the action and the other spying this new foster lady making her way up the driveway.
Georgia finally got to the door and knocked three times hard. Julius, playing the part of responsible counselor, abandoned foosball. That’s her, Stick, he said, pulling his hands from the handles and straightening his cap. He reached back and took one last whack, but Sticky blocked the shot with a quick shift of his goalie.
You lucky, too, Julius said, I was about to catch my rhythm . He hustled to the front door.
Julius pulled the heavy door open and painted on his best smile. Hello, ma’am, he said, shaking her hand. I’m Julius. If you’ll just follow me into the office, I’ll have you sign a few things. It won’t take long.
That’s him, right? the woman said, pointing through the game room door at Sticky.
Yes, ma’am, Travis Reichard. That’s his given name. But he goes by Sticky around here.
Oh, that name, the lady said in a voice so Sticky couldn’t hear. She moved under the game room door frame. We’ll have to do something about that awful name.
Like I said, ma’am, real name is Travis. I’m not even sure how he got the name Sticky.
She watched Sticky slap the ball around a couple more times and then piped up: Hello, Travis. She spoke in a long and drawn-out voice, as if Sticky was retarded. How are you today?
There were a few awkward seconds of dead air.
Tell the lady hi, Julius said. Where’s your manners, big guy?
Sticky put his head up, then his hand up. But my name’s Sticky, he said, and went back to hitting the ball around.
Counselor Julius smiled.
Georgia smiled.
We’re gonna give you a fine place to live, she said. Me and my husband. I think you’ll be very happy in our home.
Minivans and this same opening line, Our happy home . . . There must be a book these ladies check out from the county library.
She stood watching Sticky a couple more seconds, then turned and followed Julius into the office, to get the details worked out.
It’s Tied Sevens
and Sticky’s handling the rock up top. Back and forth with the left hand. In front of his glazed body. Rhythm pats. Type of dribbles that get you in the groove to cut and slash, body loose and quick to make somebody look like a fool.
Rob’s weight is on the back of his heels on defense. Waiting.
The face rattles off truth in situations like this. Fear flickering in Rob’s wide eyes: Get too close and Sticky zips by for a layin, give too much room and Sticky sticks a jumper in his eye. Too many possibilities when the man with the ball gets to say which way and when, how fast and for how long. And you can multiply all that by ten if the guy can play. Get busted on in front of everybody. Get dragged all game by the skinny white kid everybody talks about.
All the loudmouths on the sideline are at full attention.
Sticky jab-steps right and pulls back, keeps his dribble.
Rob retreats.
Sticky is: through the legs, around the back, playing hoops with a yo-yo. Walk the dog when everybody calls for a trick. Hold the ball too long.
He is: stolen Nike shoes, stolen mesh shorts, ankle socks. Back and forth handling the ball, knees bent, his eyes in Rob’s eyes. Piss off the old purists who cry for a return to fundamentals. The ones who’ve lost so much vision they’re blind to the dance of it all. The spin move like a skirt lifting pirouette on callused toes. The dip. Jump shot splashing through the net like a perfect dismount.
There’s spirituality here. On this court. With these guys. Holding this ball.
Dallas clears out of the lane. Go on, Stick, he says, pointing to the open lane, backpedaling. Take him, boy.
Sticky is: in neutral down a mountain hill without sound. There’s no little voice saying where to go or how. Everything is in slow motion:
You could go to that one nasty spin when the defender’s vulnerable.
Could cross somebody over and pull up for the short midrange jumper.
Could skip an around-the-back pass to a cutter for the cram.
Could spin the rock around the right side of this clown and cut around the left, meet up on the other side for a slick-looking finger roll.
You could shoot from twenty-four feet out. From twenty-five feet out.
You could knock it in off the glass.
Could bust it straight through.
Or you could just hold the rock at your side for a quick sec, watch everybody watching you. . . .
Every pair of eyes is watching as Sticky makes his move on Rob—goes through his legs to the right, hesitates, the ball spinning like a top in the palm of his hand, weightless, stutter-steps one way (Rob’s feet go right, body left, have a nice trip), crosses him back the other way and blasts to the basket, dropping a sweet little no-look dime to Dante when the big man comes over to help.
Dante rises up uncontested and flushes in a two-hand jam.
That’s on you, New York says in Big Mac’s face.
Eight-seven! Dallas yells out on the way back downcourt. Good guys!
Everybody on the side goes crazy, falling all over each other. Laughing and frowning at the same time. Goddamn, Rob, Old-man Perkins says, his fist raised to his lips. That white boy just took you. I ain’t gonna lie.
He clowned you! Johnson hollers, slapping five with Old-man Perkins and then taking a couple steps onto the court.
Dante points at Sticky on the way back down the court. Good look, boy.
That kid’s got a bag full of highlights, don’t he, J? Old-man Perkins says, falling back onto the dull bleachers. Between somebody’s carved-in initials. Goddamn, he got a bag a highlights .
And Dante just flushes it through, OP, Johnson says back. He don’t barely even touch the rim when he dunks. Straight through like Dominique use to do for the Hawks.
And that’s the thing about this game. Go back on your heels and somebody’s gonna spin you around. Break you down. Shake left and have you falling all over yourself. Walk down the lane for two or drop a highlight on you. It’s all about the oohs and aahs from the sidelines. Turn heads. Do something that makes them stand up and slap fives, something that has them still talking on the wa
y out, when Jimmy shuts and locks the doors to go home for the night.
Everybody from Dreadlock Man to all the three-piece suits who roll in during their lunch hour, even Rob (though he would never give up the information), they all watch a little harder when Sticky gets the ball on the wing. There’s something natural about the kid. Something authentic. Simple pass to the post comes in a wraparound no-look. Sticky either comes out with some spectacular mouth-dropping demonstration or he messes up. Nothing in between. But when he hooks up something slick, some Pistol Pete hide-the-ball trick shot during a game, and this happens more often than not, everybody on the sideline falls all over each other slapping bleachers and providing commentary:
That white boy can ball, huh, Heavy?
I said the whole time he could play, KP.
I mean, he can ball, though.
He don’t play like no regular white boy, that’s why.
Trey pops out on the wing and Slim hits him with a chest pass. He sizes up Dante, jab-steps at him. Big Mac comes out of the post and sets a 280-pound screen. Trey slides right and Dante struggles to get through. Enough time to fire up a long jump shot. But the ball hits the front of the rim and pops straight up.
Dallas springs up to get it, high-dribbles back the other way. He gets trapped in the corner and throws out a desperation hook pass that Dante somehow tracks down. Everybody’s out of position when Dante starts left, switches right and buries a fifteen-foot jumper over Trey’s outstretched hand.
Nine-seven, Dallas yells out.
Sticky picks up Rob as he dribbles down the court. Payback is in Rob’s eyes. Sideline comments can get under your skin. Especially when the white boy you hate is doing all the damage. He isolates Sticky on the left wing, dribbling with his back to the basket. Clear out, Slim, he yells. I got a mouse in the house.
Sticky gets low and pushes with his legs. He’s down forty pounds and a stack of strength. And Rob always takes him into the post. Throws his big butt into Sticky’s middle and takes up the slack. Slaps hands away when they come onto the small of his back.
Rob starts baseline, brings up his head, stutters his steps and pushes the ball in front of his body toward the middle of the court. Sticky retreats on defense and keeps his position. Rob spins quickly back toward the baseline but loses the ball. It leaks out toward the sideline, where Sticky is quick to scoop it up and head the other way.
He races downcourt toward the bucket for an uncontested flush. But just as he’s about to take his two and a half steps—guys on the sidelines laughing at Rob lying on the ground, Dante and Dallas jogging behind the play—Rob goes to his knees and yells out, Foul! The sound of his deep voice echoing throughout the gym.
Foul!
Everybody on the sidelines goes crazy:
Nah, Rob, white boy ripped you clean!
That’s an embarrassment call!
You weak, Rob!
Dallas runs clear around the court with his hands on his head. Oh, hell no! he keeps yelling. Hell no!
Rob gets to a squatting position and looks down the court. That’s my ball! My ball!
Sticky sits on the ball under the far basket while everybody yells at everybody else. Dante holds his hands out for the rock and tells him: It wasn’t no foul, boy.
I didn’t touch em, Sticky says.
Come on, Dante says, and helps Sticky up. Takes the ball and tucks it under his arm.
Sticky shakes his head and stands alongside Dante. I won’t even get three games cause of this dude.
What you gotta do, boy? Dante shoots a look down the other end of the court where the argument is building.
It’s my girl’s birthday.
What I tell you about messin with them tricks, Dante says, and starts walking toward the commotion.
It’ll mess with my game, Sticky says, following Dante.
That’s right.
I just gotta handle something, though, Sticky says.
Dante laughs and shakes his head. He steps into the middle of the argument and yells over everybody: That’s a bitch-ass call, Rob!
What, I can’t get a call? Rob says.
Shoot for ball, man, Johnson says from the sideline. Gotta shoot for that one.
We ain’t shootin for nuthin! Trey yells. My man made a call.
Respect the man’s call! someone else yells from the side.
Y’all know that wasn’t no foul, Dallas says.
And nobody backs down in situations like these. There’s too much at stake. Fifteen guys swelling up the sidelines means the team that loses will be waiting three games minimum. Street ball debates are part of the game; sometimes it’s the team with the biggest mouths that holds court all day.
Carlos, a five-foot toothless Mexican, rolls off his bag on the homeless court and walks up to the pack. There is no foul here, he says with a heavy accent, pointing at Rob. I watch and this is very bad call.
Get off my court, Rob says, puffing up. Before somebody knocks your little midget-ass out.
This is bad call. Carlos walks to the side a bit, doesn’t look Rob in the eyes. No way, your ball. This is very much bad call.
I ain’t playin, Rob says. He clenches his fists, takes a few steps forward.
The few businessmen eating lunch near the door drop their forks. These guys show up to see one of two things: a nasty dunk or a big-time altercation. And with Rob in Carlos’s face and Slim pulling Trey away from Dallas, with everybody yelling stuff out at the same time, they have their altercation.
It’s twelve-thirty on a Thursday. Pale businessmen watching black bodies posture and toss threats. The guys on the sidelines are black. The motionless bodies scattered across the homeless court are black. The two boys reaching skinny arms up the mouth of the soda machine are black. The Mexicans are black. Even Sticky, with his flashy passes and through-the-legs-around-the-back strut, is black.
Pale businessmen will take this story and hold everyone’s attention back in the office. They’ll all congregate around somebody’s desk. The water cooler. In the men’s room. It’s so wild, man. You have to go check it out sometime.
Fat Chuck comes down out of the bleachers with his sagging gray sweats. An overweight, always-smelling-like-tequila mulatto who shows up almost every day to watch but never plays. He goes right up to Rob and tries to talk reason. Come on now, guys. He places his hand on Rob’s left bicep. Now you know Jimmy gonna come runnin out his office if you all keep it up.
Rob pulls his arm out of Chuck’s grasp. Glares. He turns his attention to the pack that’s moving to the other side of the court. You ain’t gettin that, he says. It’s my rock. I ain’t movin one step from here .
Fat Chuck backs up and watches him.
I Could Tell
you a lot about this game. . . .
How a dark gym like Lincoln Rec is a different world. Full of theft and dunk, smooth jumpers and fragile egos. Full of its own funky politics and stratification. Music bleeding out of old rattling speakers from open to close. Old rhythm and blues. Stevie Wonder. Aretha Franklin. Funk. Motown. Marvin Gaye. Sometimes Jimmy gets talked into hard-core rap on weekends. Or Trey sneaks in his three-year-old demo tape.
Always music.
There are fat rats that scurry through the lane on game point. Beady eyes on the man with the ball. There are roaches congregating under the bleachers.
There is so much dust on the slick floor that sometimes a guy will go to stop and slide right out of the gym. Every time there’s a break in the action, ten guys put palm to sole for grip.
There are a hundred different ways of talking and a thousand uses of the word motherfucker.
There are no women.
In the winter there are so many homeless bodies spread out across court two you can hardly see the floor. There are leaks when it rains. Rusted pots are set out to collect heavy drops. Sometimes a guy will track in mud and delay the games. Jimmy sets out a twenty-five-dollar heater and everybody puts their hands up to it before they play.
In the
summer you can hear the foundation cracking. The walls, the ceiling. Like the old gym is stretching out its stiff arms and legs.
There are faded bloodstains and tooth marks in the wood. Arguments that end with a gun being pulled. Like a year ago when Old-man Perkins couldn’t get his call one crowded Saturday. Guy laughed right in his face. Perkins calmly walked over to the sideline and pulled a forty-five out of a gym bag. Now, whose ball is it? he said, holding the gun limp at his side. Drips of sweat running down his wrinkled forehead.
Your ball, old man, the guy said, backing up with his hands in the air.
And everybody shows up for a different reason. A potpourri of ballers:
Some guys come because they’re regulars. Used to seeing all the fellas on a daily basis.
Some show for the first time on a tip from a friend. Try their skills in the best pickup around to see if they can hang.
A couple NBA cats roll through when it’s their off-season.
Some jokers walk through the doors looking for nothing more than a sweat. They come in wearing wet suit–looking wraps around bulging stomachs. Keep love handles away without hopping on a treadmill. They get run out of the gym after one game.
Some guys come to drop rainbow jumpers from deep.
Some come to throw their bodies around down low. To bang with the big boys.
Some guys pull in every day because they love talking trash. Barbershop talk in high-tops. They always have something to say when they score. They have something to say when anybody scores.
Ball Don't Lie Page 4
