Night Hoops (2 page)

That was a confusing day. I knew how much Mom loved her rose garden, how much time she spent in the summer pruning and raking and checking for black spot and aphids. Seeing bush after bush uprooted and tossed onto the lawn as if they were so much junk made me sick to my stomach. But I wanted that basketball court, too. As it slowly came into existence, I found myself caring less about the rose garden or Mom.

It took all day for Steve Clay to dig out the bushes and the lawn, and that was with me helping him, holding the tape measure and staking out lines. He was a real perfectionist. If Dad's plans called for twenty-six feet, he made it twenty-six feet—not an inch more and not an inch less. Sometimes I'd measure something, and be off by six inches or so. I couldn't see how a couple of inches one way or the other could matter, but he'd grimace whenever he discovered an error, and then he'd go back and fix it. After my third or fourth mistake he leaned against his shovel. "If you'd go slower, we'd get finished faster."

Once we had the bushes out and the outline of the court complete, Steve Clay spent another half hour yanking out stray bits of sod and pulling up roots he'd missed. "Well, that does it for me today," he said.

After he left, I moved around on that patch of bare dirt pretending to dribble and shoot an imaginary basketball at an imaginary hoop. "What are you doing, Nick?" Scott called down to me from his upstairs window.

"Nothing," I said, humiliated at being caught acting like a little kid. I motioned to the dirt. "Isn't this going to be great?"

"Sure. But I wouldn't want to be Dad tonight."

For dinner we had Thai food delivered. Mom picked at her meal, and didn't speak at all until the dinner was about over. Then she looked at Scott and me. "Are you happy about the basketball court?"

I nodded. So did Scott.

"Good," she said, forcing herself to smile. "That's something."

Dad tried to take her hand. "Caroline, there's still room for a little garden over by the camellias. I'll buy you new roses, put down some compost and peat moss, and you can start fresh."

She pulled away from his touch. "I don't want new roses; I don't want to start fresh. So please, Matthew, don't do anything more. You've done quite enough, thank you."

Dad leaned back in his chair. I could hear him breathing, slow and deep like some dangerous animal.

The next morning an old guy showed up, a cigarette dangling from his lip, a two-day stubble on his face. He was a retired contractor, and with Dad and Steve Clay's help, he was going to finish the job.

It was strange watching the three of them work together. I'm used to Dad being in charge, knowing what to do, giving directions. But with this old guy he was just a helper. Even Steve Clay knew more than Dad did.

The three of them rolled the earth smooth, laid down sand and dirt, rolled it again, measured it again, built wood frames for the concrete, hammered some more, rolled some more. By the end of the day, the scar of earth that had been our yard was as smooth as the infield on a baseball diamond. "The cement mixer will be here tomorrow morning around nine," the old guy said. Then he turned to me. "In a few days, you are going to be the proud owner of the best basketball court in Bothell."

Once the court was in, I didn't go up to Canyon Park Junior High. If the games there had been good, I might have, but too many of them were ruined by Trent Dawson. It was easier to shoot around in the back yard, especially since I had Scott to play against. He practiced his trumpet as much as ever, maybe even more. But when he was finished practicing, he came out and shot hoops with me.

When Dad came home from work, he would ask if we'd played ball during the day, and when we said we had, he'd look over at Mom with an
I told you so
on his face.

After dinner the three of us would go out and shoot some more. Dad was always looking to go one-on-one against Scott. "You think you can stop your old man?" he'd say.

Scott would only half try, and Dad would barrel by him for the hoop. "Is that the best you can do?"

I'd step up. "Try to drive on me," I'd say. And sometimes Dad would. But he never took me seriously, never came at me the way he went after Scott. No matter what I did or how well I did it, Scott came first.

Take last season. I'd been the starting point guard on Canyon Park Junior High's team, and I was good, leading the team in scoring and assists. But my games were on the same day as Scott's. If Dad showed up for mine, it was only for a few minutes. He'd shout out that I should play hard and tough, and then he'd be off to Bothell High to watch Scott. I understand why he did it. Why watch a junior high game when there's a high school game going on? Still, I didn't much like seeing his back as he left the gym.

While our court was new, we mainly played "Horse" and "Twenty-one" and "Bump." But little by little, and so slowly I could never say when it started, Dad began riding Scott, hectoring him to work on his shot, his rebounding, his dribbling, his passing. Scott would balk. "Can't we just shoot around?" he asked more than once.

One day, after Scott missed a jump shot from the corner, Dad rebounded the ball and wheeled on him. "How many times have I told you to get some arc on your shot?"

Scott didn't answer.

"How many? Two? Six? Six hundred?"

Scott still said nothing.

His silence made Dad seethe. "Since that question is too hard for you, maybe you can answer this one. Do you plan on playing varsity basketball this year? Or are you going to do that jazz band thing I hear you whispering about with your mom all the time?"

I knew Scott had been toying with the idea of quitting the basketball team so he could play with the jazz band year-round, and that Mom was all for it. But I didn't think Dad knew.

"I'll probably play basketball again."

"You'll
probably
play," Dad mimicked. "And how many minutes do you think you'll probably play? Or does that matter to you?"

Scott didn't answer, but I could see his jaws grinding.

"Listen, and listen good," Dad said at last. "I need to know what the score is with you. If you're not serious about basketball, fine. I won't waste my time trying to teach you anything. But if you're going to try to make something of yourself on the court, something other than a third-string bench-warming senior, then it's time to get busy. So what's it going to be? Do you want to be a player, or don't you?"

Scott took a deep breath, exhaled. "I want to be a player," he said, almost in a whisper.

"I didn't hear you," Dad said sharply.

"I want to be a player," Scott repeated, this time loud and clear and angry.

"So that means you're making a commitment."

"Yeah."

"Not a half commitment. A commitment. No quitting."

"I'm no quitter," Scott snapped.

For a moment the two of them glared at one another like boxers before a fight, and they looked so much alike it was scary. Dad's face relaxed ever so slightly. "All right," he said, "since you're making a commitment to me, I'll make a commitment to you. I promise to teach you everything I know about basketball." He paused. "You could be good, Scott. You could be very, very good."

After that Dad was like a drill sergeant. He'd have Scott practice passing, dribbling, shooting. Once he was satisfied with Scott's basic skills, he moved on to more complicated lessons: footwork on defense, blocking out on rebounds, posting up on offense.

Scott burned to prove Dad was wrong. You could see him trying, trying. But he couldn't keep up his intensity. He could play his trumpet for hours and never even notice time. But he wasn't that way on the basketball court.

When Scott started to slack off, Dad would ride him. "What about that commitment? I thought you made a promise." Then, for a while, Scott would play with fire again. But only for a while.

Me? I was the other guy. Dad would take me by the shoulders and move me to a spot and tell me what to do. Scott would practice shooting over me or driving around me, blocking me off the backboard or stuffing my shots. Not much fun. Some days I wished that Dad had never built the court. Bad as those games at Canyon Park Junior High had been, at least they were
my
games.

Scott and I were playing horse one afternoon toward the end of July when Darren Carver showed up at the back fence, Matt Markey and Carlos Fabroa trailing behind him.

Carver was more than the best basketball player at Bothell High. He was the class president, the most popular with girls, an A student. He'd never come to our house before, and it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out why he'd come now. "I heard you put in a new basketball court," he said, leaning over the fence and staring at it as if it were some gorgeous girl.

"Sure did," Scott answered. "Come on back. We can play some." As Darren pushed the gate open, Scott turned to me. "Beat it, Nick."

I looked at him, not believing what I'd heard.

"Get lost!" His voice was commanding.

"But I want to play."

"Well, you can't."

Furious, I stormed up to my room and flung myself onto my bed. I lay there, arms folded across my chest, listening to the basketball bouncing and Scott and his friends laughing. I tried to tune them out, but I couldn't. At last I slipped over to the window and peered down onto the court.

They were playing a two-on-two game. Scott was matched up against Carver. I wanted Carver to eat him up, but all the stuff Dad had taught Scott was paying off. He kept good position on defense and he blocked Carver off the boards. On offense Scott's jump shot was falling, and if Carver came up and tried to guard him tight, he'd give him an up-fake and then drive to the hoop.

But slowly things changed. As fatigue set in, Scott and Matt and Carlos started playing lazy. They'd throw up long jumpers, back off on defense. They stopped blocking out on rebounds, stopped hustling after loose balls.

Not Carver. The longer they played, the harder he scrapped. More and more of the rebounds and the loose balls ended up in his hands. He kept taking high-percentage shots, and he kept sinking them. During the first ten minutes, Scott had played Carver even up. For the last half hour, Carver dominated him.

You've got to want it more than the guy you're playing.
I thought when Dad said that he was talking about pumping yourself up for the big game or the big quarter or even the big shot. But watching Carver made me realize "wanting it" means playing every second of every game as if it's the biggest moment in the biggest game of your life. You can't turn "wanting it" off and on. It's in you, or it isn't. It was in Darren Carver, but not in Scott. I had to find out if it was in me.

The next day, after Mom and Dad had gone to work and Scott had finished practicing his trumpet, I challenged him to go one-on-one. He shook his head. "Carver's coming by."

"It'll be a good warm-up."

He considered for a while. "Okay."

Once we were on the court, I pushed harder. "Let's really play. Winners outs, game to eleven, score by ones. No goofing around."

He looked at me, a quizzical look on his face. "You sound like Dad."

"Come on," I said.

"I'll whip you."

And he did. He took me 11–3 and 11–4, outrebounding me and muscling up short jumpers and lay-ins. I'd have played a third game, but Carver and the other guys showed up, and Scott shooed me away.

I challenged him again the next day, and every day. Our games didn't change much. I wasn't big enough to mix it up with him inside, and I couldn't knock down enough outside shots to put a scare into him. The best I could do was 11–7, and I came that close only a couple of times.

When I was alone, I worked on my outside shot, figuring that to beat him I had to hit everything. But the next day Scott would crush me again, and I'd be back to square one.

Then came another afternoon when I was chased upstairs so Scott could play with Carver and his buddies. As I stood at my window watching their game, the reason I was losing to Scott suddenly hit me. Carver was a couple of inches shorter than Scott, but he still took the ball inside, using his quickness and his moves to score, making Scott defend the whole court.

That's not how I'd been playing. I'd given up the inside game, figuring I had no chance. Since I wasn't pushing the ball inside, Scott was all over me outside, hurrying my shots and forcing me farther and farther out.

The next morning I challenged Scott again. It was just another game to him, at least in the beginning. But early on he found out that I was done heaving up twenty-footers. I moved my game inside. I took a few elbows, and I cut my knees up when he knocked me to the cement. But the games were tighter, 11–8 and 11–9. And I dished out a little punishment, too.

"Let's play one more," I said after I'd lost the second game.

Scott shook his head.

"Why not? Afraid you're going to lose?"

"Don't be stupid. You can't beat me."

"You're scared to play because you know I will."

I was trash-talking him, though I didn't plan it. And it worked. "All right, Nick. You want a lesson; you'll get a lesson."

He came out on fire, nailing his first three jumpers. "I thought you were going to eat me up," he jeered after his third shot went down.

"I am," I shot back. "You'll see." He laughed, then took one dribble, raised, and drained another jumper to go up 4–0.

I was down 6–0 before Scott missed and I touched the ball for the first time. I took it to the corner, and he was slow getting out to cover me. Instead of going up for the jumper, I drove to the hoop and kissed the lay-in off the backboard. 6–1.

He didn't guard me tight on my next bucket either, a little eight-footer I swished after he went for a head fake. On my next possession I got off another good shot, an uncontested pull-up fifteen-footer that missed off the back rim. Scott rebounded, took the ball back, and nailed a long set shot, pushing the score to 7–2.

Five buckets is a big lead, but every one of his scores had come from outside. Lazy man hoops. He thought he could win easily; I knew I'd have to work.