Rucker Park Setup (3 page)

3

STOVE PLAYED BALL in this park when he was a kid. Back when it was called the 155th Street Playground, and Holcombe Rucker, the guy who thought up the tournament, was still alive. J.R. and me heard Stove's stories about the old days so many times, it was almost like we lived them out ourselves.

“Rucker worked for the Parks Department. He didn't have a dime behind him, so he used scoreboards made from oak tag, tied up to fences. Then the pros started showing up to play. They loved the freedom of street ball, and so did everybody who came out to watch,” J.R.'s pops would tell us. “Once before a game, the teams needed a few more balls to shoot around with and get loose. A pro, big enough to block out the sun, said to me, ‘Hey, kid, let me hold that ball for a while.' He caught my throw in one hand, and squeezed it like an orange. Then I watched them shoot around with
my
ball, following it from player to player. I took that ball to bed with me for the rest of the summer.”

Stove replayed moves for us that went down smooth as silk. Moves invented on the spot that couldn't be drawn up ahead of time with a pencil and paper, and even had to be explained to the guys who made them after the game. Lots of them were made by street ballers—guys who never wore a uniform in their lives, except for maybe going shirts or skins in the street. But they got a chance to go up against pros in front of a crowd at Rucker Park, and played their hearts out.

Most of the pro ballers stopped coming to Rucker when their contracts got so many zeros in them that they couldn't afford to get hurt in a park game. There were only a couple of pros who played this year. But J.R. and me made a pact that even after we hit it big in the NBA, we'd play in the tournament together every summer, no matter what.

“Money will never push us off our love for the game. We're gonna recognize where we come from and not disrespect the park,” J.R. said before our first tournament game, making a fist for me to give him a pound.

“The love of ball ahead of everything,” I said, connecting my fist to his.

But I shit all over that promise the first time Fat Anthony put a dime in front of me.

And now I can't even tell J.R. how sorry I am.

J.R. always knew what I was thinking on the court. It was like he could see the moves being born in my mind at the same time I did. Only J.R. couldn't see everything inside of me. He didn't know what I got myself into, or how it got him killed. But I got to keep all that strapped down tight. I need to hold up the deal I made—and find a way to win the championship, too.

The horn sounds to end the warm-ups, and both squads go back to their benches. Acorn is out in the middle of the court, talking to the crowd. There are people here from all over the city, and lots of them never heard about J.R.

“Right here on this court, we lost a member of our Rucker Park family to an act of violence a few weeks back. He was more than a promising young player. He was already a superstar son, friend, teammate, and member of this community. Despite a heavy heart, his father is here to ref the game tonight because this championship meant so much to his son,” says Acorn, turning his eyes to Stove. “I want you all to join me in a moment of silence for Nicolas Vasquez Jr. Most of you knew him as J.R.”

Except for the traffic on Frederick Douglass Boulevard, there isn't a sound.

Stove's standing straight, like a statue, with his head bowed down.

I see lots of people holding back tears. But nothing gets to that murdering fuck. He just stands there with his chin in his chest, like he's talking to God. He's the reason everybody's praying for J.R. And it doesn't bother him one damn bit.

When that silence is over, kids drop their hands on my back and shoulders, like I deserve some kind of sympathy. Only I don't.

Mitchell huddles us up and goes through the first few plays he wants to run. Then we all put our hands on top of each other's in a big pile, and Mitchell gives us a speech about playing hard.

“This is what you've all been dreamin' about,” says Mitchell. “Now you each gotta look inside yourself and see what's really there. And don't forget—when you let yourself down, you fail your brother, too.”

My eyes are already down on the ground.

Everybody's got J.R.'s initials on their sneakers to remember him.

His good kicks are still in the hallway at my crib, and I won't touch them for anything.

J.R.'s mom once taught mine how to make Spanish rice and beans. We were going to eat that at my place and change there before the game, while my mother's husband was still at work.

Sometimes I see J.R. standing inside those sneakers. He just looks at me with his arms folded on top of his chest. I keep thinking how he must know everything from where he is. But his face is all calm, and he's not mad or anything.

He just looks at me, like he's waiting for me to set things right.

But that's easy for J.R. He's safe now, and nobody can touch him anymore. I still got to walk these streets and be out here playing ball so I can make it one day.

“Let me hear it, everybody! On three!” says Mitchell.

“One, two, three—
teamwork
!” kids shout.

It blasts from my throat, too, but it doesn't have any feeling.

Fat Anthony's jawing at his players in their huddle. I can see his face twist with every word he pushes out of his mouth.

Then they circle up tighter and shout, “Just win!”

Fat Anthony follows them halfway onto the court.

“Remember, if you fuck up out there, don't even come back to the bench. I only got seats for winners,” says Anthony. “Yo mama might still love you, but I won't!”

J.R.'s pops stands at center court, between the two tallest kids. He tosses the ball up higher than both of them can reach, and the crowd lets out a noise that starts something burning inside of me.

There's no more talk, and nothing to think about. There's just basketball.

A kid in green rips the rock away from a white jersey, and we head up court with the ball. Mitchell called my number for the first play. Two of our kids step out in front of me, and I move around a double-screen. The guy that's guarding me gets caught up in all the traffic. I sprint alone past the spot where J.R. got killed. I let an open shot fly from the corner, and the ball's through the net before my feet touch the ground again.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you better Hold the Mustard tonight,” echoes Acorn. “It's two to nothing, Greenbacks.”

I look up, and Stove is running back down court, right next to me. But before our eyes come together, I turn away to find my man on defense.

Both teams score a basket on their next possession. Then the ball kicks out-of-bounds off two kids fighting for it. Hamilton, the other ref on the court, isn't sure who touched it last, and looks at Stove for help. Finally Hamilton points our way. That's when Fat Anthony flips, and starts screaming at Hamilton like it's the biggest play of the game.

“You don't make a call against my team unless
you
see it!” fires Anthony. “Folks didn't fill this park to hear you blow that tin whistle!”

Hamilton walks off from Fat Anthony, and the crowd lets him hear it.

“
Zebra—Zebra! We don't need ya—We don't need ya!”

This is Hamilton's first championship game at Rucker Park, and Fat Anthony's working him hard. He's trying to get into Hamilton's head, so a big call at the end of the game might go his way.

Fat Anthony's got two goons on his squad, and getting close to the basket's like being in a football game. It's that rough.

The painted rectangle from the backboard to the foul line, fifteen feet away, is called “The House.” Only there aren't any welcome mats for kids in different colored jerseys, just elbows and forearms to greet you.

That crap stops lots of teams without any heart. But nobody on our side's backing down an inch, especially in front of a crowd like this.

Non-Fiction misses a shot, and I push the ball back the other way in a hurry. Two of Fat Anthony's guys follow after me, so I know somebody's running free. I look up on instinct, expecting to see J.R. waving his arms, like I couldn't get him the ball fast enough.

But J.R.'s not here.

There's a kid in green alone on the other side of the court. I whip him a pass, and he drives for the hoop. That's when one of Anthony's goons hammers him hard to the ground.

Three Non-Fiction dudes are standing over him.

“Not in our house!” one of them pops off.

Hamilton is already between them, and everybody in green is rushing over to stick up for their man. Players on both benches are standing, and Mitchell's holding back our guys.

Greene jumps the scorer's table and makes a run at Fat Anthony, till two cops get in front of him. But Anthony doesn't budge. He just stares straight at Greene, and the corners of his mouth curl up in a smile. The crowd is split between boos and cheers. And Stove is in the middle of everything, laying down the law.

Stove gets Mitchell and Fat Anthony out at center court, away from everybody. But Stove is so hyped that half the park can hear his speech.

“I'll kick the next player out of this game who crosses the line. I don't care how important he is to your team,” warns Stove. “I don't referee football or boxing, just hoops!”

Then everything settles down, and the game starts up again.

Players on both squads are flat-out fast. Only Stove hasn't been on a court in a few weeks. There are circles under his eyes, and he's breathing hard to keep up. And the next time the ball goes out-of-bounds, Stove stalls for time by walking it over to the scorer's table and wiping it dry. But it's mostly slick from his own sweat.

I step in front of a pass headed for a Non-Fiction kid and jet the other way with it. They've got two guys back between me and the basket, so I rocket straight for the first one. A couple of steps before him, I dip my head and shoulders to the right. Soon as he bites, I cross over to my left. The guy almost breaks his ankles trying to stay with me and falls to the floor with his feet twisted in a knot.

“He got corkscrewed!” screams Acorn.

There's a goon planted under the hoop, waiting for me. I cup the ball in my right hand and show it to that bonehead. Then I bring it behind my back, like I'm going to switch hands. I hesitate, and when the rock doesn't come out on the left side, he gambles on the right. But I switched hands all along, and I go sailing past.

He scrapes my shoulder, and I scoop the ball into the basket, high off the backboard. Stove's and Hamilton's cheeks puff up to blow their whistles, and they both bring one arm down through the air. It's a foul. That basket counts, and I got a chance for a three-point play.

Only I never heard those whistles. Right then, you couldn't hear a car horn blowing on the court. Everyone at Rucker Park was going wild, celebrating that move I made.

“I don't care if it's yellow, spicy brown, or even
di
-jon. Hold the Mustard 'cause that was a foot-long hot dog delivered bone dry,” bellows Acorn.

Before I step to the foul line, Fat Anthony calls a time-out to quiet the crowd. Then he shoots me a look, like I better start doing what I'm supposed to, quick.

4

DON'T SMILE! JUST don't smile!
I got to walk off this court with a straight face. People need to think this is nothing for me. That I make those kinds of plays every day. Kids can give me high fives all they want, my face isn't going to move a muscle.

Greene and his posse are standing on chairs, cheering. And every time they throw their arms up, the crowd screams, “Hold the Mustard!” till even the trees start to shake with my name.

That's how it was when Nike shot their TV commercial here with Vinsanity, the most vicious dunker in the NBA. He played in the Olympics, too, and even jumped over some foreign dude from head to toe on a dunk.

Vinsanity came to Rucker to play in a tournament game a few years back, and everybody was stoked to see him. Only the sky opened up and it poured buckets, so the game got moved inside, to a junior-high gym.

The place was mobbed, but J.R. and me fought our way into the first row. People came in soaked to the skin and were dripping puddles on the floor. The windows were stuck closed and the whole gym smelled like wet dog, but nobody minded.

“I just wanna see Vinsanity lay down some insane move,” said J.R.

A couple of minutes into the game, Vinsanity picked off a pass and streaked to the hoop alone. Stove back-pedaled his ass off to keep close to him and probably had the best view of anybody.

“
¡Dios mío!
This is it!” said J.R., like it was his birthday and Christmas rolled into one.

Vinsanity climbed some invisible ladder and didn't stop till his knees were as high as Stove's head. Then he brought the rock back down for everybody to see, before he pounded the rim with it.

I swear, the roof jumped five feet off of that gym from all the noise.

“It's like going to church, and seeing God,” I said, after I got down off my toes.

Lots of people must have felt that way, because Nike made a commercial about
that
slam. Only they shot it at Rucker Park, and not the gym.

They dressed everybody up “old school,” like back in the days when lots of the pros took their summer vacations at Rucker. Vinsanity had on a throwback jersey and a big Afro wig. Stove played the ref on the court, and J.R. and me even got twenty-five bucks apiece to be part of the crowd.

Vinsanity copied the same move he made in the gym, and everybody went wild for the cameras. They made him do it maybe ten times, and we screamed on every one.