Rucker Park Setup (6 page)

Now I'm thinking that kid got off lucky. He only lost his pride for a little bit and bounced before Fat Anthony could cut a bigger piece out of him. I bought Anthony's rap from top to bottom. And it cost J.R. everything.

Maybe that kid's in the crowd right now laughing at me, or crying.

7

NON-FICTION MAKES a steal, and Stove sprints up court, following the play. He's headed straight for me. Only I don't move my feet. My knees lock tight and I hold my ground. Stove hasn't looked up yet. So I stick out my chest, like nothing he's got could make a dent in me. Then I close my eyes, waiting for the hit. But all I feel is the wind coming off Stove as he runs by.

I catch back up, but Stove isn't looking at me. His eyes are glued to the game.

“
Baloncesto es todo
,” J.R.'s mom used to tease Stove. “Our apartment could be on fire, and as long as your family wasn't inside, you wouldn't take that stupid whistle out of your mouth till the game was over.”

Right after she died, Stove almost lived at Rucker Park with J.R. and me. I guess neither one of them wanted to be home without her. But it was different after J.R. got killed. Stove didn't set foot inside Rucker Park till tonight. And I didn't want to be here, either.

When the ball's in my hands, I'm in control. I move left, and everybody goes with me. Then I dribble right, and kids shift back that way, too. It's all at my speed, and the rhythm I want to play. But deep down, I don't have a handle on anything. My mind's racing in every direction, and my heart keeps switching sides.

I shake the dude playing defense on me and get into the clear. Then I raise up to take a jumper. The dude comes flying back at me, waving a hand across my face.

“You got nothin',” he says as I let the ball go.

I've heard crap like that all my life, and it never threw me off. But this time it sinks in, and the shot
clangs
off the iron rim.

“I make the loud noises here, Mustard!” screams Greene. “You stick to that sweet
swish
sound!”

I wish Greene had stayed in the studio. That he never came to Rucker Park, and that Fat Anthony never talked me into any of his bullshit.

The morning after our first tournament game—almost a week before J.R. got killed—I was riding high from Acorn blessing me with my tag. I got to the park by eight thirty, but nobody else was around. So I laid out on the benches and closed my eyes. There was nothing I needed to hide from then. There was just the orange light from the sun sneaking under my eyelids, and a warm feeling on my face.

That's when I heard a car door slam.

“Looky here, it's Hold the Mustard—just got born last night,” said Fat Anthony. “Can't your family afford you a bed?”

Fat Anthony took a brand-new basketball from his trunk and pumped it full of air. Then he tossed it over the fence to me.

“I'll be right with you,” he said, making a call on his cell.

When he finished, Fat Anthony came inside the park and started feeding me passes. I must have canned eighteen out of twenty shots from across the circle.

“We need to make some money together,” said Anthony, straight out.

I knew everything Stove said about him was true. But Fat Anthony had been connected to some of the best players to ever come out of Rucker Park. He helped them pick the right college and stayed tight with them money-wise while they were still in school and poor. Then he got them a real agent to make a run at the pros, or to play somewhere in Europe.

Maybe I wasn't going to be the best college player in the country and walk right into the pros. Maybe I was going to be somewhere in the middle and have to scrap for a shot at playing anywhere. Then having Fat Anthony in my corner could be big—real big.

“You know J.R.'s got some real talent, too. But his father thinks I'm some kind of
bandido
,” said Fat Anthony. “Maybe he's been looking at too many WANTED posters down at the post office where he works.”

And we both laughed out loud at Stove.

“You don't have any problems with winning all your games, do you?” asked Anthony. “You're okay with winning them the
right way
?”

I knew he was talking about betting on our games, and me making sure my squad won by less than the point spread. I'd heard enough about Fat Anthony to know I had to trade something for him pushing me to the pros.

“I'll put you on the payroll for the game coming up this week,” said Fat Anthony, digging out a wad of cash from his front pocket.

He dropped five hundred bucks into my hand.

I thought Fat Anthony was talking crazy. Non-Fiction could play with any team. They might even beat us, straight up. How could I keep the score down against a squad that good? Who would bet on the Greenbacks and spot Fat Anthony a bunch of points? It didn't make any sense.

“Yeah, but who's gonna give—?” I said, before Anthony stopped me cold.

“That's for me to worry about. Not you,” he said.

To me, it wasn't like dumping the game at all. I could still play to win.

I'd never held that much money at one time before. And I started thinking—
If there were enough paydays like this one, maybe I could move out on my own and get clear of my mom's husband. I could sidestep all that fighting and yelling and visit Mom when he wasn't around.

So I swallowed hard. Then I closed one hand tight around the bills and laid the ball into the basket with the other.

A delivery kid rode through on a bike and handed Fat Anthony a brown paper bag.

“I called and ordered us breakfast,” said Fat Anthony. “You hungry, Mustard?”

We sat on a bench, eating bacon-egg-and-cheese sandwiches. I told him everything I wanted to do in basketball, right up to the pros. Anthony listened to every word while he stuffed his face with food.

When he was full, Fat Anthony burped loud and said, “I can handle all of that for you. But first comes the game this week. I'll let you know how many points you can win by.”

After a while, the park started to fill up with players, and they were almost ready to choose sides for the first pickup game. I was still sitting with Anthony when somebody said, “I got Hold the Mustard for my team.”

That got my blood really pumping.

My shorts didn't have any pockets, so I stuffed the money down into a sock. I stepped onto the court and turned back to look at Anthony. Only he made out like he didn't know me anymore.

Fat Anthony never had to tell me how much I could win by. I was there when he suckered Greene into spotting him those five points.

And maybe he suckered me, too.

Junkyard Dog snaps down a rebound. He swings both elbows around to clear out space, and this dude called Kodak crashes to the floor.

But Dog hardly touched him.

Kodak took a flop, pretending he got nailed. He even let loose the air in his lungs with a
huh
before he fell.

Hamilton calls the foul right away.

“He should get an Academy Award for acting that good!” shouts Mitchell.

They call that dude “Kodak” because he looks like he's always posing for a picture, trying to fake out the refs. Stove didn't fall for it, just Hamilton did.

“The ASPCA needs to put Dog's ass to sleep,” hollers Fat Anthony. “He's vicious out there!”

Hamilton's checking to see if Kodak's okay. But Stove isn't worried a bit.

“I think this one's gonna be all right,” says Stove, leaning in.

Dog's red hot over the call. He keeps barking at the refs till Stove's got no choice, and hits him with a technical. Then Kodak steps to the foul line and knocks down the free throw.

“Damn Dog! Don't give points away!” pops Greene.

On the next play, Junkyard Dog clocks somebody for real, and both refs make the call.

“I'm not gettin' cheated no more!” growls Dog. “You wanna make calls? I'll give you somethin' to call.”

Non-Fiction drops home two more foul shots. It's down to a three-point lead for us, with time running out in the first half.

Mitchell's talking to Junkyard Dog from the sideline in an easy voice. I can see that Dog's ready to blow. And if Greene sets him off with his big mouth, maybe that'll save me. Dog could cost us enough points on fouls that I can play for real. Then maybe he'll tear Greene a new one, and Anthony, too, before the cops haul him off.

There's less than a minute left. Mitchell wants me to hold the ball for the last shot of the half. I dribble around in little circles. Then I stand still and eye the guy guarding me, while I pound the rock.

The guy's zeroed in on my midsection. A dribbler can fake you out a hundred different ways. His shoulders and arms can go right, while his legs go left. But he's not going anywhere without his stomach.

“Basketball and life are the same—you got to have it in your stomach to get somewhere. And you can't go anywhere without taking your stomach with you,” Stove once told J.R. and me. “You've got to be able to stomach everything you do, or else it'll eat away at you from the inside.”

The wind kicks up and raises goose bumps on my sweaty skin.

I start my move with ten seconds to go, and don't even bother to fake. I jet past my man. But before I can turn the corner, a second defender cuts me off. He jumps sky high with his arms and legs spread wide in front of me. I'm heading out-of-bounds. There's no J.R. to save my ass. So I leave my feet, and just throw the ball up to the basket.

My head's turned the other way, and I can't see the hoop. But I hear the sound of the rim being rocked, and the crowd explodes.

I look back and Junkyard Dog's standing under the iron. He just jammed my pass home, and is pounding his chest like he's King of the Hill. Everybody's all over him, and kids are slapping
my
back, too. But I can't celebrate anything.

“Who let the Dawg out?” Acorn calls to the crowd.

“Who? Who? Who?”
they shout back in rhythm.

Off Dog's dunk, we're up 42 to 37.

The game's half over.

I'm that much closer to winning the championship.

And the bet between Greene and Fat Anthony is dead even.

8

HALFTIME'S WHEN J.R. and me would talk for real. We'd listen to the coach go on about what he wanted to do. But we'd always catch each other's eye, and wait for him to finish. Then we'd put our heads together and come up with all kinds of plans to win games on our own.

I never trusted anybody more than J.R. He could see things clear and would always tell me the truth. Even if I was playing like crap, he'd say it to my face and wouldn't cut me any slack.

That's what I was worried about most when I took Fat Anthony's money—hiding it from J.R. He might have known I was holding back on playing my best from the beginning. Then he would have been all over me for dogging it on the court.

At least J.R. never had to see me dump a single play.

There are no locker rooms at Rucker Park. Everything's out in the open, so you got to keep yourself in check. Ballers don't hide under a helmet or sit in a dug-out. You play in shorts and a tank top, and people can see every muscle twitch. So you can't let on that you're tired or pissed off, or the other team will use that to prop themselves up. You got to hide all of that and learn how to front.

Our starters are still standing. Nobody wants to sit for a half hour and have their muscles go stiff. Kids got towels over their heads, too, so they won't lose that good sweat they got going. Once you stop sweating, everything inside you goes cold. Then you got to start up again, and find another flow, like it's a brand-new game.

Before Mitchell can say a word, Greene gets in front of the team.

“Blow. Their. Asses. Out. The. Park!”
shouts Greene, one word at a time. “Understand? No mercy! Run up the score on these fools. I want this game to be talked about forever.”

Everybody knows about Greene's bet.

I figure kids on my team will try to add to the score in the last minute, and maybe catch a few bucks from Greene for it. So I might be working against that, too. Part of me can't wait to fuck Greene on the score. If we win, I want to see him have to fake a smile, holding the championship trophy, because we didn't cover the points.

When Greene's finished, he goes off to act like a star with the crowd. That's when Mitchell drops his shoulder, like he's going to throw a punch at us, and starts his own speech.

“Guess what? Non-Fiction thinks they're tougher than we are. That's the only reason they're still in this game,” says Mitchell, grilling our guys. “And maybe they're right, too. Maybe we're better ballplayers, but they can whip our ass in a street fight!”