Home Court (4 page)

I
woke up Sunday with stuff to do, and as soon as I hit the kitchen, Dad added one more thing to the list. He was holding up my shorts from yesterday like Exhibit A in the Crime of the Century. I'd just thrown them in with the rest of the laundry. I guess that was wishful thinking.

“Think I can see some cloth in between all these grass stains,” he said. Then he leaned in and put his eyes right up close.

“Yeah,” I started (what was I going to do, deny it?), “we played some baseball and I was in the outfield, and then there was some Nerf —”

“I don't know about Nerf, but there's definitely some turf,” he said, cutting me off. Then he tossed me the shorts. “Those are good shorts, so you get those stains out of there even if you've got to use a washboard.”

I grabbed the grungy shorts out of the air and put them back by the washer. I sort of made a mental note to add it to my list of things to avoid doing. I looked around at the detergents and all that stuff. Whatever a washboard was, I didn't think we had one.

Sunday was always kind of heavy on chores. I also had to get some serious work done on that history paper, plus the rest of my homework. I had kind of a panicky feeling when I realized how much that was. That feeling must've passed pretty quickly, though, because I was down at the little park with my skateboard an hour later.

I was rolling along the pavement at the bottom of a set of concrete steps. I tried an ollie and nailed it. Even though it was just a small one, it felt cool to jump through the air with the board stuck right to my sneakers. I felt like Superman, if Superman had any reason to skate.

When I landed, I still had some decent speed. I tried to hop up on the first step for a boardslide. The steps had worn-down metal edges, so they were perfect, but I doinked it. The board got hung up on the edge and I went flying. And this time, it wasn't the Superman kind of flying. I had to catch myself on the railing to avoid feeling like Clark Kent in the worst possible way.

That was okay. It was just my first attempt of the day, and I already knew I could do a boardslide. I was just trying to get a little better at both tricks and to start linking them together. It's just like basketball: Okay, so you can dribble and you can shoot. Now, dribble and shoot. Put those together for a pull-up jumper.

The next trick I wanted to learn was a little tougher. I wanted to have these two down before I tried the pop-shuvit. In that one, you pop the board up in the air so that it's spinning around under you. Then its wheels land on the ground right before you land on it. That was the idea at least. The few times I'd tried it, the wheels had landed somewhere else, and I was the one who ended up on the ground.

Anyway, I worked on those first two tricks for a while, but before too long I had to leave to get back home. I wasn't that late when I rolled into the driveway, but Junior was out there dribbling a basketball. “Come help me out,” he said, as if he were painting the house instead of working on his ballhandling.

And what am I going to do, not help my older brother? So we got into it. He'd shield me off with his body; trying to get around him was like trying to get to the other side of a building. My brother definitely had more size to work with. When he'd back me down toward the imaginary basket, there wasn't much I could do. But then he'd help me out by dribbling high or out away from his body, and I'd shoot around for the steal.

“Oh, man, got me again,” he'd say. Or, “Where'd you come from?” He pretended he hadn't helped me out at all, but he always had a sneaky little smile on his face.

“Guess I was just lucky,” I'd say. In a way, I was: lucky to have an older brother who'd play hoops with me without Mack-trucking me into the pavement. We just had fun. There was no basket, but there were no bullies or sign-up sheets either. We were out there for an hour, even though we both had chores to do. Or maybe
because
we both had chores to do.

“Wash!” Dad called as soon as I walked in the door. I wasn't one hundred percent sure if he meant me or those darn shorts, but I figured I could do both at the same time. I used my dirty hands to carry my dirtier shorts over to the sink. I knew from years of grass-stain experience — I was practically an expert — that you had to get most of the stain out before you put it in the washer.

“Mmm-hmmm,” said Dad when he walked by and saw me bent over the sink and scrubbing away. “That's what I call taking responsibility for your actions.”

And that's what I call wrinkly fingers. But fifteen minutes later, the shorts were ready for the washer, and I finally had one chore crossed off my list.

After that, I went to my desk and spread out the stuff for my paper. I'd done the reading, now I had to start writing. My plan was to write three pages. That would leave just one more for tomorrow: the one on what Dr. King meant to me. I couldn't write that tonight anyway. I was still trying to figure it out.

I was getting a little worried about that. If I couldn't come up with something original, and got a bad grade on this big paper, I probably wouldn't make honor roll. That was something Mom and Dad were both pretty proud of, and I didn't want to let them down. Plus, Deuce would be on me for it. I was glad I still had a little time.

Anyway, after spending another day running around under the sun, it felt kind of good to sit inside the cool, quiet house and flex my brain a little. When the phone rang, I nearly fell out of my seat. I picked it up. “Hello?”

It was Mike: The bullies had kicked him off the court again!

“Yeah,” he said. “The other half of the court was basically open, but some random dude showed up and they told me to get lost so they could run full court.”

“They told you to get lost?” I asked.

“Yeah, but they didn't put it quite so nicely,” he said. “And they've pretty much trashed the court now.”

“Think they'll be there again tomorrow?”

“I guarantee it,” he said. “Because they told me not to bother coming back.”

“Then I guess they'll be pretty surprised,” I said.

“You in?” he said.

“Yeah,” I said. I knew I might be getting drawn into something big here, and that there were other things I could be doing that were more fun. I'd even heard that Timmy was organizing another baseball game for tomorrow. But I also knew that these were my friends. No one should kick us off our own court, and no one should trash it either. “I'm in.”

I
had that Game Day feeling all day on Monday.

“So you're sure they'll be there?” Deuce said to Mike as we walked down the hall before math class.

“That's what they said,” Mike answered. “And anyway, it sort of seems like they've moved in.”

“Seriously,” I said. “They've been there every day since the first time.”

I wanted to say since the first time we played them, but I hadn't played in that first game. They'd waited until after I left before they agreed to play, just because I was the tallest of our group.

“But they'll play us, right?” I said.

“Yeah, I'm pretty sure,” said Mike.

“Yeah,” I said, thinking about it. “I guess if they tell you not to come back and you come back with the two of us, they've pretty much got to play.”

A thought popped into my head: They have to play, but they don't have to play fair. I didn't say it, though. Nerves were always a big part of that Game Day feeling, and they were an even bigger part today. Everything about the game seemed big, and that definitely included the other team. I remembered what Mike and Deuce looked like limping off the court last time, and I bet they remembered what it felt like.

As soon as we got to our seats for math, Mr. O'Neal began passing out sheets of paper. I knew what was on it before it even landed on my desk: It was a pop quiz. I could just tell by the length of the questions that it was going to be a tough one.

I looked over at my friends. Deuce was on my right, and his pencil was already hovering over the paper, ready to attack the first question. Mike was on my left, holding his forehead in both hands and looking at the questions with wide-open eyes. I looked back down at the quiz. I knew today would be a challenge. I just didn't think it would start so soon.

We headed straight to the court after school. We were hoping to get there first and, you know, establish position. No luck. When we rounded the corner, I could see the older kids were already there.

“What, do these guys live here now or something?” I said.

They were just slinking around and shooting lazy jumpers, so I guess they were still warming up. As we walked toward the court, I saw an iced tea can lying on its side with a sticky brown puddle drying up in front of it. And it had company. More of their junk was scattered around the court and kicked into the corners, with bees and flies buzzing all around it.

Mike and Deuce were both standing up straight with their game faces on, and I did the same. It felt like a war movie, like we were marching into battle.

“This is it,” said Deuce.

“Game on,” I said.

“Let's do this!” said Mike, a little louder.

We were close enough now, and their biggest guy looked over.

“Well, well, well,” he said. “Look who came back for seconds.”

I decided right then not to play into their trash talk.

“Three-on-three?” I said, all business.

The older kids looked at each other. They knew it wasn't really a question.

“Be our guests, ladies,” said the first guy. “We'll even give you the rock first. But it's make it, take it after that.”

“Sure, no problem,” I said, ignoring his insult. “What are we playing to?”

“Seven,” he said. “Get you three home before your bedtimes.”

I looked over at Mike and Deuce to see what they thought. That was a pretty short game. A lot of times we'd play to eleven or even fifteen. And make it, take it — with the team that scores getting the ball back — it could be over in a flash. These guys were probably just trying to get rid of us. On the other hand, it would only take a few good shots and a couple of lucky bounces to get us to seven, no matter how much older they were.

“Sure,” said Deuce.

“Whatever the score,” said Mike, “we'll get there.”

“Funny,” said the second-biggest guy. “I don't remember the last game going that way.”

Without even really thinking about it, we'd already sort of matched up against the other players. I was standing in front of their tallest guy, and Deuce was matched up against their shortest. Up close like this, you could see they had a height advantage in every matchup.

“What's your name?” I said to my man, Captain Peach Fuzz.

“Carlos,” he said, sizing me up for about the fourth time.

“Amar'e.”

“Armory?” he said, with a little smirk to show how funny he thought he was.

“A
mar
'e,” I said.

“Whatever,” he said. “I already forgot it. Let me see your ball.”

Deuce bounced it over. It was still pretty new and regulation NBA. Deuce had gotten it for his birthday. As soon as Carlos got his hands on it, just the way he grabbed it, I thought,
I don't know if we're getting that back
.

“We'll use this one,” said Carlos. He had long fingers that made the ball look small, and he had dirt under his nails. As soon as the game started, I found out that his nails weren't nearly the dirtiest thing about him.

Deuce took the ball out from the top of the key. His size was a problem when he was shooting, but it worked to his advantage when it came to ballhandling. He stayed low and kept his dribbling under control, even at top speed. It was really hard for anyone to get down there and strip the ball away.

He got around his guy, and I got a little separation from mine. I had an open path to the basket, and Deuce fired a lead pass into the space in front of me. I sprinted forward to grab it out of the air. My eyes were on the ball, so I didn't see Carlos stick out his leg. I sure felt it, though. His shin banged into mine just above my ankle and I tumbled hard onto the pavement. All I could do was watch the ball sail out-of-bounds as I was going down.

“Foul!” I said, climbing to my feet. I had a scraped-up elbow and a banged-up ankle, and I was lucky it wasn't any worse.

“Nah,” said Carlos. “You just tripped. In fact, it was probably an offensive foul on you. But I'll let it slide this time. Our ball.”

So that right there gives you an idea of what we were dealing with. I D'd up Carlos, and I wasn't shy about it. He kept going to his left, so I figured out pretty quick that he was left-handed. I got right up on him and played hard, but it wasn't just his fingers that were long. He had long arms and legs. Even his neck was long! When he came at me, it was like some flying collection of elbows and knees. Somewhere in there was the ball.

He scored the first basket of the game on a big, loopy hook shot. The ball came off the tips of his fingers at the top of his outstretched arm. I had good length, too, but watching that release made me feel like I was going to need a ladder to defend him.

I worked hard and managed to stop him on the next drive, but he just passed it off for another bucket. Mike was matched up against a guy they kept calling “Yeti.” It was a pretty good nickname for him, too, because this kid was built like a monster. He wasn't more than an inch taller than Mike, but his shoulders and hips were so wide and square that it looked like someone had thrown a T-shirt on a footlocker.

Carlos dropped the ball down to him in the post and Yeti dropped his shoulder into Mike.

“Oooooof!” went Mike. He couldn't help but take a few steps back, and Yeti took advantage of the extra space for an easy layup.

The game had barely started and they were already up 2–0. But they tried the exact same play on the next possession, and Mike saw it coming. He stepped in front of Yeti and deflected the ball straight to Deuce. He dribbled around the perimeter a little, and Mike and I got busy trying to get open.

It wasn't easy, since my defender was long and Mike's was wide. Deuce looked around and decided to take the ball himself. His defender was taller than him, which was no major surprise. They called him Ledge or something that sounded like that. I'm just going to say it: Ledge was one greasy dude. He sweated a lot and when he got sweaty he looked sort of
oily
.

His hands were always moving, too, slapping at the ball, slapping at the air, and sometimes slapping at Deuce. You could see it was bothering him. Would you want some greasy guy slapping at you all game?

“Turn on the jets, D!” I called out.

Deuce gave Ledge that lightning-fast first step and managed to get a little space. I made a move to get in front of Carlos.

“Now!” I raised both hands in front of me, palms up.

But Deuce waited a little too long to make the pass. Ledge recovered and slapped the ball loose. I have to admit, he really did move fast. Must've been all that grease. The bullies scored two more points before we got the ball back. When we did, I posted up near the basket and got us on the board with a skyhook of my own.

“Lucky,” said Carlos as the ball rattled in.

“You think you're the only one who's ever hit a hook shot?” I said.

There was a little bricklaying by both teams after that, but we managed to get three more points down the stretch. We got it to 6–4, but they kept playing dirty the whole time.

On one play, Yeti clobbered Deuce on a moving pick. It was the biggest player on the court taking out the smallest, and it was hard to miss the foul. But mostly they were trickier than that. They specialized in borderline fouls, things that a real ref would've called, but that weren't obvious enough to get out here on the playground. It really got to us after a while.

“Get off me, man,” Deuce said as Ledge pawed and slapped away.

He passed the ball off to Mike, who had pretty good position to the right of the basket. But as soon as Mike got it, Yeti started grinding his forearm and elbow into Mike's back.

“Over here!” I called, because I could see he wasn't going to be able to back in any closer.

Mike fired the ball to me as I flashed into the open. I tried to swing wide as I came around to the left side of the basket. I had to keep an eye out for Carlos's long arms, so he couldn't reach in and grab the ball, and I had to keep an eye on his long legs, so he couldn't trip me again. I guess I just ran out of eyes because I tripped on a crack in the pavement.

The worst thing about it was that I
knew
there was a big crack there on the left side. Carlos had been going to that side all game because he was a lefty. I'd just gotten so distracted by all of his cheap shots and hacks that I'd forgotten about it.

I didn't go down, but it didn't matter. I stumbled and lost control of the ball. Carlos shot forward and took possession. He threw a quick pass back to Ledge at the free throw line. Ledge launched a laser to Yeti under the basket, and he knocked into Mike on his way to another layup. That was it, game over, 7–4.

Being a sore loser is one thing, but being a bad winner? That's just low.

“Never in doubt,” said Carlos, acting like he'd already forgotten the points I scored against him.

Yeti pulled a can of soda out of his bag. “Too easy,” he said, in between long gulps.

Ledge was licking his lips like a frog and watching Yeti guzzle his warm soda.

The only good thing was we got Deuce's good ball back. I jumped up and grabbed it as it came through the hoop. It felt weird to rebound a ball that had already gone in, but I knew it was the only way we'd get it back.

“At least this one was close,” said Deuce.

“How many points did you guys score last time?” I said.

“Two,” said Mike.

I'd scored two points myself this time, and Mike and Deuce had one apiece. But it was hard to feel good about the improvement when the rest of us felt so bad.

“Ow, my back,” said Mike as we headed off the court. “I'm going to be feeling those elbows all week!”

“For real,” said Deuce. “I think I need about four showers to get that guy's slime off me!”

I looked down at my own scrapes and bruises.

“What's that on your arm there?” said Mike, pointing.

“Scratches,” I said. Just looking at them gave me a queasy feeling.

“You mean …?” said Deuce.

“Yeah,” I said. “Even his fingernails were long.”

We were off the court and on the little path that led to the road when we heard Yeti call out behind us: “Hey, losers!”

I turned around, even though I knew this wasn't going to be anything good. Yeti had finished his soda and was holding the empty can. As I watched, he twisted it so the metal bent in the middle. Then he smashed it flat between his big meaty hands.

“Catch!” yelled Yeti, and tossed it at us.

I watched the metal disk fly through the air and sail just off to our left. I'd seen a can just like that on Saturday. That's when I knew: These were the guys who'd been making my dad's job harder.