Rules for Becoming a Legend (22 page)

“He doesn't drink anymore,” Genny Mori offered.

Todd tilted his head and took in Berg out the corner of his eye.
Everyone thinks they know my problems.
And while it was true, he'd stopped drinking since that day wallowing in the sand for Suzie so long before, it wasn't as official as his wife was making it sound. There was room to wiggle. The poke had come with the word “anymore.” How it suggested a problem to this complete stranger. “I'll take some just the same,” he said.

“What?”

“Sure, why the hell not, Genny? I'm here to see my boy play some ball.”

“Why the hell not!” The Doc laughed loud and fake. A bark, really. “Why the hell not! I love this guy.”

Todd wanted to punch him. He took the cup and downed it in three looping swallows. Same fire as always but an almost immediate hit to the senses, his tolerance shot. How wonderful. He noticed Genny cut eyes at the Doc.

“A real pro!” the Doc said sarcastically and took out his flask and a bottle of Pepsi.

Todd mixed a new drink, heavy on the whiskey. Then, before he handed the flask back, he took another big swallow. “For a kick start,” he said.

Alcohol warmed him like he remembered. Like how shower water pressed heat behind your eyes. He drank and tried not to talk. He knew eventually the whiskey would make his legs light. He looked forward to that. And they drank, all of them silent, and watched Shooter Ackley and the Seaside Seagulls take basketball away from his son.

•   •   •

Back on the court doubt spread to every part of Jimmy's game. His passing became sloppy and then his defense was all shot up. Our kid was unraveling in front of a Brick House packed to the gills with fans expecting another Todd “Freight Train” Kirkus. Instead they were getting a choke artist.

Coach Kelly put in Ray Atto, their once-star, to play alongside Jimmy. He drew a foul on his first possession. Made both free throws. The Fishermen-faithful applauded.

Joe Looney said, “That's how we do it, Ray, that's how we do it,” but he was looking at Jimmy when he said it.

On Ray's way back up the court he yapped, “Quit being a pussy,” so close to Jimmy's ear he felt the spit land.

Then, on the next Fishermen inbounds, Jimmy got the ball. He dribbled it up the court with Shooter in front of him the whole way, smiling cruelly. Sound piled on. The crowd overpowering. Nobody stopping it when it should have been stopped. Jimmy could weep. Couldn't anyone see what was happening? His lungs couldn't take in enough air. Too much, all of it. He went to make a pass and Shooter jabbed, feinting a steal. Jimmy overcorrected and threw the ball out of bounds.

“A little off . . .” Shooter said.

Joe Looney raised his hands like,
What the hell?

“Shit,” Ray yelled. “Fucking shit, Jimmy.”

The fans groaned. Shooter's words pinging all around inside Jimmy, springing leaks. Boos rained from the bleachers. He was
soaked. There was a pressure on his nostrils, he was crying. Face all crumpled up, breaths stuttering. He ran and picked up the ball from under the hoop.

“Is he crying?” he heard someone ask.

“No,” Jimmy shouted, pulled up the neckline of his jersey and wiped his face, pretending it was sweat.

“It's OK, Jimmy, we'll get it back,” Coach Kelly shouted. “Get in there and get it back.” Jimmy nodded and threw the ball to the ref. Then, instead of going back into the game like Coach Kelly was screaming for—everyone was screaming, noise so big—Jimmy left. Face red, nose snotty, it was abundantly clear he was crying now. He ran into the locker room and didn't come back.

•   •   •

God
, Todd thought as he watched his boy run off,
it's all too much, isn't it?
He had to do something, but he couldn't focus, not with the Doc, his wife, James Berg, and the whiskey besides. He needed to go see about Jimmy, but was scared of leaving Genny Mori alone with this man.

“Jimmy left?”

“That Shooter's tough, Gen,” the Doc said. “I'd need a break too.”

Gen
? Since when did anyone call her Gen? “What the hell you know about basketball?” Todd shouted over the bedlam erupting in the stands as the game continued.

“I played for Country Christian when I was in high school,” Doc said. He tried to sound nonchalant about it, but it was hard in the loud gym. The Doc yelled to be heard, and the pride came out in higher decibels. “Nothing much. Got All-League my senior season.”

What an insignificant fact in this moment. Then Todd remembered bumping McMahan's team from the state tournament. Must have been first round. The Doc a quick, little guard with a deadly
shot. The Country Christian Cougars had all these polite fans who forgot their manners as the game went on. Todd only played the first quarter of that game because after that, the Fishermen were up big. He'd gotten some flack in the papers for taking off his shoes as he sat on the bench, kicked back and relaxed. James Berg ended the night with 33 points. They joked it was his team now.

“Oh, shit,” Todd said. He took another drink.
Where
had
Jimmy gone?
The paper cup of whiskey and Pepsi was flimsy, waterlogged. “I remember you guys. Knocked you out the tournament. Country Christian Cougars,
roar
,
roar
, how come you didn't like, how come you didn't get Jesus to help you win that game?” He downed the rest and refilled the cup from McMahan's flask.

A pause. A small beat McMahan let drop so Todd would know it wasn't a joke to him. “You were too good,” he said sarcastically, face red.

Todd hated the weakness he saw in this little guy. The sniveling. The giving up before you try.
You know what happens
when you start to feel that way? You turn to cheating. You tell on him when he's out drinking and he just needs to think. You go behind his back to get playing time. You were supposed to be my best friend! Just 'cause you were too weak to hang with me, you cheat.

“Todd,” Genny Mori said sternly. She saw the anger rising in her husband and this sobered her.

“What?”

But when McMahan went to take the cup from him, Todd slid his hand down its slippery side and tipped the bottom of it so it spilled on the little man's lap.

“Jesus,” McMahan said.

“Now we're talking!” Todd said.

McMahan stood up and took half a step at Todd. The cup skittered and rolled. “I—”

Todd was ready; a slight flex in his huge frame was all it took to scare the Doc off. Beneath the flab there was still some power.

“I—these—just got these pants.” He rushed off to find the bathroom.

“Todd,” Genny Mori said again. She got up to go after the Doc, but at the top of the steps, she turned back.

“How come you did that?” she asked, one hand shaking as it pointed at him.

Todd heard her as
How did you know?
So he said, “An accident.”

Which she took as
Go fuck yourself.
So she said, “You're the accident. This whole thing's an accident.”

And he knew she meant
Right back at you.

There it was. A fissure opened between them, between their history as man and wife and their future as separate entities. Everything just under the surface, everything almost accused and almost admitted to. One more step and they'd tip into the fall there was no comeback from. Todd waited for her to say more; surprised it would happen like this, but not so surprised it was happening.

But, what's this, they both balked when they could have pushed the other in first with a “You're cheating on me” or an “I don't love you anymore.” There would be no fall tonight. Genny stood before him a beat longer and then turned away. Todd would always remember how only one hand had shook, the other calm.

And then Todd picked up the paper cup and crushed it and threw it at her back because he'd just forced them to go off and be alone when that was the last thing he wanted.

In the bleachers, realizing that Jimmy wasn't coming back, the game in hand, the Seagulls started a new chant, “
Na-na-na-na, na-na-na-na, hey, hey, hey, GOODBYE.
”

Todd turned on James Berg, who was now standing. In two
steps he was nose to nose with his old friend. “You still love this?” he asked.

“No, Todd, I—”

“You better fucking love this.”

James's face crumpled a little. He bit a knuckle. “Go fuck yourself.”

Todd reared back, took aim, and then let into a mighty swing. James easily avoided it, just stepped back. Todd spit, he had him cornered, and was about to charge. There was liquid in his head, sloshing around, hitting the levers and buttons of his rage. Then he paused. Something was going to break tonight, but it wouldn't be James. Todd turned and went to the railing.

•   •   •

Jimmy changed into street clothes. Nobody had come after him into the locker room. What was that? He was the only reason his team had won their first seven games and not one person looking? He crept out of the locker room and underneath the bleachers. It was filthy, gonna get his new shoes—spotless Penny Hardaway's—dirty, but he didn't care. Among crumpled programs, and spilled puddles of pop, he scanned the crowd between people's feet, watching as the game went on. Then, way up in a little balcony, he saw his pops. Huge, bloated man swaying. Someone in the crowd caught sight of him. The chant changed back to “
Dad-dy's bet-ter!
”
Jimmy, weak and sad and he didn't know what else, stepped forward to get an angle. His pops was shouting something back at the crowd. His thinning hair swept down over his forehead. Sticking in clumps. Guy didn't look like a legend. Looked like he might die of a heart attack.

“What's he saying?” someone above Jimmy asked.

“Shit if I know,” someone else answered, but it didn't matter because the final buzzer sounded and his pops was getting louder. Todd “Freight Train” Kirkus was yelling “
NO I'M NOT.
” Crazy
grandpa, choked night of basketball, crying on the court, and now a dumbass father making a scene? Brought to mind that day seeing his pops in the sand for some reason. Big man eating the tide. Pathetic.

Jimmy always knew he was small, but under all this weight, he felt it in a way he hadn't ever before. For the first time in his life he truly hated his pops.

•   •   •

For Berg it was tough to watch his old friend like that, even if Todd had just tried to take his head off. Leaning out over the railing, shirt come untucked to show his pasty flab, screaming down a bunch of high schoolers out for fun.

“NO I'M NOT!” Todd was yelling, almost weeping, to the bewildered people below. Old fool was going to lean too far. So Berg was there. Grabbing him around the waist and setting him back down in his chair. Todd still had that doctor's flask in his hand. He looked up at James with a crooked smile, best friends again for an instant. “You scored 33 points against Country Christian,” he said.

“Yes,” James said, laughing, almost crying too, “I did.”

Todd finished the flask wetly and then pointed to McMahan's leather bag. “The Doc's,” he said. He picked it up and made for the exit. James followed him down to the parking lot.

•   •   •

Once outside, Freight Train found Genny Mori crying by the van. The Doc was already gone and Freight Train rolled straight at her.

“You fucking shit-head,” she said as he got closer. “Why are you like this?”

“A little fun?” He dropped the Doc's bag at her feet as though it were proof.

“You're not in high school anymore. You don't drink, remember?”

“You're goddamn right, and you're not single, so why the hell did the good doctor come all the way to Columbia City for a high school game?”

“Well.”

“I saw you.”

People watched from open car doors and rolled-down windows. The gossip web of Columbia City was already tingling with this electric new development.

•   •   •

Genny Mori's eyes gave it away, in how they darted to the corners, measured routes of escape, picked up on the Doc's bag. “He gave me a ride,” she said, flinched. “No one else could. I didn't tell you 'cause I knew you'd act like this.” She paused. Enough? Had she given him enough to pretend? Lie to himself that nothing was happening?

“That wannabe has the hots for you.”

Genny Mori laughed, relieved he was choosing to go along and she could be angry with him too. “Wannabe? He's a
doctor
, Pepsi Man. And you ain't no big star anymore.”

Someone in the dark laughed. They were a spectacle, a show.

“You're goddamn right,” he said and stepped forward, but by then James Berg was holding his shoulder from behind. Had him stumbling back until he was pinned against his own van. Genny Mori didn't know it, but she was getting treated to a replay of the scene that had wrecked Todd in the first place. That night he'd drunkenly tried to flee Eugene after the state tournament his senior year. The first domino in the fall-down of their lives.

•   •   •

Todd stopped struggling and the people around them hurried up starting their motors and closing their doors. Pretending hard they hadn't been listening the entire time.

The police were on their way, sirens already wailing down the road. Todd stopped struggling, and as cinematic as it seems, it started raining. That's just the Oregon coast for you. Soft at first, the sky unzippered and let its stuffing out. Genny ran the short
distance to the passenger side of the van, skirting the puddles carefully, taking her time, just as she had when Todd watched her, years before, in fifth grade. He remembered how her father had yelled at her. How brave and sad it had seemed for her to be deliberately taking the long way.