Time Flying (12 page)

What an ass.

As I nodded my thanks to Shane, he turned his head slightly and stage-whispered 'I'd kick his ass, Richie.'

I smiled at him, lifted my eyebrows and said, “Nah, no harm no foul,” and to everyone else, “shirt ball.”  I turned to and found Amanda in the stands, her friend Terri sitting to her left and in the middle of telling her something of apparent importance, but she appeared much more interested in what was happening on the court. She smiled at me, and grimaced, showing me she knew the shot I'd taken had hurt.

I smiled and winked at her.

Phil came jogging over from his side of the court and asked “you all right, man?”

“I’m fine,” I replied. “Switch with me, OK? I want to cover Steve.”

“Sure, but watch out dude, Coach is here.”

For some reason, I laughed. Phil’s use of the word “dude,” was suddenly funny to me.

“What?” Phil asked. His expression showed that he was worried I’d suffered a concussion.

“Nothing, just…Nothing,” I said, shaking my head, patting him on the shoulder to reassure him I was fine. Language changes over time, so subtly that we don’t often hear the change day to day. When you jump back like I had, those changes are obvious and sometimes overwhelming. “Dude” was something still mostly in the black lexicon in the mid 70s, and had not yet migrated to white suburban America. 

I remember when I was in the sixth grade, playing basketball against another elementary school, I had hit a shot, and running back down the floor, Phil met me, and we slapped palms. Boy, did I get chewed out at the post-game critique session at home that night. “What the hell was that?” My dad asked. I tried vainly to explain the congratulatory tradition of slapping palms in an at the time fashionable “low 5.”

“Don’t do that,” my dad admonished. “That’s what the black boys do.”

Now, I don’t in any way believe my father has a racist bone in his body. He has respect for almost race, creed and color, but his 12 year old son doing something he usually attributed to black ballplayers, with their huge afros and ten inch sideburns do just didn’t work for him. Phil and his family were at the house that weekend for a dinner party with my folks and another couple, Phil’s father and my dad were partners on a couple construction projects, but on the court, I guess he wanted me to stay close to my racial stereotype. 

To hear the way Phil said, “Dude” just slammed me pleasantly backwards again into the 70s. Those little treats came out of the blue for a couple years, and it was one of the things that made my time travel so much fun.

Phil stayed on the other side of the court, and when Dumont came down, a few feet ahead of the ball, he began guarding him. On the left side, I waited for Steve.When he came down to his corner a few seconds later, Steve's eyes met mine, an unsettled expression in them.

“Hey, Stevie, I’m on you now. No more chickenshit elbows, OK?”

He pointedly looked away, dismissing the thought as unworthy of response. Two passes, and the ball came to Steve. Always a fundamentally good player — he knew how to do everything necessary to get the job done, but lacked the special something, a creative spark giving him the ability to really play in the moment, to feel what they should do rather than think about it, which was the difference between a good player and a great one. Steve, as I knew he would, started moving with the ball to his right, but I blocked him, so he did what a good (but predictable) player did every time and turned, protecting the ball with his body and started dribbling to the left. I had seen this all in my mind, laying on the floor a few minutes before, so I let him get a half a step on me before acting. I started to follow him around, but cut the route in half so I could do something I had an almost sixth-sense talent for, poking the ball away and starting a fast break.

Will, the smartest player I’d every played with, was waiting for me to make this move, and as Steve began to think he'd gotten a step on me, he pushed the ball down to the floor in a dribble with his left hand, but the ball disappeared just after it bounced. It took a fraction of a second for him to realize I had reached in from behind and poked the ball toward Will Curry, who grabbed it, and shot off toward our basket. I had accelerated into a sprint at the same time I knocked the ball from Steve’s hand, and lead the break by several steps. Before he got to the top of the key, Will passed me the ball and I only had time for one quick dribble before going up from one foot and rolling the ball in off the ends of my fingers. I could easily have dunked, but thought I'd wait a little longer. Technically, the poke move was a “reaching in” foul, but refs only called it about half the time, depending on whether or not there was any contact. After the elbow Steve had thrown, decking me, he didn’t have the guts to call the foul, though. Running back down the floor, I flicked my eyebrows up at a smiling Will Curry, who smiled back, and as he passed Steve, shifted his face to an expression of mock-surprise, his mouth an 'o'. I have to admit I almost choked up a little, regretting I hadn't kept in touch with him, and have no idea what had become of him after high school.

The look on Steve’s face showed he was seriously pissed. I glanced again at Amanda, and though Terri was again talking to her, she kept track of everything happening on the floor. Amanda met my glance with another, bigger, smile. She held my gaze for half a second, then dropped it, looking toward Terri and laughing.

Steve got the ball a couple more times in the next few minutes, but because I was on him tight, he had no opening. Given the chance, I would have pulled the poke-and-run on him again, but he didn't seem willing to try and move the ball. The third time he took a pass, I again got up on him tight, making it tough for him to find somewhere to get the ball to. Finally, Shane Mathey popped free of Will, or appeared to. Steve, looking relieved to finally have someone to move the ball to, telegraphed his pass badly and despite Shane's moving toward the ball, Will jumped in and intercepted it instead, put the ball on the floor and accelerated toward our basket. I took off too, but Steve, the first one of us who knew Will was going to be in possession of the ball, headed down court as well, and had 3 or 4 steps on me.

Though I was running hard, I lagged too far behind them to take part in an effective 2 on 1 fast break, so Will pulled up with the ball at the top of the key, circled to the right and let the other players catch up. Steve stayed on me this time, and I went deeper into the left baseline corner as the play set up. Will had dribbled the ball to the right side of the court, so Steve sagged in toward the lane, keeping an occasional eye on me. Will threw the ball into the right corner to Tommy Walsh, who held it above his head, looking for Alan in the pivot, but he was well covered. Tommy passed the ball back to Will, who was watching out of the corner of his eye, as I edged up closer to the lane before cross-courted the ball sharply to me. I was already moving when I caught the ball, and cut toward the basket, putting the ball on the floor.

Now.

My position on the court was perfect for something spectacular, but what happened next made it even better. Steve had sagged in a bit too much, expecting Tommy to get the ball to Alan, giving me a clear lane to the hoop. Will's sharp “flash pass” came right to me. Steve realized what was happening, understood his responsibility for it, and with a determined attitude meant to keep me from making him look bad, pushed off his left leg to make sure I didn't get the ball to the basket. He only had two steps to get in position to jump, and later, both Will and Tommy told me they had no doubt Steve was looking to hack me hard to keep me from scoring. By the time he jumped off both feet, left hand reaching high, I had taken off from my left foot, the ball in my right hand, and my left arm sweeping Steve’s away. 

The laws of Physics ensured he didn’t have a chance.

Steve’s right arm removed from the equation, he was now off-balance, as I drove into him mid-air. I hit him hard on my way to the basket, but the collision didn't slow me down much at all. I had more than enough energy to get above the rim and Steve spun off me to the right, folding as he went down hard. The sole defender out of the way, I slammed the ball through the hoop, my momentum keeping me flying toward the backboard. To keep my head from hitting the foam rubber bumper outlining the board, I held on to the rim, swinging back toward the foul line twice before letting go.

The other players cut loose with shock and laughing admiration. The one voice I heard above the rest, shouting “HO-LEE SHIIIIIIIT!!!” was Will's

I looked down, and let myself swing back toward the baseline a little bit, to avoid coming down on Steve, still lying on the floor. I landed as the noise of the response to my move and dunk resounded and realized I'd never made a play like that, nor in all probability would I ever again. These guys would be talking about this day for a long time.

The game had stopped, everyone looking down on Steve, who had started to get up now, murder in his eyes.

“All right, ENOUGH!” Coach MacLaren's voice boomed, startling us, saying, “Game's over, clear out, gentlemen,” then, his directing his attention at the stands, “and LADIES.” I’d known Tom MacLaren for a long time, and knew he was not happy. Everybody went quiet, and in response to the Coach's order, started for their gear and the door.

The gym grew quiet, sounds of rubber soled shoes squeaking as everyone made for the exits, when Coach’s voice startled us again, “Mr. Collins, Mr. Girrard, my office.”

I made eye contact with Will, who looked at the retreating figure of Coach MacLaren, making sure he was on his way out of the gym, before silently miming a karate punch and silent Bruce Lee fighting scream. It was all I could do keep from exploding in laughter. Without giving it a second thought, my father’s long-ago demand forgotten, Will and I high-fived each other, our palms smacking together, the sound echoing through the otherwise silent gymnasium, neither of us caring who heard.

“Mr Collins,” Coach MacLaren said, after a few seconds of silence with the three of us in his office. “In three years playing for me, you never did anything like I saw tonight. Why in the
world
would you do that?”

I watched, amazed at this wonderful spectacle, Steve catching hell for slugging me. I felt vindicated for the years he snubbed and disrespected me, even though those years were almost all in his future, and my past. At the same time, I understood my turn would be here soon enough, or I wouldn't be standing in Coach’s office. The truly interesting thing to me, though? Steve was under no obligation to take this dressing down. He'd graduated last year, this past May finishing up his first year at UCLA, and to my knowledge, did play ball there. In short, he didn't need Coach MacLaren at all anymore, but the weight of the Coach's authority and power still held us even after we graduated. Both Steve and I, over six feet tall, being made to feel about an inch high by a 50 year old man 5’10” at the most when standing, but in front of us sitting behind a desk in the summer, showed how successful MacLaren had been in fostering our respect in him.

“Sorry, Coach,” was all Steve said. The 47 year old student of human behavior in me observed he was looking off to the side, rather than down at his shoes, which spoke volumes about his true feelings. Maybe MacLaren's authority wasn't still absolute to him. Off to the side means I'm taking this, but I'm not sure I have to.

“All right. I’m fine with you boys who have graduated coming back to play ball in the summer, and encourage it, but I want no more nonsense like what happened tonight,” MacLaren said. “If you do it again, you won’t be welcome anymore.”

Silence, but a small nod.

“Good night then,” the Coach said.
Oh crap
, I thought,
he's forgiven
.
Way too easy
.

Part of me chuckled at myself, though. 47 years old, living 30 years in my past, being called on the carpet by my old (and in my time, dead) high school basketball coach. I was totally immersed in this insane fantasy, which despite what Thelma had told me a couple hours ago, could not be real, yet I was hooked. I sighed and said to myself well, let's see where this goes.

I didn’t have long to wait. Steve left the room and we heard his footsteps fade as he left the gym. Coach MacLaren then started in on me.

“First of all, Mr Girrard,” he began, “if I ever catch you hanging on one of my rims again, you'll be running bleachers until you have grandchildren.
They
will then take over.” To maintain a straight face in reply to such pure MacLaren was the hardest challenge of the evening.
Remember that one
, I instructed myself. It’s a keeper.

“Secondly, when you're playing basketball in my program, and by the way, just because we're not in season and officially practicing, when you're playing on my court with my ball, you're in my program, you will play basketball, not chase cheerleaders around.”

Ah, now we’re getting down to it.

“She’s not a cheerleader, Coach, the captain of the drill team for the band,” I replied, sharply.

“And she’s Collins’ girlfriend,” MacLaren, in a softer voice, shot back.

“Yea, well she’s only 17,” I said.

“As I believe, are you.”

Silence followed for a few seconds as we retreated, Coach looking at me with concerned eyes, as I held an internal debate, trying to decide whether to tell him about my experience.

No way
, my twenty-first century mind exclaimed.

MacLaren seemed to note the change in my demeanor as I came to the decision not to tell him the absolute truth, and he said, “Rich, you’re in an excellent position this year. We’ve got a strong team, and you’re going to play a lot, so you and Rick are going to be heavily recruited. I’ve talked to Coach Hall at Kentucky and Fred Schaus, from Purdue is  interested in seeing you play again,” he said, his voice, light and encouraging, but also held enough tension to let me know nothing was guaranteed. “Coach Knight will probably be at an early game, though I’m not sure you would fit on his roster right now. The point is, the next several months are going to be extremely important to your future, and a girl like that…”