Barely Missing Everything

by Matt Mendez

  Sneakers squeaked as the team ran from the baseline to the foul line and back, then to half court and back, until each player made the trip from end to end. JD was solidly in the middle of the pack. No limping for him. No crazy, life-ruining events happening to him. At the very least JD should have owned running from the cops, and he should have asked Juan about being booked—getting fingerprinted and having his mug shot taken. Asked about the charges and bail—Juan himself was still kind of clueless about the charges, but still. JD should have given a shit.

  “Too damn slow,” Coach Paul yelled. “Against the Tigers we were always late. Late on our assignments. Late on our weak side help. Late to every loose ball.” He blew his whistle and the team collectively groaned again, as they lined up once more along the baseline. “The boys from Irvin run and gun. Speed was supposed to be our advantage. A team of Mexicans can’t afford to be short and slow, at least not on the court. We only got till Thursday to get this right. The game’s Friday.” As Juan pedaled, Coach Paul made his way over to him and studied him without saying a word. Juan kept pedaling, staring straight ahead. “I got a job for you,” the coach finally said. “See me in my office after practice.” The coach didn’t wait for Juan to respond, just walked away as the team continued to run, Juan pedaling as hard as he could.

  • • •

  Coach Paul’s office smelled like the weight room, like moldy leather and sweat. Juan liked the musty odor; it somehow put him at ease. The office walls were lined with trophies and old newspaper clippings of past Panther fame, each neatly folded inside frames that looked like wood but were plastic. There were also pictures of a young Coach Paul and his 1997 University of Arizona National Championship Team behind his desk. A collection of coffee cups and stacks of paper and folders cluttered the top. Juan had always felt lucky to be playing for Coach, grateful he’d been called to varsity his freshman year, making him the first freshman brought up midseason in school history. He’d replaced a senior, no less—the starting guard had been kicked off the team after getting busted for driving with weed in his car.

  Coach Paul hurried into the office and dropped into the seat behind his desk. “You’re not going to prison, are you?” He considered Juan for a moment, then tipped each coffee cup before finding one with at least one sip left. “You’re not driving around your neighborhood selling drugs, right?”

  “No,” Juan said. “I was only running from the cops. Following JD. That’s all.”

  “That was a mistake. That kid’s a little asshole. Look, as long as the police don’t come and drag you away, we’re good. The bigger problem is that you’re about to become ineligible. You’re failing algebra.” He drummed his fingers against the coffee cup. “Well? What do you have to say about that? After all I’ve done for you, I expected better. Shit. You barely passed Spanish last semester.”

  “I’ve been working harder,” Juan said, trying to remember where his algebra book even was.

  “Bullshit. Mrs. Hill says you solve for x like illegals pay taxes. You don’t go to tutoring, either.”

  “Tutoring is during practice,” Juan protested. Mrs. Hill held tutoring during zero period, between the morning hours of way-too-early and I-got-shit-to-do. “When am I supposed to go?”

  “You trying to tell me you can’t find some smart kid who’ll tutor you? I bet the popular basketball star can find someone.”

  “I guess.” Like always, Coach didn’t get it, mistaking talent for popularity like he mistook constant running around on the basketball court for a good offense. Like he mistook his shitty jokes for funny. Juan had no idea who could school him up in algebra. JD was worse at math than he was. Danny was smart but probably wasn’t the tutoring type. Those were Juan’s only friends.

  “So good. We got two problems out of the way. Last one. Are you gonna be able to make it back this season?” Coach leaned forward in his chair. This was obviously the most important problem to him.

  “Yes,” Juan said, beginning to rotate his ankle clockwise for ten rotations and then counter, trying not to grimace. “The doctor said no problem.” He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate, visualizing the swelling in his ankle going down, the bruising fading away.

  “That’s good,” Coach Paul said, nodding. “Because I have a friend who coaches in Arizona, and I was thinking of having him come and take a look at you. I’ve been talking you up.”

  “At the University of Arizona?” Juan straightened himself. “That would be sick . . . I mean, a good opportunity.” He knew letting his imagination loose was a mistake, but he couldn’t help himself—college ball!

  “Settle down, moo-cha-cho. I said in Arizona. My buddy coaches at the junior college in Tucson, Pima Community College. Where I used to coach. Everything I told him about you was before this trouble you’ve gotten yourself into. Before your grades took a total shit and now your ankle injury. I’m close to calling the whole thing off, honestly. Look, I’m putting myself on the line for you. I can’t risk my reputation on you, can I?”

  “All I did was run from the cops. I wasn’t doing nothing wrong.”

  “Anything. You weren’t doing anything wrong. And since when do innocent people run from the cops?” Coach Paul exhaled loudly, rolling his eyes. “Mrs. Hill says you have a big exam coming up, so here’s the deal: if you don’t pass, I’ll call the whole thing off. You’ll end up a breaker for sure.”

  Coach Paul liked to categorize the students at Austin High as either “rock breakers” or “yard rakers.” JD talks too much trash; he’ll be a rock breaker. Duran is a good Christian kid but has shit for brains. He’s a yard raker. Until now Juan hadn’t realized he too had been dumped into a category—or was about to be.

  “I can pass her stupid test.”

  “Good. I don’t want to waste my buddy’s time. You know I got the junior, Duran, in your spot now. You think he can handle the position till you get back?”

  “The Bible-thumper? I might suck at algebra, but at least I know how to run an offense. Eddie’d be starting next to me if he didn’t freeze and blow all his assignments every time he went on the court. He’s worse than JD.” Juan felt bad for talking shit about Eddie; the dude was always cool with him, but he was a turnover machine.

  “That’s why I need your help while you’re getting yourself together, assuming you can. I need you to work with Duran. Get him to understand the plays. If you can do that, then I’ll let my friend know what a multitalented point guard I have. That he’s got to come down and see you for himself. He won’t pony up a scholarship on just my word. But once he sees you, I can get him to offer you one, no problem.”

  And there it was, what Coach had really wanted to talk about all along: next season. Juan should have seen it awkwardly coming, just like all the other plays Coach designed.

  “Can I think about it?” Juan said, trying to channel his inner JD and be nonchalant.

  “You gotta be kidding me,” Coach Paul said, glaring. Juan wondered if there was the slightest chance Coach Paul wasn’t full of shit. He wrestled his imagination from going wild, to keep from thinking of the players who’d gone from Division II to Division I and then, miraculously, to the NBA. Players like Avery Johnson, Sam Cassell, and John Starks.

  Coach Paul leaned back in his chair, slouching like he sometimes did during time-outs, when the opposing team was going on a run. “Fine, have it your way. You know we got a game Friday. If you’re not at open gym after school today, then I know what your answer is. You got that? I hope that’s enough time for you.”

  The bell rang and Juan quickly nodded before leaving the office. He kept nodding to himself as he limped straight to algebra—no skipping class to smoke a cigarette on the bleachers or buy cheese fries at Cakes. He pushed the idea of the NBA out of his head, of a big university, but he kept the thought of playing at a juco. Pima Community College could be real.

  • • •

  Juan only had a couple of bucks for lunch so he decided to skip eating and pocket the m
oney. As he’d sat through algebra, he’d realized he was probably doomed come test time. So after class he hobbled to the quad to think. The equations Mrs. Hill had scribbled across the chalkboard seemed an impossible language of letters and numbers. His homework was to graph quadratic equations using the expensive graphing calculator he didn’t have, but Danny was sure to have one, and he probably knew how to use it too. He would text Danny after school and ask for help, maybe ask to go to his new chante.

  Sitting on a bench, Juan watched as a girl he’d never seen before strode across the courtyard looking straight ahead and with a hop in her step. She wasn’t trying to look Hollywood sexy or chola badass, which of course made her kind of both. Immediately Juan wanted to impress her. She stopped in front of the library, checking her phone.

  “What are you looking for?” Juan yelled across the quadrangle. “What building?”

  “The registrar’s office,” the girl called back, turning toward him. “I need to pick up my cousin’s records. Apparently, he’s been banned from campus.”

  “It’s hard to find,” Juan lied, propping himself up from the bench and hobbling toward her. “But I can take you, if you want.”

  The girl smiled, shaking her head in disbelief. “Looks to me like you can barely move. I’ll find it myself, thanks.” Her teeth were perfect, which made him embarrassed of his own crooked grill.

  Juan hopped around on one leg, wanting to see more of her smile. “I can move. In fact, I got some pretty sweet moves. Ask anybody around here.” Juan knew how stupid he sounded but couldn’t help himself. “I’m Juan Ramos, starting point guard.”

  The girl’s smile disappeared, replaced by a smirk. “Roxanne, and I hope you’re better at bouncing balls than you are at talking to people.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Damn. Why didn’t he just laugh that off? Now even her smirk was gone.

  “Wow,” Roxanne said. She had thick, curly, black hair that bounced to her shoulders, and dark brown eyes. “You sound pretty defensive. Sensitive, even.”

  “I’m not sensitive,” Juan snapped back, sounding totally sensitive.

  “Right . . . I’m going now. Nice to meet you, Julio.” She gave him a quick wink, then turned to leave.

  “Juan,” Juan said, now really digging this Roxanne chingona. “And the registrar’s office is right near the panther statue. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks for lying to me earlier,” Roxanne said without looking back.

  • • •

  It was evening when Juan got home from school; he’d taken Coach’s offer and met Eddie for open gym. JD and Danny were waiting for him behind the apartment, sitting on two overturned milk crates, like usual. A waist-high tangle of weeds, dead and yellow, hid them from sight, but Juan could hear them talking, laughing. Dogs barked, but more out of boredom than aggression. The neighbor across the alley was watching TV and drinking a forty, like he did almost every evening. Juan’s ankle was throbbing after walking home.

  “Really, fuckers?” Juan said, limping over. “Why are you here?” The sun was starting to dip behind the Franklin mountains, and Juan hoped he could shame them away. “You shouldn’t be hanging around the chante without me here. Jabba gets all pissed off.”

  “Don’t be like that.” Danny pulled a wrinkled sandwich bag with a thin layer of weed at the bottom from his backpack. He unfurled it and began rolling a joint. “I’m beginning to believe all the shit JD’s been talking.”

  “What shit?” JD said, turning to Danny. “I wasn’t talking shit.”

  “It’s still basketball season,” Juan said, shaking his head at the joint.

  “You said he was ready to join a religious cult this morning.” Danny kept rolling the joint, his forehead furrowed with concentration. “I gotta say, you both have been acting weird lately.”

  “Dude, I just got out of county. I think I got court in a few weeks. I ain’t smoking shit.” A judge had read the charges to him through a TV monitor while he sat in a small room, handcuffed, with an armed guard beside him. The judge asked if Juan understood the charges and Juan lied when he said he did, trying so hard not to cry that he had trouble listening. All Juan really remembered was to expect a summons in the mail re-explaining everything.

  “You were only in the annex, and there’s plenty of time to get this out of your system,” Danny argued. He looked over at JD, who was staring at the screen of his video camera. “Put that shit away. Why would you record this?”

  JD held the camera right up in Danny’s face. “I told you, I’m making a documentary. I’m trying to record what happens to us.”

  “What the fuck are you even talking about?” Juan said, not actually wanting to know. He wished he’d gone home by the front of the building, risked the confrontation with Jabba the Slut about late rent or loud music or whatever she wanted to bitch about. She was always giving him shit, even when he was a little kid hanging alone when his má was at work, always telling him to stay away from the flowers. To stop feeding the stray cats and dogs. To quit popping beer bottles in the alley with rocks. (Juan loved the sound.) If he’d gone by the front, he would’ve avoided these two.

  “He’s been talking about ‘scenes’ and needing footage. Hasn’t shut up about it until you showed up. It’s sad, really,” Danny said. He held up the freshly rolled joint for Juan to see. “You wanna hit this first?”

  “No!” Juan kept standing, not wanting to get comfortable. Wanting them to leave.

  “It’s not sad!” JD said, sounding desperate to be taken seriously. “I want to make a documentary. After this year, who knows what’s gonna happen to us?”

  “Sounds to me like you’re just taking videos like a sad mom,” Danny scoffed.

  “And what makes you the expert? Your pretty school uniform?”

  “I’m an artist, man.” Danny laughed. “And I’m going to college next year.” Danny lit the joint and took a long drag.

  “You drew one comic book. Kick back, Stan Lee. And not all of us have Fort Bliss daddy money,” JD said.

  “Or a daddy,” Danny said, grinning at Juan before inhaling again. “Right, Juanito?” Danny blew a thick puff of smoke into the air, which slowly enveloped Juan.

  Juan waved the cloud away. Danny could be such an ass. Did secondhand smoke pop up in piss tests? JD finally looked up from the screen.

  “Eat shit,” Juan said, moving away from Danny.

  “You and Juan will probably go. But what about me? I’m screwed,” JD said.

  Juan pointed to his ankle. “You’re screwed? How am I gonna get to college? Limp there? I’ll be lucky to make it back on the court before the end of the season. No scout on earth is gonna want me. I’m fucking done.” But on the slim chance that he wasn’t, Juan had gone straight to Coach Paul’s office after school, where Coach had tossed him the playbook and then opened the gym. He and Eddie immediately got to work, sticking to the diagrams Coach had drawn up—some easy motion stuff, read and react, zone attacks, the same uninspiring bullshit the team always ran, Eddie pretty much unable to grasp any of it.

  “I feel real bad about that shit,” JD said now, pointing at Juan’s ankle.

  Man, Juan needed to get his ankle in some ice and take some ibuprofen. The throbbing was spreading to his head. “Didn’t sound like it this morning, cabrón. You and Eddie talking all that God stuff.”

  “I was just tired of hearing Eddie’s nonsense. I do feel shitty, seriously,” JD said, looking Juan in the eyes.

  “You should feel like shit. It’s your fault,” Danny agreed. He was playing with his Zippo lighter, snapping the lid open and closed, the metal hinge making a satisfying clinking sound. He took another huge drag, examining the plume of smoke rolling off the cherry before offering it to JD. “You ran like a scared bitch. And now you don’t have a phone. Maybe out a friend, too.”

  JD took the joint and turned to Juan. “How was I supposed to know you’d fuck up your ankle? I didn’t get away clean, either. Shit at home is all f
ucked up now.”

  Juan stared him down. “What? You get put in time-out? Grounded? You got more church to do?”

  “I did get sent to confession,” JD said, now holding the joint in one hand and his camera in the other, recording the lines of smoke twisting off the end.

  “Did you tell the priest how much you whack off?” Danny asked.

  “Nah. I didn’t want him to think I was bragging,” JD said, taking a drag.

  “Or flirting,” Danny added.

  “So you’re not in any kind of actual trouble?” Juan said, not in the mood for jokes. “Look, I got real shit to deal with. All you got is some church. Who gives a fuck? And why did you run, anyway? We never run from the cops.”

  JD took a moment before answering, passing the joint to Danny, waiting for it to come back.

  “I don’t know,” JD said finally. “I just did.”

  “He’s a bitch,” Danny said, laughing. Stoned. “We just covered this.” Normally Juan would be smoking out. Getting out of his head. And even though now seemed like the perfect time to do just that, watching Danny in his uniform, with his crisp white shirt tucked into khaki pants, his dark blue blazer, his red tie still knotted and looking dramatically out of place among the weeds—out of place next to him and JD—made Juan not want to be outside of his mind ever again.