Chameleon (29 page)

“CHIN UP, SHAWN. That was just one game.”

Yeah. One game I wish I had back. We plopped onto the grass, and Dad said, “Whew! I’m sittin’ the next one out. My time off the court is catching up to me. I need to get back in shape.” He slapped me on the back and added, “But you keep playing . . . I’ll watch.”

“We got next” came from a pair of lips at the other end of the court. I counted nine bodies. Dad’s team picked up George, which meant the new team needed one. I had to play. I couldn’t leave the court like that. The same lips shouted, “We need one.”

House collapsed on a patch of grass next to Dad as J.J., Darryl, and me circled the free-throw line, awaiting our turn to take a shot to get into the next game. Darryl bricked his shot left. J.J.’s shot went in and so did mine. He shot again and missed. I shot again and hit nothing but net. Cool — I’m in.

“Let’s do this!” the same lips shouted.

“So it’s me, you, Stick, Wiz, and High-Top,” the voice said before adding, “I’m Jamal.”

Stick? Wiz? High-Top? What kind of names are those? Stick was skinny like one, but Wiz and High-Top didn’t match their names much. Wiz was short and squat and didn’t conjure up any images of a wizard. High-Top was all arms. Maybe they call him that because he can dunk.

Me and Jamal slapped five. Me and the other guys nodded at each other. I looked at each one to make sure I knew who was on my team. This was a younger squad than my last one — these guys looked like they just got out of high school, and they looked like they could ball.

Jamal tossed the ball in to High-Top, who dribbled for what seemed like five minutes, then clanged a jump shot off the backboard. Stick pounced on the rebound and tried to put it back but threw the ball up way too hard. His man on D grabbed the rebound and threw the ball downcourt to a wide-open teammate who scored the first point of the game. Are you serious? These guys can’t ball. They just wannabes.

We exchanged baskets but were still down by two. Finally, Wiz passed me the ball when the double team came. From my favorite spot, I leaped off the ground and flicked the ball out of my hand, into a slow spin, and through the rim with a clean
swish.
Dad and House showed their appreciation with applause.

“Yeah, Li’l Shawn. Give that youngster the ball!”

I smiled as I jogged up court because House said what I was thinking: give the youngster the ball. But nothing changed. I got myself open, but Wiz looked over at me, then looked the other way and tossed it to Stick. The pass was too low and got stolen. My hands slammed onto my waist, and my eyes burned through Wiz. He looked away. Dang, where’s my boys when I need them?

I walked over to Dad and House on the sideline. “Can you believe this?”

“That’s what happens when you get a bunch of kids on the same team — all style, no substance,” Dad said. He and House laughed, then Dad said, “You need to say something.”

I wanted to say “What?” but Jamal stood near me as Dad ended his sentence.

My “teammates” continued to ignore me, so I finally said something to Wiz as we headed up court. “You didn’t see me wide open in the corner? That’s a couple of times now.”

“We real ballers out here trying to do our thing. What you gonna do? You just a kid.” He laughed before heading up court.

What am
I
gonna do? I’m
just a kid.
At least I can play. Who do they think they are? Real ballers? Please! Not even close. Doing their thing? Puh-lease. I gotta do something. Feels like it’s nine on one because not only did I have to keep the other team from scoring, but I had to convince my team to let me even touch the ball.

Jamal tossed the ball in to me and said, “Right back.”

I don’t think so. As soon as the ball touched my hands, I pushed it up court. My man jogged up the court slow, so I hit overdrive. I zigged left, zagged right, and darted into the lane where two defenders stood. I rose and floated a teardrop over the taller of the two, and the ball splashed through the net. I eyeballed my teammates as I hustled back on D. That’s right, I scored. Again.

“I told y’all . . . GIVE THE YOUNGSTER THE BALL!” House testified.

Dad shook his head. Why’d he do that?

I’ve scored every time I’ve touched the ball, and these wannabes still don’t show me respect. I glanced over at the sidelines and saw Dad standing now with House next to him, whispering in his ear. My eyes caught Dad’s as he pointed toward the action. My man had the ball. He faced me up and dribbled slow. Real slow. And low. I can rob him. Watch the ball. Right. Left. Right — snatch. I poked the ball away and took off downcourt. As soon as I took off, Wiz ran up on my right, clapping for the ball. I looked left and saw Stick running hard too. Jamal was nowhere to be found, but when I heard “Trailer, trailer!” I recognized his voice.

Should I pass it to either of these guys? They hadn’t passed it to me, and when I got knocked down, they didn’t help me up — they laughed.

Forget them. I took it myself. I knew where I was going. I crossed half-court and looked right and left to make it seem like I was trying to figure out who was gonna get the ball, but when I reached the free-throw line, I crossed the ball from right to left between my legs and laid the ball up with my left hand, my off hand. I kept my eyes on the ball and, as I landed, saw Jamal grab the rebound and put it back in one smooth motion.

“Eight up!” he shouted.

I glanced over at Dad again, and he stared me in the eyes, his arms folded and an unhappy look on his face — probably because he knows I’m better than the clowns I’m playing with.

Stick threw up a couple more bricks and Wiz stayed silent on D, but High-Top and Jamal brought the score to game point. Hard to believe we didn’t get blown out, playing the way we played and continued to play. Another one of Stick’s air balls had to be retrieved on the far court, so I headed over to the sideline to talk to Dad.

“Can you believe these guys?”

He unfolded his arms. “Them? I can’t believe you! What happened to passing the ball? Looking out for your teammates?”

“What are you talking about? Don’t you see them not passing it to me? Didn’t you see two of ’em laughin’ when I got knocked to the ground?” I said, throwing my hands in the air. “Are you even watching the same game as me?”

“As a matter of fact, Shawn, I am. I know they’re not passing you the ball and not giving you much help on D, but trying to do everything on your own is not the right way to play. You know better than that. You gotta speak up for yourself, but . . . two wrongs don’t make a right.”

I wanted to say something else, but I turned around to see Jamal bringing the ball up. I was open and surprisingly he flipped a quick pass to me. I held the ball to figure out my next move. I pointed to the left block, and High-Top, who was closest to me, set a screen where I pointed. As soon as he got into position, I took advantage of the screen and drove to the right. When his defender left him to guard me, I dropped a pass to him as he cut to the basket — a perfect pick and roll.

“Game,” High-Top said as the ball dropped through the net.

I looked over to the sideline, and Dad was slapping five with House, who then cupped his hands over his mouth to broadcast in his thunderous voice, “Y’all see that? The youngster does it all! THAT BOY HAS BEEN TOUCHED BY THE HAND OF THE LORD!”

CHURCH ENDED when the congregation collapsed on the grass in a collective breath of exhaustion. Me and Dad said our good-byes and headed back to the car for our post-church ritual: a burger spot of my choice.

“So, superstar, where you wanna eat?”

We waited at the stop sign while I made my decision. To the left: Fatburger. To the right: In-N-Out. Straight ahead: Tommy’s.

“It don’t matter — I’m starving. Which is closest?”

“Fatburger it is!” Dad said, turning left.

Of the three spots, In-N-Out was at the top and Tommy’s was at the bottom, but they were all my favorites, just for different reasons. In-N-Out had great simple cheeseburgers, but it was drive-thru only. Tommy’s had sloppy chili burgers, but it was also drive-thru only. Fatburger was cool ’cause not only could I sit down; I could also get whatever I wanted on my burger. And usually what I wanted was bacon, barbecue sauce, and jalapeños. Dad always got the special — with egg on top. Yecch!

The park disappeared behind us, but the games didn’t. Our sweat-drenched bodies filled the car with funk, so I rolled my window down.

“Looks like you got a little better since we last played,” Dad said, staring straight ahead, adding, “I take that back — you got a whole lot better. If we were keeping stats, you would’ve filled up almost every category: points, rebounds, assists, steals.”

I stretched my legs out as he asked, “How’d that happen?”

“Just from playin’ with my boys, I guess,” I said, shrugging. “So, Dad, why you always abusing me with that hook shot? You know I can’t stop it.”

“That’s why I use it. You use whatever you can to get the job done, especially when you get to be my age. You were the fastest out there today, so you used that. House is big and strong, so he uses that. But you know, Shawn, basketball isn’t just about how fast you are or how big you are or how nice your J is.” He took his right hand off the steering wheel and touched his index finger to his temple as he said, “More than anything, you gotta use your head.”

A purple skirt caught my eye as I glanced out the window. Dad brought my attention back to him when he said, “That’s what you need to work on.”

Here we go.

He continued, “If you wanna play on a team, you gotta go beyond that. I know you were mad that your team wasn’t passing you the ball, but you gotta show them you deserve it.”

“But, Dad, you saw how they didn’t pass me the ball, even after I scored a couple of baskets. You saw how nobody helped me on D, even when I seemed to be the only one who cared about defense. You saw —”

“Shawn, Shawn, Shawn. Yes, I saw all that. And for the most part, you’re right — you played well. But I also saw you throw the ball away a few times. And I saw how you wanted to do everything all by yourself more than a few times.”

“That’s ’cause I didn’t think I’d ever get the ball. I only did what I thought I needed to do so we could win.”

Dad spun the steering wheel into the parking lot and we parked. Before we got out, he said, “Just like in chess, you gotta think ahead. Most of the time, the best move isn’t the obvious one.”

“So . . . I’m supposed to let guys just walk all over me and leave me out of the game?”

We got out and approached the entrance.

“No. But you do need to speak up.” He pulled me in close. “And I don’t just mean with your words. Actions speak louder than words.”

He flung the door open, and the scent of burgers tickled my nose and stomach awake. As we stepped inside, my vision narrowed in on the girl behind the counter. Short and curly brown hair framed a sweet, round, peanut-butter-colored face. Almond-brown eyes fluttered lengthy black eyelashes. Her lips were nice and full and uncolored by lipstick. Her name sparkled in script on a gold necklace just below her chin and just above her uniform-covered breasts, but I couldn’t read it. Her skin had a nice glow to it — probably from the grease.

The line was a few people deep, and we stood at the end of it. Instead of looking at the menu, I watched Almond Eyes struggle with a big jar of onions in one hand, while the other hand wiped tears from her eyes. She turned around, and I caught a glimpse of her bouncing behind in her tight black uniform pants. Oh, man. My eyes bounced back and forth between her and the menu over her head. When we reached the counter, I got a better look at her name tag: Yvonne. How do you say that? E-vonne? Or Ya-vonne? Dad elbowed me in the ribs before I could answer my own question. He leaned in from behind and whispered, “I see you’re hungry for something other than a burger.”

I whipped my head around and shushed him. He bumped me and whispered, “Talk to her.”

“Dad, we at Fatburger.”

“So, she’s here and so are you. You could practice up for . . . what’s the Spanish girl’s name again?”

“Marisol. And she’s Mexican.”

“Sorry. Yeah, Marisol. What’s Burger Queen’s name?” he nodded toward Yvonne, peering in at her name tag.