The Crazy Horse Electric Game (12 page)

And suddenly there's Missy, his baby sister who never did anything with her life but suck her fingers and make funny noises and drool. He sees her lying there in the crib, smiling around her fist, looking right into his soul. There was such a clear, wonderful connection there. Willie would protect her as she grew; shield her from the tough times. They both knew that. Then, as instantly and irretrievably as the tip of a water ski cracking into a promising young athlete's head, Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. Willie was embarrassed back then to tell his parents how he sometimes sat in her room looking down at her, his index finger tightly clutched in her tiny hand, planning for her life. And now he's just another death in the family.

“So find your center,” Lisa says, and Willie watches the kids lined up in rows in front of her close their eyes and feel for a spot somewhere just above the navel. What he doesn't notice is that the spot is different on each person. “Now picture yourself playing whatever game you're choosing today,” she says, pausing to give them time to form it behind their closed eyes, “and see yourself making every move from your center. Your center moves first, then the rest of your body follows. Your arms and legs don't get away from you that way. You play under control.”

Willie isn't enrolled in this class, which is all-school PE. He has an agreement with André to stay out of PE until he's ready, or for three weeks, whichever comes first; so this is a study time for him. He's decided that if
he has to be in PE eventually, he'd better come out and look; see what he might be able to salvage out of it. PE holds the threat of extreme embarrassment.

“Okay,” Lisa is saying. “Basketballers on the court, soccer on the west, Ultimate Frisbee on the east. Those of you who said you want to run have a course laid out.” She smiles. “I believe, children, that I have found a way, with the help of neighbors and local merchants, to make sure you run the whole course. I want each of you to take one of these three-by-five cards with you when you go. When you come back, I want the initials of Mr. or Mrs. Jameson—that's the elderly couple at 1014 Sinto; one of them will be on the porch—somebody at the doughnut shop next to the mall, and somebody at the Michelin Tire store on Broadway and Cedar. They all know the deal. If you don't have the initials, you don't get credit for the day. I refuse to give you high-school credit for walking over to the park to smoke dope.”

There are a few protests, but they die quickly; Lisa has been around long enough that no one expects to change her mind.

Some of the kids wear shorts, or
some
form of gym gear; others remain in street clothes, but the one requirement is that everyone participates in
something
.
The soccer field has no side boundaries and there seems to be no limit to the number of players on a side, so within minutes the game takes on a chaotic structure focused only on getting the ball from one end of the park to the other and between the two fluorescent cones—obtained from the California Highway Department at drastically reduced prices—which represent goals. The only obstacles more treacherous to the ball handler than the defensive players are the players on his or her own team, each of whom has an almost manic inner drive to score. Pelé would not recognize this game.

Ultimate Frisbee, a kind of cooperative volleyball game played with a plastic disk, is quieter but structured much the same. No matter how carefully he watches, Willie still can't discern what measures success. The basketball game is more recognizable: full court, no referee but with offensive players calling the fouls. It's run-and-gun street ball, and some of the players are really talented athletes, though Willie sees none of the discipline he's used to from his years and years in organized sports. Lisa, stripped down to T-shirt and shorts, plays point guard on one of the teams. She's kicking butt. Most of the players on the court are faster and most can certainly jump higher, but Lisa never tries
anything she doesn't already know she can do. If the shot isn't there, she passes. She gets all the garbage rebounds: any-and everything that comes off the rim funny; a sixth sense tells her where it will be. She knows where the ball is all the time and she knows where everyone else on the court is. Willie recognizes something in her play that reminds him of himself when he played sports; it's the thing that made him better than all the others, gave him a constant edge. He watches the game, anticipating Lisa's moves, and more often than not he's right. He can almost feel himself moving with her.

“Play?” a voice behind him booms. Willie turns to see Jack, basketball under his arm, dressed in white gym trunks and a gray sweatshirt with
PETERBILT
carefully lettered in Magic Marker across the front. His telephone equipment hangs on his hip and he wears street shoes with black dress socks.

Willie smiles. “No…thanks. I'm…just gonna…watch.”

“Can't,” Jack booms. “Got to play. You'll get an ‘F.'”

Willie starts to explain that he's not in the PE class yet, that he's just checking it out.

“Can't check it out,” Jack says. “You got to play something or they give you an ‘F.'”

Willie tries another tactic. “We…can't play…here,” he says. “They've…got…the court.”

Jack turns and points to a basket mounted on a wooden backboard up against the school. It's lower than regulation by at least a foot and tilts down on the right side at least three inches. It looks like a basket designed to fit Willie's new body structure and it's far enough away from where most people are playing that no one would notice. He decides why not.

“Make it, take it,” Jack says. “By ones to eleven.” He's been listening to the big boys play. “Do or die.” He launches a shot from the top of the faded key; a high rainbow that whips through the net without even touching the rim. “My outs,” he says and begins to bounce the ball with both hands.

Willie hasn't touched a basketball since way before his accident and has no idea whether he can even shoot anymore; or dribble.

Jack's second shot bounces off the rim and he doesn't even attempt to rebound it as it bounces into Willie's hands. Willie takes it, trying to establish some kind of rhythm, dribbling with his right hand and dragging his left side along. Jack doesn't play much defense, except to jump up and down in front of him yelling, “Hey, man!” so it's pretty much Willie against himself. He
finally does get a primitive kind of rhythm and moves in close on the right side of the basket, flipping the ball underhanded toward the hoop. It bounces off the rim and Jack snatches it up, yelling, “Showtime!” as he two-hands it out to the top of the key. He turns, plants his feet wide and shoves another rainbow high into the air, screaming, “Two!” as the ball whips again through the bottom of the net.

Jack sinks two more from the same spot before Willie gets the ball back and works it slowly, methodically, in for a point of his own. By now the main basketball game has broken up and players are moving over to see what exotic athletic contest is taking place on Jack's court, and Jack is building up a cheering section.

This is Willie's worst nightmare: a crowd of strangers standing around watching what he has become. He holds it together, though; pats Jack on the back and says, “Good game, Jack. I gotta go finish a paper.”

“Eleven!” Jack yells. “We go to eleven! You can't quit. That would be a chickenshit rip-off!”

Someone in the growing crowd yells, “Come on, finish the game!” and Jack gives a big nod. “The fans want it,” he says.

Willie's claustrophobic. There's no way out except to play, and now Jack is getting excited, running a weird
commentary on the play, bringing way more attention to them than would normally accompany the nightmare. Embarrassment edges toward humiliation, but Willie brings the ball in, protects it with his bad side and works toward the hoop. Jack makes a few halfhearted attempts at slapping it away, but he's more interested in his running commentary: “Gimp protects the ball and moves in. Telephone Man is playing him like a blanket.
Like a blanket
. It's a matter of time before he'll snatch the ball from the greedy clutches of Gimp and sink it big time. Gimp doesn't have a chance, folks. He's a white guy. White guys can't play this game. Telephone Man is all colors. He's a rainbow. And he can sky.”

The banter from the crowd, which includes almost everyone now, is good-natured, directed at egging Jack on rather than humiliating Willie, and Willie is making himself invisible, smiling as Jack talks and letting him take his shot.

The crowd parts at the side of the court to let Lisa through, and she walks onto the court. “Willie,” she says, walking close, “do you want to finish this?”

He starts to say “No,” but hears the crowd yelling to let it continue; to “let Telephone Man show his stuff.” He shrugs instead. “It's okay,” he says. “No harm.”

Lisa looks into his eyes, sees that anything would be
better than this attention, and turns to Jack, moving real close to his ear. “His name is Willie,” she says evenly. “You have some respect. You call him that.”

In his best Pavarotti voice, Jack says, “Yes, ma'am.” He turns to Willie. “Didn't mean to call you that.”

Willie just nods. Jack brings the ball in, dribbling with both hands, deliberately moving to his spot. “Telephone Man, you one
sweet
ball-handler,” comes from the crowd. “Man can
bounce
that ball.” Then, “He nose dribble better than he do,” and Jack comes on point, whirling to face that voice, his telephone equipment perpendicular to his body like a ballerina's tutu as he spins. “There's nothing wrong with my nose!” he booms. His face looks like a road map of Mars as the blood rushes in, and his entire body stiffens. “There's nothing wrong with my nose, Joel! I heard you! I know you're there!”

Willie, seeing Jack's about to go up in smoke, limps over to him. “Let's…just…play,” he says quietly. “There's…nothing wrong…with…your nose.”

“They just won't leave me alone!” Jack yells and his voice starts to go high. “They won't leave me alone!” He's squealing now, falling into a heap. Willie tries to hold him up, but he isn't ready and Jack is heavy. They both topple. Behind them in the crowd, Willie hears
someone chastising Joel for his remark, but Joel says something about the kid's mother and the crowd begins to break. Secretly, though Willie feels bad for Jack, he's glad someone did something—anything—to break up the game. At the rate he was scoring, it could have gone on forever, and he felt more and more naked as it continued.

“Willie, could I see you in the office for a minute?” It's Lisa.

“Sure. Just…a…sec.”

“Whenever you're ready.”

Willie walks into the office as Lisa kicks André out. “I need to talk to Willie,” she says. “Alone. Why don't you go out back and flush out some dope fiends, or something else useful?”

André slaps her on the butt on his way out and she whirls around in mock anger. “In your wildest dreams,” she says and leads Willie on in.

Lisa sits in André's chair and motions for Willie to sit in the chair next to the desk. “Pretty embarrassing out there, I guess,” she says.

Willie nods. “I…guess…so.”

“I thought you weren't going to join PE yet.”

He shrugs. “Just…watching. Jack…”

Lisa nods, thinking. “You protect the ball. Ball-handling's not bad, all things considered.
You've played before.”

“Yeah. A…long time…ago.”

“How old are you?”

“Almost…seventeen.”

“Couldn't have been too long ago, then.”

“Seems…like it,” Willie says.

Lisa stands up thoughtfully and walks around the desk, sits on the corner and pulls a knee up under her chin. “Your condition is new, right?”

Willie looks puzzled.

“You weren't born like this.”

Willie smiles and looks down. “No. I…wasn't…born like…this.”

“How long ago?” Lisa asks.

“Less…than…a year.”

“Have you had any therapy?”

“I had…this…counselor…”

“No, I mean physical therapy. Has anybody worked with you on physical rehabilitation?”

“I…did some…exercises,” Willie says. “And…I run…some.”

Lisa nods. “Yeah. That's not what I mean. Look, I'm studying for a Master's in Recreational Therapy and I've studied a lot of physical therapy, too. Actually, sports medicine. Would you be willing to try some
things with me? Rehab things?”

Willie shrugs. “Sure. But…I…can't…pay…or anything.”

Lisa laughs. “No,” she says. “This will be as much for me as you. You get the benefit, I get a paper. Like a partnership.”

Willie says that sounds good and starts to get up to leave, but Lisa stops him. “Stand there a second,” she says and walks over. “Do you know where your center is?”

Willie remembers watching the kids at the beginning of PE. He points just above his navel. “Here…I…guess.”

Lisa puts her hands on his shoulders to square them, then stands back. “Probably not,” she says. “That probably was your center at one time, but—” she looks closer, squinting—“not now. Close your eyes.”

Willie obeys.

“Now stand there and relax,” she says, and Willie's left shoulder slides down a little, pushing the rest of his left side down with it. “Okay,” Lisa says, “now let all the tension drain out through your feet; the only muscles you're using are those you need to stand there.”

Willie relaxes more.

“Let it drain,” she says. “All the tension is liquid and it's running out the bottoms of your feet.”

Willie pictures a thick, dark liquid moving through his body toward gravity; his body relaxes more.

“Now put both arms out in front of you, with your fingers touching.” Willie does as he's told. “And bring them back to what feels like the center of your body. Not what
looks
like the center; what
feels
like the center.”

Willie's fingertips go directly to the place.

“Now open your eyes and look at it,” Lisa says, and Willie looks down to the spot—which is significantly to the right of his navel and a little higher than he would have expected.

“That's the spot,” Lisa says. “What you want to do now is, any time you're doing something physical, especially athletic, move your entire body from that place. In other words, move that place first and let your body follow.” She gets up and slaps him on the butt. “That'll help.”