Ball Don't Lie

by Matt De La Peña

  Ruben smacked his glove, waiting.

  When the popping sound sounded right Sticky wound up and threw a wild ball that Ruben had to pick up on the short hop.

  Sticky threw pitch after pitch that first afternoon. He threw a few strikes, but they were mostly balls. A couple bounced off the pavement and dug into Ruben’s shins. One sailed wide right and smacked somebody’s truck. Ruben grabbed the spinning baseball after that wild pitch and scoped the neighborhood for witnesses. He fingered the fresh dent on the side of the pickup and said, It ain’t nothing, bro. Just a little scratch. No worries. He walked back toward the makeshift home plate and tossed the ball to Sticky.

  At one point, when Sticky struck out an invisible batter on three straight pitches down the middle, Ruben went crazy and made crowd sounds with his mouth.

  You lucky, bro, he told Sticky after he walked out to the mound and wrapped an arm around him. The tree shadow was now only inches from Sticky’s feet. My pops didn’t never wanna play catch with me when I was a kid.

  After catch it was a couple horror flicks and microwave popcorn. Carmen went to snuggle in close to Ruben, but he thought Sticky should sit in the middle. Said it would make him feel more like a part of the family. Ruben turned off all the lights and turned up the volume.

  After every scary scene Ruben would turn to Sticky and whisper: That’s some scary stuff, right, bro?

  When the credits rolled on the second flick, Ruben ran through a few songs on his acoustic guitar and sang. He sat on a stool in front of the TV, strummed and picked soft at the shiny bronze strings. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back when he was really into it. Sticky and Carmen sat on opposite ends of the couch, watching.

  When Ruben’s voice got tired he put away his guitar and set up a bed for Sticky on the couch. Good to have you, bro, he said, and gave Sticky an awkward little hug. Then he pulled his wife into the bedroom, and she shut and locked the door behind her.

  Through the door Sticky heard Carmen yelling about how having some random kid in the house wasn’t the same as having a kid of their own. How he was a complete stranger and it creeped her out. He heard Ruben telling her over and over to calm down and give the situation a chance.

  Sticky fell asleep that first night to a chorus of sirens outside the front room window and the Hispanic couple arguing in the bedroom.

  The next day they worked off the same script: burritos, catch, a couple scary flicks and then some singing and fighting. The next week was like that too, in fact, except Carmen was gone during the day, Monday through Friday. It turned out Ruben played bass in a couple salsa bands but was taking time off to write new songs. Carmen worked part-time at a flower shop. Made lunchtime deliveries to all the businesses around South Coast Plaza. When she went to work, Ruben stayed home with Sticky.

  On the one-week anniversary of Sticky’s stay, Carmen came out for breakfast with a big smile. It was the first time Sticky had ever seen her smile, and he decided she looked prettier that way. Happy. Ruben followed her out and went right up to the couch where Sticky was lying under a blanket watching cartoons. He stuck his hands in his pockets. We’re goin on a trip today, bro. He paused a second and then added: To celebrate .

  Carmen laughed when he said that.

  They had Sticky pack his bag back up and set it out by the car.

  Where we goin? Sticky said between bites of cereal.

  It’s a secret, Carmen said, and she gave him a wink.

  Just hold on, bro, Ruben said, and he shook his head at Carmen. And remember, bro, it wasn’t me who thought this whole thing up.

  On the road Ruben talked about his own dad. How he worked all day in a factory and then went straight to the bar. We barely ever saw my old man, he said. When we did he was always wasted and yelling for us to do something.

  Sticky sat in the back again, leaning against his bag. He stared out the window and wondered where these people were taking him.

  Ruben moved in and out across the four freeway lanes as he talked. Carmen sat in the passenger seat with her arms folded. She didn’t say a word.

  So, one day my old man comes in and moves all his things out, Ruben went on. Just like that, bro. Right there in front of me and my two brothers. My mom. He turned almost all the way around so he could see Sticky’s face. When he swerved a little, started riding braille, he spun his face back to the road and straightened up. But you know what? he said, looking at Sticky in the rearview this time. Everything was better when he was gone. It took me a while to realize it, but I didn’t need him.

  Ruben directed his attention to the road again. He didn’t say anything for a few minutes. Carmen was now filing her nails, sitting with one foot up on the dash.

  I still don’t need him, Ruben said. He raced by a station wagon and looked in at the woman driver. He looked at Carmen to see if he’d been caught, but she was busy pulling nail polish out of her purse. I’m just sayin, bro, people can turn out cool, you know? Without no dad. He coasted down a familiar off ramp and stopped at a familiar red light. He turned around and looked Sticky in the eyes, told him: I mean, just look at me.

  The long drive led them right back to the foster care pad, where the old Mexican director was waiting outside with his arms folded.

  Ruben pulled the parking brake and hopped out of the car. Carmen stayed inside.

  Ruben unloaded Sticky’s bag and ran him through the whole hand-shaking thing. Sorry about this, bro, he said. It just didn’t work out.

  Before Sticky had time to say anything back, the old Mexican director was pulling him away.

  Things Are Heating

  up at Lincoln Rec. Sticky cuts through the lane and Rob busts an elbow in his ribs. Knocks him to the ground and scowls.

  Sticky springs back up and continues through the lane.

  Dallas swings the rock over to New York on the right wing. New York holds it against his hip, surveys the situation, then chucks it over to Sticky at the head of the key.

  Sticky sizes Rob up with a couple jab steps and spies the lane. He makes a quick hesitation and slashes past. Rob reaches out to hold on, but Sticky’s too slippery. As he scoots into the lane, Trey steps over to cut Sticky off, but this leaves Dante all alone up top. Wrong answer. Sticky instinctively whips the ball over his head and hits Dante in perfect rhythm for the jumper.

  Ball rips through the net.

  Dante points at Sticky as he backpedals down the court.

  Sticky points back.

  Tied up, Dallas says.

  Next bucket wins, Trey says.

  Now y’all playin some ball, Old-man Perkins yells from the side. He reaches down and starts lacing up his old-school Nike Airs.

  It don’t matter which one of y’all wins, though, Johnson says. Cause we on next, and we ain’t losin. He nods his head at Perkins. Reaches out a fist for some daps.

  It’s one-thirty in the afternoon and Lincoln Rec is bursting at the seams with guys waiting to play. Everybody dribbling around on the sidelines to get warmed up. Throwing bounce passes to each other and sneaking up jumpers when the action’s at the other end of the court.

  Next team that scores sits the other five down. Sends them to the back of the line. A five- or six-game wait means a good two hours sitting up in the bleachers, watching.

  Watching instead of playing.

  Only guys with heart look for the rock when it’s game point. When everything’s on the line. Guys confident enough to put a team on their shoulders and good enough to bring it home. This is where you find out who came to win and who’s happy just playing. Who’s willing to rip somebody’s head off when the pressure’s on, and who’s likely to cower in the corner like a puppy.

  Bring it down to me, Rob says in the post, digging an elbow into Sticky’s middle. Holding and grabbing. Pushing. Come on, Slim, bring it down.

  Slim dumps it in, clears out to the top of the key.

  Rob backs Sticky in, frees up enough space to work his unpolished post moves.

  Trey
comes over to set a screen but Rob waves him off.

  He spins into the lane and makes his move to the cup, muscles toward the basket like a linebacker. Lowers a shoulder and blasts Sticky in the face as he powers the ball up to the rim. The skin under Sticky’s right eye splits from the blow and blood starts zigging and zagging down his face. He goes down on one knee and watches Rob’s shot toilet-bowl around the rim and fall through.

  Game over! Trey yells, and fires wild fists through the air.

  Get off my court! Big Mac says.

  Rob stands over Sticky and flexes his biceps. Too strong, white boy!

  Sticky runs his fingers across his cut and stares at the blood.

  The next five are already making their way out onto the court, stretching arms and legs, jogging in place. Shooting warm-up jump shots and talking matchups.

  Dante scoops the ball up and fires it against the backboard. When it ricochets back at him he punches it with a closed fist. The ball caroms past Dallas, who’s squatting next to the door, covering his face with his hands. I can’t believe we lost to them fools, he says to no one in particular.

  Trey and Slim give each other daps and head for the drinking fountain.

  Sticky presses his shirt against his cut and studies the red blotch of blood. He gets up and walks toward the wall behind the basket, leans against it. Dabs his shirt against his cut again and studies the red blotch of blood.

  Fat Chuck takes earthquake steps up to Sticky and touches a fat hand to the back of his head. He pulls Sticky’s shirt away from the cut and investigates. Damn, Stick. Looks kinda deep. He turns Sticky’s face into the light, investigates some more.

  Sticky shakes out of Chuck’s grasp and presses his shirt against his cut, studies the red blotch of blood. It ain’t that bad, he says, talking more to himself than Chuck. And what flashes through his mind at that point is Anh-thu. He was planning on hooking up her birthday perfect. Walking up to her at nine tonight with a big shiner wasn’t exactly what he had in mind.

  Check it out, Fat Chuck says. I got some Neosporin in the car. He holds his hands up in the air. At least you gotta let me help you clean up in the bathroom, Stick. It ain’t like you gonna be playin anytime soon anyway. He points to all the guys on the sideline, waiting to play.

  Sticky looks at all the guys, does some quick math in his head and figures he won’t be playing again for another hour and a half, minimum. For a second he considers taking off. Handling the stuff he’s gotta handle for Anh-thu’s birthday early and worrying about ball tomorrow.

  Rob struts by with a devil-like smile on his face. He ducks into the drinking fountain for a few seconds and comes up gargling. He spits.

  On the strut back he leans in near Sticky’s ear, tells him in a quiet voice: You know you can’t handle all this muscle in the post, white boy. He flexes his guns and laughs when Sticky shoves him out of his face. Then he pimps back out on the court for the next game.

  Chuck wraps a meat hook around Sticky’s neck. Don’t worry about him, Stick, he says. Rob ain’t nothing but a fool. You can trust me on that one.

  Sticky presses his shirt against his cut, studies the red blotch of blood. He looks up just as Old-man Perkins checks the ball into play and another game starts rolling.

  It digs in Sticky’s stomach when he thinks about Rob hitting the game winner on him. How he let Dante down. Dallas. How because he didn’t play good enough defense they’re all sitting on the sideline now. Waiting. Watching. Not a worse feeling in the world, he thinks. And then Anhthu’s face flashes through his head again and it makes him feel better. Maybe his day of hoops is off to a bad start and he has a cut on his face, but at least he gets to see his girl later on. At least he gets to chill with her. And the fact that these thoughts make him feel better surprises him. He wonders if it’s a good thing or a bad thing in terms of his dedication to hoops. In terms of the fact that hoops has to be number one in his life. Always. The truth is, maybe he shouldn’t be so excited. Maybe this feeling is wrong. Especially considering he just lost the game for his team.

  Stick? Fat Chuck says. You comin or what?

  Sticky looks up at Chuck. He presses his shirt against his cut again, studies the red blotch of blood. Then he pushes off the wall and follows Chuck out the gym door and across the parking lot, toward the run-down public restrooms.

  Fat Chuck Is

  dabbing at Sticky’s face with a wadded-up rag. One he pulled out of the bag he wears around his waist. (Big red blotches framed by white cloth.) Hold still, boy, he says, and moves Sticky’s head to the side.

  Wet concrete is cracked under their feet. Jagged fault lines running into cement walls full of graffiti: thick black ink, spray-painted vato letters, blood. The kind of thing you might find in any kept-up-by-the-city restroom. Saturated toilet paper clogs both floor drains, forming ankle-high puddles you have to step over to get where you’re going. And there’s no getting around the sour smell.

  Chuck’s breath is tequila. Fingers salt. He puts pressure on the cut and Sticky flinches. Yeah, he says. Just like I suspected. Looks like you gonna need a couple stitches, Stick.

  Sticky pulls away to check himself in the eroding mirror. Moves his face right up to the glass for a closer look: A thin uneven cut jetting across the skin under his right eye. He takes the rag from Chuck and wipes away the blood. Watches it quickly pool back up.

  Chuck takes Sticky’s head, tilts it to the side again and squints: Maybe a butterfly, though. He moves him into better yellow light. But I’m thinking . . . Yeah, I’d say most likely some stitches.

  Sticky leans against the sink and flips through daydream channels: clipboard forms, explanations, rides to and from, insurance numbers, fancy doctors, rubber-gloved fingers, long needles in his cheek, a sun-bright dentist light. He puts his fingers to the cut and cringes when the salty sweat stings. Nah, man, he says. I ain’t got no time for no stitches.

  Chuck stares at Sticky’s reflection and shakes his head, puts a fist to his mouth to catch a cough.

  Chuck is: fat boy licking double-scoop all grown up. Gray sweatpants, gray sweatshirt, grass-stained high-top Converse. Celtic colors. Chuck is: Lincoln Rec’s team mom or resident die-hard fan. Never even tossed up one jumper in all the months he’s been showing up. Old-man Perkins warns everybody: Don’t let the man plop down in front of you up in them bleachers. That cat’s so fat he’ll cause a total eclipse of the court.

  Chuck catches another cough and spits in the sink. All right, Stick, he says, wiping his mouth. It’s your call. I’m just sayin, you could use about three or four. He folds up his fat arms and leans against the wall.

  I was takin Rob, too, Sticky says.

  I saw the game, Chuck says.

  Sticky pushes away from the mirror and goes for one of the stalls. The first three are occupied by homeless. Green trash bags next to callused streetfeet. None of the stalls have doors. Homeless dudes pick heads up slow as Sticky passes, show empty eyes. The fourth is wide open and Sticky quickly slips down his hoop shorts and reads the walls.

  Chuck steps up to the mirror, plays with the ends of his chewed-up mustache. Twirls uneven hairs together and then smooths them out. He tries on six or seven different facial expressions and then laughs at himself. Where you from anyway, Stick? I mean, where was you born?

  Sticky is: hands on knees, back straight. Defensive stance so that none of him is touching the metal bowl. He says through the wall: I was born in Virginia, I think. That’s what my papers say. But I don’t remember it none.

  Chuck runs nubby fingers across the gray stubble of his cheeks and neck. Well, you gotten pretty good at ball, he says. I been watchin, and you gotten pretty damn good.

  Sticky pulls up his hoop shorts and flushes.

  A guy with flies comes staggering up to Sticky’s stall and knocks on the wall twice. Politely. Sticky whips around wide-eyed.

  This cat’s a rotting burrito. Greasy gray hair and beard sticking out of a tightly wrapped Mexican blanket. Half-d
ead eyes. Callused clay feet under nappy frill. Excuse me, sir, he says, drawing out each word. You sharing this room with anyone?

  Sticky smooths out his shirt and shorts on the scoot-by, tells him: Go ahead, man, take it. I’m done. He walks the six or seven steps back to the sink and thuds the faucet with the heel of his hand. Water shoots out strong and he washes up. He turns and watches the blanket dude slowly stagger into the stall until it’s just his clay feet under the stall wall.

  The water shuts off and Sticky dries wet hands on hoop shorts.

  Gotta watch them vagrants, Chuck says. They’ll creep up on you sometimes. He moves closer and puts a hand on the back of Sticky’s head. Positions salt fingers next to the cut and pulls it open a little.

  Like I said, Chuck says. It’s up to you. It’s my cut, I have em stitch me up so it don’t leave no scar. Don’t mess me up down the road with the ladies. He elbows Sticky in the ribs and laughs.

  I already got a girl, Sticky says, checking himself in the mirror again. The blood is coming back molasses-slow now. It’s caking up everywhere except in one little spot. Matter of fact, I gotta go get some stuff for her birthday tonight. That’s why I gotta hurry .

  Chuck shows the whites of his eyes. He finds Sticky’s eyes in the mirror and says: So you already gots you a little honey then?

  Sticky nods.

  And you tryin to get her a little somethin? Chuck reaches both hands behind the back of his head and links his fingers. He looks up at the ceiling. I see, he says.

  Sticky’s mind is hoop channels again: three-game wait, max. Dante and Dallas probably got picked up already, but he could hook up his own squad. Get one more shot at Rob. Redeem himself. Anh-thu’s birthday stuff can wait. He’s still got business to attend to. His heart picks up its pace and he holds the rag out to Chuck (white framed by red at this point). What should I do with this?

  Chuck looks at the rag. Don’t give it to me, Stick. Go on and throw it away.

  Sticky dabs one more dab. Nothing. He throws the rag on top of the overflowing trash. As he turns to leave the bathroom, Chuck wraps a meat hook around his thin elbow. Hold up, Stick, he says. I know you all anxious to get back and ball, but let’s first figure out this birthday thing.