Rust and Bone (6 page)

A TEEMING THRONG
rings the championship court. Shove through the mob with an air of boozy entitlement—it's
my son
they're gawking at, isn't it?—to find the game's already started. Jason's team is matched against a trio of blacks whose voices betray an upper New York lilt: “trow” for throw, “dat” for that, “dere” for there, “dear” for dare, so what you hear is
Trow dat shit up dere—go on, I dear ya!
Up from Buffalo with their dusky sunpolished skin, cornrowed hair and trash talk, figuring they'll take these pasty Canucks to school. Some bozo with a megaphone, the announcer I guess, does not call the game so much as cap each play with an annoying catchphrase: “Boo-
YA!
” or “Boom-shakalaka!” or “Dipsee-doo dunkaroo!” or “Ye-ye-ye-ye-ye-ye-
YEAH!
” or just “Ohhh,
SNAP!
”

The other team is up 7-4 when Jason takes the ball at the top of the key. He dribbles right and bounces a pass to Al Cousy on the low block. Al rolls off his man, elevates and fires a one-legged jumper that clanks off rim.

“Don't pass to stone hands!” I cry. “Jesus, son—use your
head!
”

The other team's point guard executes a smooth crossover dribble— an
ankle-snapper
—catching Jason flatfooted. Kevin Maravich shuffles over on helpside defense but the guard flicks the ball to Kevin's check, who dunks two-handed and gorilla-hangs on the rim.

“Biggedy-
BAM!
” hollers the announcer.

Jason keeps passing to his tits-on-a-bull teammates. Kevin gets blocked twice and big Al puts up enough bricks to build a homeless shelter. Their opponents dish out a constant stream of trash:
Don't go bringing that weakass shit in here, bitch—this is
my
house! Hope you got an umbrella, son—I'm gonna be raining on you all day! Boy, my game's so ill I make medicine sick!
The ref, a balding old shipwreck in frayed zebra getup, lets the Yanks get away with murder: pushes, holds, flagrant elbows. I give it to him both barrels.

“Hey ref, if you had one more eye you'd be a cyclops!”

“Hey ref, Colonel Mustard called—he said get a clue!”

“Hey ref, if your IQ was any lower someone'd have to water you!”

Spectators snorting and laughing, a beefy mitt slams between my shoulder blades and someone says, “Thattaboy—stick it to the man!” Take a haul on my drink and for a long vacant moment feel nothing but relentless seething hatred for the ref, the opposing team, Jason's teammates, anyone and everyone trying to stop him from reaching the goal he's destined for, stifle the gift that'll take him out of this rinkydink town, far from the do-nothing go-nowhere be-nobody yokels surrounding me.

The score's 13-4 and Jason hasn't taken a shot. He kicks the ball to Al who kicks it back, a stinging bullet hitting Jason in the chest. “What are you doing?
Take it,
man.” Jason stab-steps his defender, gives him a brisk shake-n-bake, shoots. As soon as the ball leaves his hands, you know it's good. It passes through so clean the net loops up over the hoop and that
sound
—dear god, almost
sexual
.

“This guy's dialed in long distance!” the announcer brays.

Jason picks the point guard's pocket on the next possession, clears beyond the three-point arc, fires.
Swish
. 13-9.

“He's shooting the lights out, folks!”

The point guard muscles past Jason but Kevin gets a hand in his face and the shot misses short left. Al gobbles up the rebound and shovels it to Jason. The defensive rotation's slow and he gets a clean look from twenty-two feet, burying it. 13-12 and now the other team's a bit frazzled; “C'mon, naa,” the point guard says. “D-up. We gut these bitches.”

But it's too late: Jason's entered some kind of zone. Wherever he is on the court, no matter how tight the coverage, he's draining it. Running one-hander from the elbow—good. Fadeaway three-ball with a defender down his throat—good. High-arcing teardrop in traffic—good. In my head I'm hearing Marv Albert, longtime New York Knickerbockers play-by-play man and purloiner of women's undergarments:
Mikan takes the ball at the top of the circle, shakes his man, hoists up a prayer— YESSSSS!
Twisting circus shot around two defenders—good. Step-back three launched from another zipcode—good. The lead's flipped, 22-17; the Yanks' faces are stamped with grimaces of utter disbelief.

“This cat's got the
skills
to pay the
bills,
ladies and gentlemen!”

Throughout this shooting display Jason's expression never changes: a vacant, vaguely disgusted look like he's sniffed something rank. He doesn't follow the ball after it leaves his hand, as though unwilling to chart its inevitable drop through the hoop. If you didn't know any better, you'd almost think he
wants
to miss. Scan the crowd for a familiar face, my shitheel supervisor Mr. Riley maybe—
See that, asshole? That's my son! My good genes MADE that! What did your genes ever make, Riley? Oh, that's right—a few stains on the bedsheets and a PUSSY TAX CONSULTANT!

The game-winning shot's a doozy. Jason passes down to Al, who is blocked but corrals the ball and shuttles it to Jason. The other point guard's tight to his vest and Jason backs off, dribbling the ball high. Maybe it's just the malt liquor but at this moment he appears to move in a cocoon of beatific light: glowing sundogs and sparkling scintillas robe his arms and legs. He goes right but so does his defender, swiping at the ball, almost stealing it. They're down along the baseline, Jason's heels nearly out of bounds and he shoots falling into the crowd, a dozen arms outstretched to cradle him and as he's going down I hear him say, in a small defeated voice, “Glass.” The ball banks high off the backboard and through the net.

“The dagger!” screams the announcer. “Oh lord, he hits the
dagger!
”

The crowd breaks up, drifting away in twos and threes to bars and parks and restaurants. A work crew dismantles the nets and sound equipment, packing everything into cube vans to truck to the next venue.

“Great game, son.” Somehow I've managed to slop beer down myself so it looks I've pissed my pants. Try to pawn it off as excitement. “A real barnburner—look, you got me sweating buckets.”

Jason's sitting on the curb with his teammates. “Yeah, guess it was a pretty good one.”

To Kevin and big Al: “Lucky Jason was here to drag your asses out of the fire, huh?”

They don't reply but instead pull off their shoes and socks, donning summer sandals. Big Al's toenails thick yellow and thorny, curling over his toes like armor plating.

“What say I take you boys out for dinner?” I offer breezily. “A champion's feast.”

“That's okay,” Jason says. “Kev's parents are having a barbecue. They've got a pool.”

“A pool? How suburban.” Jam one hand in my pocket, scratch the nape of my neck with the other. “So Kev, where's your folks' place at?”

Kevin hooks a thumb over his shoulder, an ambiguous gesture that could conceivably indicate the city's southern edge, the nearest town, or Latin America.

“Could I tag along?”

Jason sits with his legs spread, head hanging between his knees. “I don't know. They sort of, like, only did enough shopping for, y'know, us three.”

“Well, wouldn't come empty-handed. I could grab some burgers, or … Cheetos.”

“You see, it's like, we kind of got a full car. Y'know, Al and me and all our gear and stuff. Kev's only got a Neon, right?”

“We could squeeze, couldn't we? Get buddy-buddy?”

“I don't know. Gotta do some running around first.”

“I love running around. It's good for the heart.”

Without looking up, Jason says, “Dad, listen, Kev's still on probation—his license, right?—so, it's like, he can't have anyone in his car who's been drinking. If the cops pull us over, Kev'll get his license suspended.”

“Oh. Alrighty then.” Stare into the sky, directly into the afternoon sun. Close my eyes and the ghostly afterimage burns there as a sizzling imprint, searing corona dancing with winking fairylights.

The boys gather their bags and waterbottles. Shake Kev and Al's hands, hug my son. His skin smells of other bodies, the sweat of strangers. Used to love the smell of his hands after practice, the scent of sweat and leather commingled. When I let him go the flesh around his eyes is red and swollen and it gets me thinking of that distant afternoon, grape soda and a sense of horrible pressure.

“Great game,” I tell him. “You're gonna show 'em all one day.”

He walks down the street, hitching the duffel up on his shoulder. Charting his departure, it's as though I'm seeing him through the ass end of a telescope: this tiny figure distorted by an unseen convex, turning the corner now, gone. Sun high in the afternoon sky, brilliant and hostile, beer's all gone and it's the middle of the day though it feels like it should be later, much later and near dusk and it dawns on me I've nothing to do, nowhere to be, the day stretching out bright and interminable with no clear goal or closure in sight.

NIGHTTIME AT THE KNIGHTWOOD ARMS
subsidized housing complex. My bedroom window overlooks a dilapidated basketball court, tarmac seized and buckled, nets rotted from the hoops. Early mornings I'll head down and shoot baskets beneath a lightening sky, mist falling through the courtyard's arc-sodium lamp to create a cool glittering nimbus. Often someone'll crack a window in one of the overhanging units,
Knock it off with the damn bouncity-bounce
. Don't make much fuss anymore, just go back to my room.

Eleven o'clock or so and the bottle's almost empty when the phone rings.

“Hey,” Jason says. “It's me.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Yeah, well, wanted to talk to you about something.”

Good news, I'm guessing: Duke, Kentucky, UConn. “Your old man's all ears.”

“Well, it's like, I've decided to not play ball.”

“You mean you're going to take the year off?” Try to remain calm. “Don't know that's the best idea, kiddo—gonna want to keep in the mix.”

“No, I sort of mean, like …
ever
. I mean,
for
ever.”

“Forever? Don't get you.”

The mouthpiece is shielded. Jason's muffled voice, then his mother's, then Jason's back on the line. “I'm sick of it. Sick of basketball. Don't want to play anymore.”

“Well,” I struggle, “that's … sort of a childish attitude, son. I don't always like my job, but it's my job, so I do it. That's the way the world …
works
.”

A sigh. “You know, there are other things in life. Lots of jobs out there.”

“Yeah, well, like what?”

“I don't know,” he says. “I was thinking maybe … a vet?”

“You mean … a veterinarian?”

“Uh-huh. Like that, or something.”

“Oh. Well, that's … y'know … that's grand. The sick cats and everything. A grand goal.”

“Anyway. Just thought I'd tell you.”

“Yeah. Well … thanks. What say you sit on it a bit, Jason, let it stew awhile. Who knows—might change your mind.”

“No, I don't think so. Alright, goodbye.”

“All I'm saying is—”

But the line's already dead. Hang up and lie back on the mattress, stare out at the starblown sky.

When Jason was a kid I bought him this mechanical piggy bank. You'd set a coin in the cup-shaped hand of a metal basketball player, pull the lever to release a spring and the player deposited the coin in a cast-iron hoop. Jason loved the damn thing. Sit him on the floor with a handful of pennies: hours of mindless amusement. Every so often I'd have to quit whatever I was doing to unscrew the bottom, dump the coins so Jason could start over. The
snak-clanggg!
of the mechanism got annoying after the first half-hour and I would've taken it away if Jason wasn't so small and frail and I so intent on honing that fascination. There were other toys, a whole closetful, but he
chose
basketball. Right from the get-go. And yeah, I encouraged it—what's a father supposed to do? Guide his kid towards any natural inclination, gently at first, then as required. If that's what your kid's born to do, what other choice do you really have?

All I'm saying is, I'm no monster, okay? As a father, you only ever want what's best for your boy. That's your
job
—the greatest job of your life. All you want is that your kid be happy, and healthy, and follow the good path. That's all I did: kept him on the good path. I'm a great father. A damn fine dad. Swear it on a stack of bibles.

So my boy wants to be a veterinarian, does he? Well it's a tough racket, plenty of competition, no cakewalk by a longshot. Don't I know a guy out Welland way who's a taxidermist? Sure, Adam somebody-or-other, stuffs geese and trout and I don't know—bobcats? Ought to shoot him a call, see if me and Jason can't pop by, poke around a bit. I mean, you want to be a doctor, got to know your way around cadavers, right? It's the same principle. Adam's one easygoing sonofabitch; doubt he'll mind.

Yeah, that's just what I'll do. Finish off this bottle, hunt up that number, make the call. I mean, hey, sure it comes as a shock, but nobody can call Hank Mikan a man of inflexible fiber. When life hands you lemons, make lemonade. Life offers sour grapes, make sweet wine. A veterinarian, huh? Well, that's
noble
. Damn
noble
. And hey, money ain't half-bad either.

Let's finish this last swallow and get right on the blower. It's a long road ahead.

Like the shoe commercial says, right? Just Do It. Hey!

A MEAN UTILITY

MIDWAY THROUGH THE PITCH
I pass a note to Mitch Edmonds, big kahuna of graphic design:
This is going good?
He grimaces and scribbles back:
If by “good” you mean heart-stoppingly BAD, then yes, everything's PEACHY
. Diarrhetic adjective use aside, I suspect Edmonds is correct. In fact, the pitch is veering towards a crash of Hindenburglike proportions: feel the heat of compressed hydrogen flames and charred tatters of zeppelin silk buffeting my face, hear Herbert Morrison's breathless voice screaming “Oh the
humanity!
” into a giant wind-socked microphone.