Midnight (19 page)

When ballers would miss the layup, lose control of the ball, or show sloppy style, Tyriq’s big side niggas would sit them down on the floor and out of the way. By the time I got up I figured I better just dunk it. Nobody would remember the last player of a group of over a hundred.

I caught a little reaction from the crowd.

After layups, we were tested on our jumpers, then our three-point shots. A lot of these cats were good but even some of the good ones were choking under the pressure of performance, the crowd, and the critique. The long line was thinning out as dudes got sidelined by Tyriq’s men. Ameer and Chris were still standing. I wasn’t surprised.

With the three-point shots, they let us shoot the rock till we missed one. If you missed on your first shot, they gave you one last chance.

I don’t know what was feeding me. I wasn’t sure that I could get paid from this shit, but I was trying my best. Maybe it was the crowd, faces plastered with one-hundred-percent approval and a joy so real they leaped out of their seats. For once, it wasn’t hatred, stress, and put-downs. Black youths were actually cheering for one another.

I hit eighteen three-pointers before I missed one. It was easy for me. A real challenge would have been shooting the rock with my eyes closed. But that wasn’t required.

When I finally missed on shot number nineteen, Tyriq put his left hand in the air. “A’ight, a’ight,” he said, blowing his whistle and waving the spectators who had moved down onto the court back up into the bleachers.

Just then, I noticed Ameer’s father chilling alone in the cut behind a group of men and up against the wall, looking serious and concentrating real hard.

After the whistle, we got divided into teams. Nothing was thought out, just the first five in the line on one team and the second five on the line on the next team and so on. Each pair of teams was told to run a ten-minute, full-court game. Tyriq had the stopwatch. The game was over when a team scored ten points or when ten minutes passed and the whistle was blown, whatever came first.

Some of the suited money cats who were casually standing and sitting around the bleachers earlier were now
standing around the perimeter of the court reacting to the rebounding, the handling, the flying, the masterful dribbling and passing so slick that for seconds the ball seemed lost somewhere. They seemed like a group of gamblers at a race track or at OTB waiting for the results to come in.

For me this was a crazy experiment. Just as we got wound up, it was all over. “It’s a wrap,” Tyriq announced. The ball players who were still standing, blood was pumping and hearts were still racing. Our eyes were wide open as we stayed on the floor staring at one another and wondering what was next. My sweat was flowing into my blue terry-cloth headband.

Instead of talking to the players, Tyriq hosted a meeting right on the court with the men from the sidelines. Their huddle was intense. Their backs were blocking out anyone trying to look inward. Seemed like they were consulting one another, and doing some arguing. It could easily have been mistaken for a big game of C-low. Whatever it was, we all could tell it was serious and knew to stay out their way.

Soon the girls started streaming down from the bleachers onto the floor. I drifted over to Chris and Ameer. Somebody threw on “Push It,” a Salt-N-Pepa joint, and most of the crowd started dancing. About twenty minutes later, Tyriq started weaving in and out of the crowd tapping dudes, saying either “I wanna see you. I want to talk to you. You over here. You over there. Step up. Step out. Next time.”

Security began urging, directing, and pushing the crowd toward the exit. A couple of fights got instigated then squashed immediately. Within fifteen minutes, only the chosen players were left in the room with Tyriq and his men.

They passed around a clipboard. We were asked to write down our names, telephone numbers, and addresses. We were told to meet here same time next week Friday for all the details.

“You little motherfuckers are Brooklyn’s finest. Don’t let it go to your heads. Practice, or the next man will jump in your spot. If you’re still alive and free next week, you should be standing right here on the line,” he said.

From the look of things, these cats believed in Tyriq and whatever promises he might have made to each of them. No one gave him any back talk or static or attitude about him having wasted our time or the lack of information and follow through. I figured maybe they all knew something that I didn’t.

I decided even if Tyriq and them didn’t do nothing for me, tonight was a good workout; proof that me, Ameer, and Chris, when compared to the rest, was no joke; serious contenders on the court; “Brooklyn’s finest.” Overall, I couldn’t count it as a loss.

“You didn’t write your name down, brotha,” Ameer said to me, smiling.

“You invite us to some shit, let us sign up, and you don’t sign,” Chris added.

“They don’t need my information. If I want to come next week, I’ll just show up,” I told them.

“What do you think we can get out of playing ball out here?” Chris asked me.

“Don’t sleep. We can get a lot out of it. This is part of the Hustler’s League, everybody knows that,” Ameer revealed.

“Hustler’s League?” Chris asked.

“Didn’t you notice all them hustlers up in this spot? Even Crazy Eddie from the East was up in there. He’s from around my way.”

“You know him?” Chris asked.

“Everybody knows him,” Ameer answered.

“Why didn’t you say something?” I asked Ameer.

“I came here on
your
invite. I didn’t know
who
you was dealing with until we got here. Besides, them motherfuckers is some real moneymakers. They saw how the three of us
put it down in here. If they want us to play, they gotta pay,” Ameer said with complete confidence. “I think it’s dope, they started up a Hustler’s League youth division.”

“Your pops passed through here. Did you see him?” I asked Ameer.

“You fucking around?” Ameer asked me.

“Nah,” I told him.

Outside the night breeze felt good. There was still cliques of kids standing out front playing the wall and the curb. We wasn’t outside five seconds before a cluster of females started sweating us.

“Hey, in the green,” one of the girls shouted. Ameer had on green sweats. Neither of the three of us turned around.

“They calling us like we the chicks,” Chris said.

“Word,” Ameer agreed. We kept walking.

Chris was bouncing his ball. Them girls were walking behind us close, talking so we could hear.

“You play good,” one of ’em said. Ameer couldn’t resist a compliment. He turned around to see what we was dealing with.

“Yeah, thanks,” he answered the girl.

“Not you, him,” a girl’s voice said while the rest of them laughed. Chris stopped walking and dribbling and turned to look.

“Not you either.” They laughed. It came clear that she was referring to me.

“What’s your name?” the girl asked. I turned around but didn’t say shit. So she kept talking.

“You kind of mean but I like it,” she said. Her girlfriends giggled.

To tell the truth, I didn’t like the reversal. I didn’t like the idea of chicks trying to mack us.

“Just flow with it,” Ameer said in a low tone, nudging me in the side with his elbow. Chris agreed with Ameer’s plan
with just an excited smirk on his face. We all three about-faced and walked toward them. Everybody broke into small sets, walked back, and sat on the stone wall outside the high school.

“You shy or something?” the girl who bigged me up asked me.

“Nah,” I answered.

“I know that’s right, ’cause you sure wasn’t shy out on the court.” She smiled.

“I did all right,” I answered.

“No, you were the best.” She smiled again, revealing pretty white teeth against the dark of the night and deep-dish dimples. “Let me give you my number,” she said, digging into her pockets. She pulled out a half of a piece of paper and a Sharpie.

“What, you been giving out your number all day?” I asked her, ’cause that’s what it looked like to me.

“No! I don’t usually give out my number. Or if some boy pesters me, I’ll give him the wrong number just to get him out of my face.”

“So what are you doing right now?” I asked her.

“I’m giving you my number before you become famous. That way, I can say I knew him before he became a star.” She laughed, then jotted down her number.

“Sign your name right here,” she said, then turned her back to me, and dropped her jacket from her shoulders. “And put the date in case anybody try and say I didn’t know you first. C’mon please, sign it.”

She wasn’t about to give up. I signed “Midnight” across her back and put the date.

“I live right here around the corner.” She pointed. “Oh, and I gotta go.” She jumped up suddenly like she had to pee or something. “I was supposed to be in the house by eleven. I got three minutes.”

She ran off full speed like a track star. I watched her run. Her body was crazy, jeans so tight I don’t know how she dashed so free and fast.

Ameer’s pops strolled up toward the wall where we were sitting, moving slow and cool like he usually does. He had a can of beer wrapped in a brown paper bag in hand. He didn’t have to say nothing. Ameer was off the wall and on his feet. Me and Chris followed him over to his pops, both of us probably thinking us being there would help Ameer out of whatever kind of trouble he was in now.

The other girls in the bunch just slipped away, the way teens do when adults come around. They caught the vibe and quietly left.

“What you got in your pockets, son?” That’s how he started the conversation with Ameer.

“I got paper,” Ameer answered. “About forty dollars.”

“What else?” his pop asked.

“What you mean? I got coins but that don’t count, right?” Ameer smiled at his pops, trying to break whatever serious vibe his father was delivering.

“You out here dealing with the hustlers, they got guns. You got forty dollars and some coins.” His father just stared at him. “You out here with the girlies. They ready. You not ready. You got a condom on you?” he asked.

“Not right now,” Ameer answered, then laughed.

“How about the two of you?” The father redirected his questions to me and Chris.

“I got some money,” Chris answered.

“I’m good,” I answered, looking him in the eye the way my father taught me to do. No laughter.

“Let’s go,” his father told us. We walked to the train station, the four of us.

That’s how Ameer’s father was, an ex-hustler who had a good little run for a little while and stepped out the game
with nothing but his life in his hands. Now he works two jobs and spends his free time catching up and cracking down on Ameer. I never seen his pops yell. He wasn’t that type. He just had his rules, about a thousand of ’em, each accompanied by a street tale.

“I’m not gonna tell you not to chase pussy. But bag up your dick every time. If you want to smoke weed come to me. I’ll buy it. We’ll smoke in the house. Don’t try to buy it yourself. Don’t smoke in the streets with nobody else. Stay in school until you graduate. Go to college. There’s three type of men you got to avoid at any cost—the police, the army recruiters, the hustlers. They all want your life and that’s all you got.”

At the train station I asked Chris, “What about the girls? Are they on Forty-Deuce waiting for us to take them for the movie?”

Chris answered, “No. They not there. I called it off. I told Ameer we could kick it with the girls some other time. Why bring them around a hundred or more ball players? Do y’all think we could fight them all and win?” Chris asked. We all laughed, even Ameer’s pops.

We all went our separate ways. Riding on the train alone, I thought about what Ameer’s pops had to say. My head was cracking just trying to think about all the shit every other adult had to say and how their advice never seemed to match up. Where I come from, all the adults are living and pushing the same beliefs and ideas and ways of living.

In America, every other motherfucker got his own plan, religion, opinion, and ideas. And, like in the case of Ameer and his father, their religion, ideas, and actions could all be three completely different things. They were Five Percenters, who believed that the Black man is God. When I first hooked up with Ameer at the dojo, he said he was Muslim. But their idea of Islam and the Islam I knew and was born
into were miles apart. I took the friend and left his religion and philosophy on the side.

The same with Chris. His family is Christian. As long as he went to church, his religion was easy. In both cases it seemed like neither of their beliefs required them to do anything, sacrifice anything, or fight for anything. In fact, I never seen either one of them pray, not in the morning, afternoon, or evening. Not when we were in deep trouble. Not even before or after a meal.

When they first saw me praying at the dojo, they walked up and interrupted. A few questions and a couple of laughs later, they never interrupted or allowed anyone else to interrupt me while I made prayer. It was bugged out though. It seemed like they believed that praying was only something that I do. Like it was part of my personality or something. Not something required of all human beings in a civilized world.

On the other hand, I liked that Ameer and Chris had my back while I made prayer. In my country we believed in that. We believed that men must pray, and while some men pray, some men must watch their back.

The aroma of Sudanese coffee mingled with the scent of Umma’s oils late that night when I arrived home. She was seated at her sewing machine in her turquoise-colored silk pajamas, her thick hair wound into one long braid beginning at the top of her head and ending below her right shoulder.

“You seem victorious,” she said to me in Arabic. “Shower and then tell me all about it. I have a few important things to tell you too.”

Naja was asleep on top of a huge, soft pillow on the floor, curled up like a snail in its shell. “Yes, look at my littlest helper,” Umma said.

I picked my sister up and carried her to her bedroom. I wondered if she could really be in such a deep sleep that she could not feel herself being moved from one room to another, or laid gently on her bed and covered. Or was it that she was just enjoying the ride that most kids no longer receive when they are six or seven years old and considered too big to be carried?