Rucker Park Setup (12 page)

“Peace to your partner who fell on this court,” says Kodak, kissing two fingers and touching them to his heart. “But
you
were never the player people made you out to be. And you can kiss my ass every time I go by you.”

“Word to yours and mine—I don't care what I have to do, I'm keepin' in front of you,” I answer.

Kodak buries the first foul shot, without ever taking his eyes off the rim. He doesn't move his body out of place an inch, ignoring his players along the foul line who want to slap his hand. Then I watch his release again. It's identical to the first. Only this time the rock doesn't go down, and rattles out of the rim.

“Shit!” screams Kodak as our squad grabs the rebound with a one-point lead.

Non-Fiction's pressing us, and Fat Anthony's pushing them. I got control of the rock with the clock running down, and the silver watch in Stove's hand. But I'm in no hurry.

“No laying back!” screams Greene. “Bring it, Mustard! Bring it!”

When the time slips inside of two minutes, the crowd gets on its feet and starts to really make noise. I know Greene and Fat Anthony are sweating out every second, and all they can do now is wait on me to move.

Spider gets up too close, and I rocket past. I sidestep two more defenders and let loose a little teardrop shot. The rock rims out, but I hold my ground and rip down the rebound. I throw my head up in the air, and another dude goes flying for the fake. I lay the ball up, but Kodak comes out of nowhere and gets a piece of it.

“It just won't go down!” says Acorn.

The rock's three feet over my head, with Kodak fighting me for it all the way.

That's when I feel two giant springs uncoil in my legs. I rise up over Kodak and tap the ball into the basket with one hand.

“Hold the Mustard 'cause you won't need any. That boy's already spiced up with desire!” echoes Acorn. “Greenbacks lead by three points.”

Fat Anthony calls time-out, ripping into his team.

“Kick his fuckin' ass out there before I kick every one of yours!” yells Anthony, without stopping for a breath. “The game's on the line, and you're gonna let that pissass little nothing turn big!”

But nobody on their squad
let
me—I stepped up, and there's no turning back.

Everybody on my side's slapping my hand. Stove's telling both coaches there are no time-outs left, and now nobody can stop the clock from moving.

I move closer to our bench, but I won't step off the court. I want my feet planted where J.R. and me started something together. The other kids stick close to me, and Mitchell moves the huddle out to where I'm standing.

I look Greene in the eye, like there was never a second I was scared of him, and that he's going to pay for killing J.R.

He tries to turn up the heat by glaring back, but it's too late.

Whatever's inside of me is already on fire.

So Greene puts his shades back on and starts jawing at the team.

“You all know what's ridin' on this game for me,” says Greene. “Do
not
fuck this up!”

I hear the words slither off Greene's tongue, and my eyes get fixed on that kid on top of the trophy.

16

I LOOK DOWN and push my toes up against the line. I see J.R.'s initials on my kicks, and I can feel him standing with me. My body's straight, and both arms are high over my head. The crowd's pressed up at Kodak's back. Stove's about to hand him the ball, and I'm already jumping up and down, trying to block Kodak's view.

“Mustard's not givin' him enough room,” says Fat Anthony. “My guy's supposed to get two feet clear.”

That's when Stove reaches out and puts his hand against my chest. His shoulder moves, but he doesn't push me back an inch.

“We gotta do the right thing here, Mackey,” says Stove, starting his count.

Non-Fiction inbounds. They keep setting screens to bump me off Kodak, till they finally get him the ball. The clock's running down, and I know Kodak can't waste time faking. He looks left, so I figure he's going right, and I got the sideline there to help me out. Kodak explodes out of his shoes, and I slide right as far as I can. But he jets past through the open space between my foot and the line, flying to the rim.

I hear Stove's whistle as Kodak scores, and think maybe somebody fouled him going to the hoop. Only Stove's down on one knee, slamming the sideline with an open hand to show where Kodak stepped out-of-bounds.

The basket doesn't count.

“His foot never touched the line!” screams Fat Anthony, nearly jumping out of his skin. “What are you tryin' to pull here, Stove? Are you in on this, too, Ham? Are you part of this?”

Stove brings the rock to the sideline, and I run over to put it in play. Fat Anthony comes up behind Stove, screaming at him. But Stove won't turn around and follows the play up court.

There's less than a minute left, and we're ahead by three points. We don't have to shoot the ball—all we need to do is hold on to it tight, and kill off the clock. But Greene's got our kids juiced over the spread, wanting us to score big for him. So somebody hoists up a crazy shot from the corner that misses by a mile. But Non-Fiction can't haul in the rebound, and the ball's rolling loose underneath our basket. I'm the first one to hit the floor for it. Only I can't control it, and now I'm at the bottom of the pile, looking up through arms and legs.

Fat Anthony's squad finally grabs the ball. I get the last guy off of me, and I'm almost to my feet when Kodak shoves me back down and bolts the other way.

I feel the skin scrape off my knee, and the sting when the air first hits it.

Without me, Non-Fiction's got numbers, playing us five-on-four.

“We need you back, Mustard!” calls Mitchell, waving me up court.

That's when Spider gets stripped of the rock, and one of our kids rifles it up ahead to me. I'm all alone. There's nobody within forty feet of me, and there's nothing to think about.

I take a few easy dribbles with the crowd screaming off the hook.

“Better hold your breath!” announces Acorn, like I'm about to tear the rim in two.

I go to plant my foot, and I feel my ankle twist. I'm going to fall flat on my face, and a giant
gasp
rushes into my ears. But I take the weight off my ankle fast, before it turns over, and pull up every bit of strength I ever got from growing up on this court with J.R. And right then, I believe in myself more than anything—that there's no way I'm going down. My stomach muscles turn to steel, and I straighten myself back up.

I take one last dribble and lay the rock home.

“Hold your breath for sure,” says Acorn. “It's a five-point lead, and thirty-two seconds to go by the big clock.”

I can hear Greene and Fat Anthony yelling over everybody, with their voices hitting head-on. Non-Fiction's playing frantic. They miss their next shot, and I drop my body on Kodak's, so he's got no prayer of grabbing a rebound.

Our kid puts the ball into my hands, but I don't want it. I don't want any part of settling this damn bet, so I pass it off quick.

Both squads come up empty, shooting blanks. Non-Fiction misses their last shot, and the ball ricochets off the iron, right to me. I zigzag past kids with it, so nobody can touch me. And when the clock hits one second, I throw the ball high up to the stars for J.R. to share the championship. But Kodak jumps in front of me, and I bounce off his chest to the ground.

“That's for you, Hot Dog,” sneers Kodak.

The crowd starts to come onto the court, but Stove's blowing his whistle, so the cops push everybody back.

“There's one second left by my watch,” Stove shouts to the scorekeeper. “Mackey to the line. That was a two-shot foul.”

“Yeah! Yeah! That's what I'm talkin' 'bout!” hollers Greene, surrounded by his posse. “Those are
my
Greenbacks! Better start countin' it out, Fat Man!”

But Fat Anthony's busy hustling his squad off the court, like the game's over.

“We're not finished here,” says Stove, running over to Anthony. “You don't put your players back on this court, I'll just give the Greenbacks two points. And I promise you—you'll never have another team in this tournament.”

Fat Anthony never opens his mouth and pushes five of his guys onto the court.

The crowd's pressed up along the sidelines, waiting to bust loose, and the cops start a human chain to hold them back.

Every kid in a green jersey is celebrating, and everybody wearing white looks like they just had their heart torn out and shoved back under their nose.

I set my feet at the foul line, and Stove walks the rock out to me. His face is calm as can be. Only his eyes are raging, and we both know there's more to this than two lousy foul shots.

“Congratulations, Mackey,” says Stove in an even voice. “This is where you always wanted to be—with everything ridin' on you. Now—
juega con fuego
. Show me what you're really made of.”

I look over at the scorer's table, and Greene's got the gold trophy in his filthy hands. Then Greene shakes it at me, tilting it sideways, till that kid on top isn't reaching up to the sky anymore. He's just reaching out to nothing.

“Make it sweeter for me, Mustard,” says Greene. “Make it even sweeter.”

I take a few dribbles to get my rhythm. Then I run my hands across the seams, feeling for the grips. And I can't remember when a rock ever felt heavier in my hands.

Fat Anthony's eyes are nailed into my side. But he's not grilling me like I better miss these two free throws. He's looking at me like I fucked him every step of the way tonight. That I was a traitor to both sides.

I let the air out of my lungs, then I bow my head. I raise up with the shot, and the ball slams off the backboard, two feet off to the side of the rim.

“Brick!” screams somebody in the crowd, but Acorn doesn't say anything.

I step back off the line and look over my shoulder. Greene's up at the edge of the court, and I stare into his shades. If I was close enough, I'd slap them off his face just to see if his eyes could turn any blacker.

“I see it's about you and me, Mustard,” says Greene. “Don't worry, one-on-one's my style, too. Make the damn shot!”

Stove delivers the ball to me on one bounce, and it sticks in my hands. I close my eyes to shut everything else out. When I open them again, it's just me and the rim, and I might as well be shooting baskets by myself in the morning.

Inside my mind, I can see my stroke and feel the rock rolling off my fingertips like a feather. I can see J.R. standing inside his good kicks, watching me. My whole life, I wished I could be as strong as him.

That's when I raise up and fire the rock over the backboard. I watch it sail through the dark sky, till it lands deep in the crowd. Then the cool air slips back into my chest. And it's like losing a weight from around my neck that had dragged me so far down I didn't remember how to stand up straight anymore.

I hear Anthony laughing his fat ass off, but I don't give a shit about him. My eyes are glued to Greene as he steps onto the court, stabbing the air with his finger.

“Yeah! You were the fuckin' rat!” explodes Greene.

“Murderer! You killed J.R.!” I scream at the top of my lungs.

Greene slams the trophy down, and it bounces two feet off the ground. Then he comes charging after me.

His footsteps pick up speed, and my heart pounds faster. I drive my legs into the ground, waiting on him. Then for a second, I lose sight of him, like I blinked too long.

But it was Stove who cut in front of me.

He hooks his arm under Greene's neck, stopping him cold in his tracks. Then Stove jerks Greene backwards, slamming him to the ground. His hands are wrapped around Greene's throat, pounding the back of his head on the concrete, over and over.

“What did you do?”
screams Stove, with every
crack
of Greene's skull.
“What did you do?”

My legs never move. I stay planted in that one spot, like I was a tree with roots running deep into Rucker Park.

The cops surround the two of them, and let Stove get in a few more good licks before they wrestle him off Greene. It takes three strong cops to pull Stove away. But he won't quit trying to get back at that fuck. And every time Stove spins those cops around, his eyes catch sight of mine.

I know the time's coming soon when I'm going to have to stand up in front of him and take whatever Stove's got for me.

Greene's laid out on the court, moaning with his eyes half shut. There's a pool of blood under his head, and two EMTs are just starting to work on him. I look around for his posse, but they've all bounced.

I lift my feet from the floor and go to pick up the trophy. I'd rather find it smashed to pieces than see Greene holding it.

The ball's broke off from that kid's hand, and the gold plating's chipped off his shoulder. He's nothing but plastic underneath. But I guess I always knew that.

Hamilton calls the game a final—Greenbacks 71, Non-Fiction 66.

Then the scorekeeper signs his name at the bottom of the book, closing it shut.

Epilogue

NOW THAT SCHOOL'S started up again, I mostly play ball there—in the gym at George Washington High School. I only come here to Rucker Park on weekends, early in the morning when it's empty.

I bow my head at the spot where J.R. got killed. Then I start shooting around, trying to find my rhythm. Sometimes when the ball's going down and everything's flowing good, I forget about what happened for a while, and it's almost like I'm forgiven.