Rucker Park Setup

SPIDER’S HAWKING ME all over the court. He thinks he’s the shit and that he’s got my number. I hate that everybody else is probably thinking that, too. He’s way up in my face, and I finally shove him off to get free. That’s when Stove blows his whistle and shoots an arm straight out to show everybody what I did.

“Good call, ref! Good call!” yells Fat Anthony, clapping his hands. “That Mustard must be piss-yellow now!”

Spider takes the ball out on the sideline next to Fat Anthony, with me guarding him. I can see the sweat on Anthony’s neck and the flesh flapping under his chin when he opens his mouth. Then Fat Anthony lifts his eyes up to mine. He knows exactly what I am inside, and how it took just five hundred bucks for me to sell out my team.

“Don’t you talk to a player on another team,” says Stove, straight to Anthony’s face. “I’m warning you, I won’t let you disgrace this game.”

“I’m talkin’ to my kid! You hear me? My kid!” explodes Fat Anthony. “Don’t get between me and my players, Stove!”

“You get a second technical, you’ll be out of this game,” Stove warns him. “I’ll make you leave the park.”

“I already showed you once how I set traps for rats, Fat Man,” snarls Greene. “Keep away from my boyz, ’cause next time I settle up with you!”

His words rip right through me. I’m shaking all over, and if I could, I’d curl up on the court, crying my eyes out like a little baby.

Stove steps back from Fat Anthony to look at me good. I know he heard everything out of Greene’s mouth, and I can see his eyes turn to fire.

I wish I could jump into Stove’s arms. I’d hug him tight and bury my face in his chest. I’d tell him how he’s been like my second pops. That J.R. was my blood brother, and I’ll never have another friend like him. But he’d probably spit in my face and tell me how he hated my guts. That I don’t deserve to call anybody family.

Non-Fiction brings the ball up court, and my mind’s everywhere but on the game. Spider’s cutting back and forth, and I just follow him. I’m almost numb inside, and only my legs are still strong. So I keep on running, trying to hold my balance.

Spider’s set in front of me, and I want to slap the confidence right off his face. I throw my feet into high gear. He bites hard at every fake, and the crowd roars as I make him dance.

“Spider needs a new pair of socks,” says Acorn. “He just got juked out of his.”

I can’t look anybody in the face, so I watch the ball get passed around, and the seconds slip off the clock.

The next time Kodak touches the rock, he dribbles straight into the teeth of our defense. There’s nothing in his eyes but basketball. No fear. No thinking. Nothing. And I’m jealous to my bones. Then Kodak plants a foot and pulls up. The defense slides past him, and he lets loose a one-handed floater that finds the bottom of the basket.

“Good gracious! That boy’s in the Zone!” blasts Acorn. “This game’s all even.”

The Zone’s a place where your mind and body are on the exact same wavelength. You make moves without thinking about them, and everything’s natural and pure.

A thousand things can creep into a shooter’s head and screw him up—the defense, the crowd, or anything you carry onto the court with you. You start thinking about every part of your stroke and get thrown off. But when you’re in the Zone, you might as well be on the court alone, because nothing can get close to you. It’s just you and the basket. There’s no pressure, and everything just flows like it’s supposed to.

But I know I’ll never find that feeling again. Not on a basketball court. Not anywhere.

I pass the ball off to one of our guys, then he pushes it right back at me. It happens again with the next kid, and I feel like I’m playing Hot Potato.

One of our kids steps up and sets a solid screen on Spider. I pop free, with a wide-open shot staring me in the face.

I raise up to shoot, but none of it comes natural. It’s like there’s a hundred pieces to my stroke, and I got to build one on top of the other. My eyes are zeroed in on the front of the rim. But just before I release the rock, everything I’ve done flashes through my mind in fast-forward. Then, before I can blink, it’s gone with the shot.

The ball hits iron and goes straight up in the air. Everybody’s fighting for position, and Kodak presses his body up against mine to block me off from the basket. When the ball can’t go any higher, I see the seams stop spinning. It floats down, and falls through the heart of the basket, without even jiggling the net.

I stay in front of Kodak and try to cut him off from the ball. If he’s in the Zone, I don’t want him bringing that at me, because I got nothing inside me to stand up against it now.

Non-Fiction misses their next shot, and I chase down the rebound. Spider comes flying at me, and Kodak, too. They’re both right on top of me, with their arms straight up. I’m trapped in the corner and can’t see past. I bring the rock into my stomach to protect it. It feels like it weighs a ton, and it’s all I can do to hold on. Then I feel myself falling out-of-bounds.

“Heads-up play, Mustard. You saved us a possession,” says Mitchell, walking me back to the bench.

“The championship and more!” says Greene, putting a fist into the chest of every kid coming off the court.

But when it’s my turn, I close my eyes and try to shut out every word. Then I feel the bump from his fist, and it’s like getting shoved out of a nightmare into something even worse.

Mitchell’s telling everybody what he wants us to do. Only I’m still not listening to anything outside of my heart beating.

Junkyard Dog squeezes my shoulder, like everything he ever wanted was riding on me now. I look down, and J.R.’s initials are staring back at me from everybody’s kicks. Then Mitchell breaks the huddle and looks me in the eye.

“Mustard, all the real hot dogs are sitting in the stands wishing they were playing for the championship,” he says. “You’re a leader. These kids look up to you ’cause you got the guts to go out there for you and J.R.”

“And don’t let that fat fucker get in your ear,” says Greene, getting in front of my face. “I’m countin’ on you to be my boy.”

I look into Greene’s shades and see my reflection—one in each eye. I don’t know which one is Mackey, and which is Hold the Mustard. I don’t know how they got split like that, or if they were ever both the same. I just know that I can’t stand the sight of either one of them.

Stove comes back from the scorer’s table holding a silver stopwatch. Then he calls Fat Anthony and Mitchell together.

“Coaches, I’m not confident in the way that clock’s been moving,” says Stove, showing them the face of the watch in his hand. “I’m gonna keep the time on the court, too, to check it. I just want you to understand that in the end, my time’s what we’re gonna live by.”

I step back onto the middle of the court, but nothing’s changed for me. None of the clocks have moved a second, and it’s like I’m still trapped in that corner of the court.