Ball Don't Lie

by Matt De La Peña

  Yeah, you’re number seven on JV, she said. She smiled when she saw she had Sticky’s attention. I totally go to all the games. Unless I have to work or something. I love basketball.

  You check out our games? Sticky said, dropping his cool for a couple beats. Trying to picture her up in the stands and him shooting free throws with the game on the line.

  Yeah, and you’re the best one on the team. You make all the points. She made a face and put her hands on her hips. Hey, just cause I’m a girl doesn’t mean I don’t know what’s up.

  Nah, I didn’t say all that.

  Anh-thu pulled a thirty-four off the rack and held it out. Is this kinda what you’re looking for?

  Sticky took the pants. Yeah, these are smooth.

  She pulled keys from her pocket and motioned for Sticky to follow.

  They weaved in and out of intense late-night shoppers, through racks of shirts, hats, socks, freshly dressed mannequins, and slipped into the dressing room area, where Anh-thu unlocked one of the doors and let Sticky in. Let me know if you need another size or anything, she said.

  She smiled big and closed the door behind her.

  Sticky planted himself on the bench and stared at the pair of khakis. Not even a dime in his pockets. This girl had been to games, man. She knew his jersey number. And she was fine. Smelled good too. Sticky sat there awhile, in the dressing room, thinking about Anh-thu and the pair of pants in his lap.

  Finally, he walked out of the dressing room without trying them on. He handed the khakis off to Anh-thu and told her: These didn’t really fit too good.

  Really? Anh-thu said. You wanna try a different size?

  Nah, Sticky said. He scratched his head, leaned against a shelf of shirts, and when it wobbled, stood up straight again. I don’t think I want em no more.

  They stood next to each other in silence for a few seconds. Anh-thu folded the pants up perfect, let them fall loose and started folding all over. She watched Sticky out of the corner of her eye.

  Sticky pulled a T-shirt off the rack, stood staring at the design for a little bit and then pulled out a different one.

  Anh-thu put the pants on a hanger and hung them on the wrong rack. She turned and fished out Sticky’s eyes, cleared her throat. I don’t know what you have to do or whatever, but I was gonna walk through the promenade after work. Before I catch the bus home. She reached down and adjusted the strap on one of her flip-flops. I don’t know, maybe you’d wanna go with me. I mean, if you’re going that way or something?

  Sticky shrugged his shoulders and buried his hands in his pockets. That’s cool, he said, keeping away from her eyes.

  Great, Anh-thu said. Let me check out.

  They moved through the packed mall without saying a word. Through the food court and into the well-lit promenade. Waited for the green Walk sign with everybody else, and then walked across Broadway.

  They strolled past Hear Music, Borders, the new Rip Curl store, the movie theater with its two-story list of films and times. They walked through a crowd that had gathered around a guy finger-picking his guitar and singing a James Taylor cover.

  The night air was cool. The moon glowed through a thin patch of clouds. Sometimes Sticky would think up a question to ask, about classes or kids they both knew from school, but they all seemed dumb so he kept them to himself.

  They passed Urban Outfitters and Mario’s Pizza, the glass walls of World Gym and the long curving line coming out of Starbucks. A young black kid dressed in an all-glitter suit busted fancy dance steps to Michael Jackson’s greatest hits. He had only one glove on and everything. People cheered. Anh-thu kept pulling her hair behind her ears, out of her face, only to have it slip forward again.

  Sticky’s hand accidentally brushed against Anh-thu’s a couple times, so he stuck it in his pocket. There was a subtle squeak coming from one of his Nikes, so he tried to step soft with that foot to make it go away.

  It was across a crowded Santa Monica Boulevard and then west on Arizona. Sticky led the way and Anh-thu followed. They crossed Ocean Street to the beach side and had to high-step through a pack of Venice Beach overflows pounding bongos. They stopped at the bridge that goes over the PCH to the sand. Leaned elbows against the wood railing and stared out at the ocean.

  I have to admit one thing to you, Anh-thu said, breaking a long silence.

  OK, Sticky said.

  Just so you know, my girlfriends made something up when we watched your games. The wind was strong and Anh-thu had to keep pushing her hair out of her face. They kinda pretended like you and me were together. Like boyfriend-girlfriend. I’m sure it’s cause I always talk about what a great player you are. And cause I told em I thought you were cute . She pulled a rubber band from her pocket and put it in her mouth. Gathered her hair for a ponytail and double-wrapped. I guess that’s why I came up to you in the store like that.

  I never seen you at no games.

  You’re probably just concentrating. Like you’re supposed to.

  Sticky tossed a piece of ice plant over the cliff. We’re first place in league.

  I know.

  And I’m getting called up to varsity for play-offs. Coach said he’d get me some time, too. I know it’s ways off, but I can’t wait.

  I’ll totally be going to the play-offs, Anh-thu said, and pushed Sticky, all jazzed. My girlfriend Laura and me already talked about it. But I didn’t know you were gonna be playing too. That’s so cool.

  Her face went straight and she said: Hey, why didn’t you go with me to get hot chocolate last time?

  Sticky put his hands in his pockets and shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t feel like getting into the whole thing about him never having money. He barely knew this girl.

  Cars whizzed by on the PCH below. A trail of red lights going north, white coming south. All the different motors blending like the hum Baby used to make pushing around her broken-down vacuum. Sometimes a group of people would walk by on their way to the beach. Swinging bags full of blankets and wine. They’d disappear around the bend for a few minutes and then come out smaller on the other side of the bridge. In the distance the Santa Monica Ferris wheel was still spinning tourists around and around. Little arms and legs poking out of old-style seats. There were the faint smells of popcorn and dying seaweed in the air. The muted sound of waves rolling in across the sand.

  When Sticky didn’t say anything for a while, Anh-thu wondered if he was getting bored. Maybe I should let you go, she said, straightening up. I have to catch the bus anyway.

  They looked at each other for an awkward second. Sticky opened his mouth to say something but decided to keep it put away.

  My dad gets worried when I take the bus too late.

  Sticky made the move when Anh-thu looked to the ground. Stuck his face in hers. Touched his lips on her lips and wrapped hands around her back.

  Anh-thu pressed against the railing and placed her soft hands on his face.

  They looked at each other. Anh-thu giggled a little. She reached for his hand.

  Sticky led her down to where the bridge starts and helped her climb over the railing. I can’t believe we’re doing this, she said as they crept along a narrow stretch of cliff and ducked underneath the bridge, out of sight.

  There were abandoned fast-food bags at their feet. Styrofoam cups. A soiled blanket. Pieces of cardboard. Beer bottles that had settled in a ditch by one of the thick concrete pillars. Sticky kissed Anh-thu again. They tugged at each other’s clothes.

  What are we doing? Anh-thu said whenever they separated to deal with a stubborn button or snap.

  They sat on the dirt, half dressed.

  Sticky reached a hand up her blouse. Anh-thu fumbled with Sticky’s zipper. No layer scam meant no khakis underneath. No stop in the action because of a crime.

  There were voices of people walking over their heads. Spanish. English. French and Japanese. Someone dropped a glass and the shattering sound echoed under the bridge. When one of their feet slipped a little, slid a
cross the loose dirt, a small cloud of dust would rise up into the bottom of the bridge and separate.

  Then it was over. Sticky stood up quick and pulled his jeans over himself. Zipped up. Anh-thu straightened her skirt and stood up too. They both put themselves back together in silence.

  OK, I think I have to go now, Anh-thu said, giggling. I have to catch the bus.

  Sticky stepped over two faded Pepsi cans and an abandoned flannel. He got in close to Anh-thu, looked right in her eyes and pulled the loose rubber band from her hair. Anh-thu’s black hair spilled down her shirt, covered her name tag. When she leaned her head back and shook her hair out, Sticky got a weird feeling in his stomach. Like everything was the way it was supposed to be: the cool breeze, the sound of the highway and the beach, the bridge and cliff covering them like they were in their own little world. He’d never had this feeling before. You wanna be my girl? he said, slipping his hands into his pockets.

  Anh-thu looked right back into Sticky’s eyes, caught her lips breaking into a smile and made her face go straight. Yes, she said. I totally do. She reached up and put her hands on the back of Sticky’s head. Went up on her toes and kissed his cheek. She looked up into his eyes and let herself smile this time.

  I should really go, she said.

  I’ll walk you to the bus stop, Sticky said.

  When they climbed back onto the bridge Sticky put his headphones on without sound. Walked slow through the homeless bodies curled up on the grass. Anh-thu picked a little yellow flower from a bush and put it behind her ear. She walked a little ahead of Sticky up to the crosswalk that would take them back into the promenade, pushed the button.

  Damn, Sticky said to himself, I guess I didn’t get me no pants.

  He stared at the flower stem sticking out the back of Anh-thu’s long black hair and felt happy.

  Cheerleaders Screamed Out

  chants and posed with blue and white pom-poms, whipped thin arms and legs around like little windup toys. The football squad leaned in close to the action on the court, sprayed venom and pointed bench-press fingers in the other team’s faces. The ten-piece band broke into hype-up-the-crowd tunes the second a ref’s whistle stopped play.

  Sticky’s seventeenth birthday may have ended in a crowded holding cell, but it kicked off in a sold-out forty-year-old high school gym.

  Dominguez Hills rolled into town with twenty-two wins and a bus full of hype. Players filling out purple jerseys like men. “Too much experience,” all the papers said. “Too many athletes. Two of their starters already committed to big-time colleges.” All this and it was Venice High’s first play-off game in five years.

  Sticky was the hotshot sophomore who gets called up from JV for play-offs. The outsider at the end of the bench with his warm-ups still buttoned all the way.

  The kid pinched out of the huddle during time-outs.

  Players called up don’t see much run in the play-offs. It’s a pat on the back just being on the bench. Sticker on the helmet. But all that went out the window in the middle of the third quarter, when Dominguez Hills went up by twelve. Coach Reynolds shook his head at every face he scanned on the bench. When he got to Sticky he pointed a shaky finger, told him: Get the hell in there, kid. Grabbed Sticky under the arm and damn-near threw his ass toward the scorer’s table. Run the point.

  Sticky jogged to the table and pulled off his warm-up jacket, tossed it behind the bench. He reached over and picked it back up, threw it down. Picked it up and threw it down.

  Picked it up and threw it down.

  Picked it up and threw it down.

  It was a crazy time to have an episode, with all the varsity guys on the bench, watching, but he knew all he had to do was get on the court. That was when everything would disappear.

  It took three or four more tries before he got the perfect toss. Then he slid a hand across both soles for grip.

  The buzzer sounded and the ref waved Sticky into the game.

  Reynolds put a hand on his shoulder and yelled something, but Sticky didn’t hear a word. He didn’t hear anything, in fact. Not his coach. Not the crowd. Not the announcer calling his name out over the loudspeaker or his teammates telling him who to take on defense. He strutted out onto the stage with nothing but a blank mind.

  When the ref whistled the ball back in play, Sticky made like it was just another street ball game down at Lincoln Rec.

  See, I have this theory about hoops. About what makes one dude smooth under pressure and another fold.

  Sticky picked off a cross-court pass right off the bat, high-dribbled down the sideline like Deion Sanders and stuck a deep three-pointer.

  The crowd rustled.

  The more a player thinks about the game—what setting they’re in, who they’re running against, what folks will say depending on whether or not they hook up a decent showing—the more messed up that player is gonna play. It’s unnatural.

  Sticky ripped the other squad’s point guard clean, like he was wrapped and on a shelf at half-court, took three quick dribbles and dropped in a sweet one-handed finger roll over the rim. His face broke a smile on the way back downcourt. He pointed to the crowd and pumped his fists.

  He was like a showman at the circus.

  The guy in the cage with the whip.

  Go ahead and pick out the smartest dude in the house, and I’ll promise you he’s the most weak-minded baller. All that analyzing. Examining. Calculating. Man, you gotta stay clear out there. There’s no time for reflection when you need reaction to a situation.

  The crowd started catching on to this new guy up from JV. Running the squad. Flashy passes and slick attacks on the bucket. Slashing and bombing away. Hoops on autopilot.

  Sure, the game with refs is supposed to be different from the game on the street. More under control. Less razzle-dazzle. Fundamentals like they teach in clinics all across the country. How to play hoops for $425 per week. But Sticky plays with the same flavor no matter what the setting.

  Every time you turned around in the second half, the announcer was calling Sticky’s name over the loudspeaker: STICKYYYYYYY REICHARD FOR ANOTHER TWO. COUNT IT.

  White space.

  Then the whine of the school band’s trumpet, a couple thuds from the bass drum. The crowd stepping up its volume another notch. The weight of all the energy testing the old gym’s tired bleachers.

  And some movie writer couldn’t have made it up any better. The way it all came down in the end. With eleven seconds left, Dominguez Hills’ star guard was at the free-throw line shooting two. Score tied 85–85. Crowd booming. Band banging through sets during a time-out Reynolds called to ice the shooter.

  No matter what, Reynolds yelled over screeching horns. The whole squad was huddled around him with blank faces, ready to gobble up whatever he fed them. No matter what, if he makes them or misses them, we call time out.

  When the kid stepped up to the line, the crowd was so out of control, stomping their feet and screaming, the rim actually started vibrating. The bottom of the net started flipping back and forth. The ref handed the kid the rock and he went into his routine: three dribbles, tuck the ball under the chin, deep breath. He lofted the first one up soft and it fell through.

  The crowd died.

  Just like that. Ball hits nylon, no more noise. Like someone in the control room flipped a switch. Dominguez Hills 86, Venice 85.

  Purple jerseys went up and slapped their guy on the back, told him: One more, baby. One more.

  The crowd topped out for the second free throw. Feet pounded bleachers like a tank rolling through. Both teams snuck over-the-shoulder glances at the wave of screaming fans. Felt deep vibrations swim through the floor and into their shoes, scale up weary legs and unfold in the pit of their stomachs.

  Three dribbles, tuck the ball under the chin, deep breath. Kid lofted up another soft one, but this time it rattled around the rim and fell out. Venice’s starting center, Sinclair, ripped down the board with two hands and made a quick T around the ball. Time ou
t, ref! Time out!

  Down one, nine seconds to play.

  No time to analyze.

  Venice huddled around Coach Reynolds again. A pocket of concentration. All the guys gave everything to ignore the cries of the crowd, the thumping of the band.

  Reynolds reached for his stick of chalk and stared at the ground. All eyes were glued to a blank chalkboard. All right, here’s what we do! he yelled, but then he fell silent again.

  The crowd locked into a rhythm of sound. Two stomps and a clap. All at once. Boom boom clap. Boom boom clap. Sticky stood pinched out of the huddle with a water bottle, squirting an arc of tap into his mouth and trying to listen.

  Reynolds reached through the huddle for Sticky’s arm. Pulled him into the middle of everything.

  Sinclair, Reynolds said, just as the buzzer sounded. End of time-out. End of brainstorm. You inbound to Sticky. Sticky, you penetrate and look for the open man. Nothing’s there, pull up for the shot.

  Everybody looked at Sticky all crazy as they broke the huddle and stepped back onto the floor. Coach put the rock in the hands of a JV kid. A sophomore. Skinny white boy who didn’t even have a name on the back of his jersey.

  Sinclair put a big mitt on Sticky’s head. Come on, youngster. Make something happen out there.

  Spread the court, Reynolds yelled, following his team halfway out onto the hardwood. He reached out for Sticky’s shoulder but missed. Don’t do nothing stupid, kid!

  And a sold-out gym fell silent for Sticky.

  The ref blew his whistle and handed the ball to Sinclair. The movements of the crowd without sound. Every kid on the court in super-slo-mo. Ticks of the clock farther and farther away. He jab-stepped at his defender and broke for the ball. Hands out. Sinclair whipped a pass in to him and the seconds started rolling:

  Nine seconds on the clock . . . eight seconds. And, see, this is what you do . . .

  You size up the purple jersey in your face, man. Some number 23-be-like-Mike black face with straight teeth. Braces. Beads of sweat dribbling down his forehead. Baby Afro. The triangle of small moles on his right cheek, calling out. Down in defensive stance like basketball camp demonstration says.