Pacific Northwest––2017
I’d crashed dirt bikes, been bucked off green horses, fallen out of trees, and even rolled an ATV down a hundred-foot embankment once. But when six-foot-three, 220-pound Gregory Parsons ploughed into me as I jumped to make a three-pointer, I figured that I might’ve learned what it was like to be struck by a speeding truck.
Although I wasn’t a 100 percent certain because it happened so fast, it felt like I flipped head over heels before my back thudded on the basketball court’s asphalt, blowing the wind from my body and the light from my eyes.
A mighty din roared in my ears as I regained my senses. Blurry, misshapen faces hovered over me, faces that looked like they were reflected in a funhouse mirror. They slowly clarified as the din in my ears faded, their bodies forming. It was Simon and Colby, my two teammates, staring down at me. We were directly under the basketball net, the court’s lights shining brightly, hurting the eyes in my throbbing skull.
And for some reason––maybe the intense pain and those lights overhead––I thought of the time I’d broken my right arm during a game of flag football. My seventh-grade teacher, Mr. Campbell, had driven me to the hospital where a doctor plastered my arm in a cast, in a town whose name I’d forgotten, like so many of the others.
Then there was laughter off to my left, lots of it. The spiteful kind, causing my face to warm. I pushed aside the pain. I rolled onto my side, even as Colby and Simon, with voices and hands, told me to lie still. Even though they’d only known me six months, they knew what I wanted to do.
People were shouting from our bleachers, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying or maybe at that point I just didn’t care. Mr. Conroy strode toward me, the basketball under his arm. Carol’s face and hands were pleading for me to stay down. But I figured I’d been down long enough.
The St. Michael’s team was standing huddled together, high-fiving and carrying on with laughter. Of course at the center of the revelry was Parsons, a smirk on his face as if proud of his hard foul. He basked in the attention from his team and their supporters. St. Michael’s three subs and a flock of girls that I’d seen at previous games stepped onto court. They leaned in close to one another, talking excitedly and giggling, like they’d absolutely enjoyed the hit and were waiting to see what would happen next, as though it was some spectacle.
A firm hand clasped my shoulder and stopped me before I could take another step toward Parsons. Before he turned me around, I knew it was Conroy. He placed his other hand on my other shoulder, leveling his eyes at me, like he did when he was serious and really, really wanted you to listen.
“Enough, cowboy, last thing you need tonight,” he said.
Ignoring his words, I tried to jerk free but his hands were clamps. I wanted Parsons as badly as I’d ever wanted anyone before. Though I knew––even heated up as I was––the boys from St. Michael’s would try to protect their captain, their leader. Nodding, I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I instantly tasted blood: sweat and coppery. Then, as soon as Conroy let me go, I made my move.
I turned and dashed toward Parsons, who was too busy boasting, unaware that I was headed straight for him. I closed the distance with the speed of a starving cougar zeroing in on its first meal in days. By the time the St. Michael’s boys spotted me, they didn’t have enough time to prepare a defensive position. I leapt, thudding into shoulders and stirring cries, and collided with Parsons.
We both went down hard, cursing and clutching at each other. People were shouting. Then body after body dog-piled me, and with each successive one, more weight added until I was gasping for air, feeling intense pressure building on my upper torso. It felt like my sternum was about to crack wide open and splay out like week-old roadkill. Tiny flashes danced in my vision, and for the second time within a minute, my world went black, very black.
When I came around this time, no one was on top of me, no distorted teammates’ faces hovering, or basketball net high above. I was spread-eagle on my back, on my own. The first thing I heard was my heart reverberating loudly in my skull, and then a voice off to the right, Mr. Bobbitt’s, the St. Michael’s coach: “Every single time your boys play, something like this happens, Conroy––every time! To the point where I might need to hire security for our friendly three-on-threes. All because your boys can’t control themselves.”
“Friendly? You’d have to bury your head in the sand to miss the fouls your players make,” said Conroy, gesturing his free hand like he did when he was all worked up, “and Parsons tried to cut him in half.”
“It’s called the competitive edge,” said Mr. Bobbitt, hands on his hips, face-to-face with Conroy.
The boys from St. Michael’s were walking toward their bleachers. A large group of twenty-five or so supporters had begun to step down to praise their win. The score had been 45-45, with only a few seconds remaining when I’d taken my jump shot. A basket would’ve secured the win for Halton House, making it our second win in the eleven games we’d played against St. Michael’s over the previous four months.
I pushed my aching body to my feet and began to slowly limp toward our bleachers, where Colby and Simon were sitting beside Conroy’s two nieces, Anna and Tabby. The St. Michael’s janitor, Mr. Wilkes, stood at the end of our bleachers, leaning on a wooden push broom next to a steel garbage can. Whenever we played, Mr. Wilkes watched from the sidelines near our bleachers, puttering around like a non-entity. No one seemed to notice him there, except for me, and definitely not his school’s team.
As I limped, I heard Conroy and Mr. Bobbitt still going at each other. “Anything like this happens again,” said Mr. Bobbitt. “I’ll inform the City Council––your crew of misfits will be done this year instead of next year.”
Misfits? That was new. Troubled youth, wayward youth, juvenile delinquents, troublemakers, even hellions once, but I’d never heard us boys at Halton House referred to as “misfits.” And what did he mean by finished this year instead of next year?
“Educate your team on sportsmanship. You know––that thing called coaching,” said Conroy, chest-passing the basketball to Mr. Bobbitt, with just a little too much force.
I sat on the bench. Mr. Bobbitt scowled and shook his head like he always did, as if disgusted. Then he spun around and marched toward the St. Michael’s bleachers. Parsons trotted out to meet him halfway. The two spoke in hushed voices. Parsons glared at me, flipped me the bird. Even from a distance, I could hear them chuckling. This was a Catholic team, from a Catholic school? When Parsons and Mr. Bobbitt arrived at their bleachers, players and supporters thronged them, patting them on the back like they’d saved a family from a burning house, or beat a pack of “misfits” in a basketball game.
Our bleachers, on the other hand, were as somber and silent as a graveyard at midnight. Colby and Simon’s heads were lowered, looking down into their gym bags, defeated, and totally demoralized. Once again.
“You gonna live?” said Conroy, suddenly beside me.
“Yeah, guess it was pretty stupid going after him like that,” I said.
Conroy was quiet for a moment. “Come on,” he said, “let’s get out of here before both of us get piled on.”
St. Michael’s bleachers emptied as they headed out to their vehicles in the parking lot, still celebrating their victory.
“I take it you didn’t hear me warning you about Parsons?” said Conroy.
“Nah, just heard screams,” I said, leaning forward to untie my Reeboks.
“For Catholics they’re awfully angry,” said Mr. Wilkes, removing a bag from a garbage can. “Make you think it was UFC, not basketball.”
“Romans did build coliseums for gladiators,” said Simon.
“Where’d that come from?” said Colby.
“You know, Roman Catholics––gladiators––UFC.”
“Roman Catholics didn’t build coliseums,” said Anna. “Roman emperors first built what were called amphitheaters before Catholicism––at the time they worshiped gods like Apollo, Mercury, and Neptune––then they went on to build coliseums.”
“What are you talking about?” said Simon.
“One of her egghead comments she always making,” said Colby. “Always correcting everything––how you know all this shit anyhow?”
Anna shrugged, not bothering to answer him.
I swiped the imbedded gravel from my knee and shin, arousing a sting. A scrape ran the length of my lower leg––red, raw, and deep––and I wondered if I’d have another scar to add to the dozens of others on my body. The scars that caused one of my mother’s friends to say she was glad I didn’t belong to her.
Colby sucked his teeth, and said, “Told you it was stupid to go after pretty-boy Parsons.”
“Thanks for watching out,” I said, kicking off my shoe. “Nice of you both to have my back. Way to be teammates.”
“You knew Parsons was gunning for you, jughead,” said Colby, pouring some bottled water onto his gym towel, to wipe clean his prized Nike Airmaxes.
“No way they’d let us win again,” said Simon. “Remember how devastated they were last time we kicked their ass? So much steam came out of Bobbitt’s head, I thought he was going to blast off to the space station.”
“Bobbitt’s a meatball,” said Colby. He and Simon fist-bumped
Tabby tittered, and said, “A giant meatball.” Conroy gave her a disapproving look.
I tugged off my knee brace. “And so what? I’m supposed to sprout a big all-seeing eyeball in the back of my head? That’s what my teammates are for. Watch my back. Make sure jerks don’t wallop me.”
“Okay, guys, let’s simmer down,” said Conroy. He stood in front of us. “We’ll get them next time.”
Colby stuffed his towel into his gym bag. “You say that same crap every time. And we never get them next time. We lose, lose, lose. We gonna lose next time too––team of losers.” He sucked his teeth again, and I was sure if his skin wasn’t so black, he’d be flushed red. He picked up his gym bag and stormed off toward the parking lot.
Conroy began to say something to Colby, when Carol stepped off the bleachers. “I’ll talk to him. Meet you guys at the van,” she said in her motherly tone.
I tossed my knee brace into my gym bag and watched them leave. She’d been babying him more than usual over the last few weeks. Family problems back in Detroit, something to do with an aunt whose boyfriend sold a bunch of her things to pay a gambling debt, real inner-city-drama-type stuff.
“He’s pouting like he’s the one who got creamed and almost crushed to death,” said Simon.
“He’s always a grump,” said Anna. She stepped down from the bleachers, her gym-bag-sized maroon Gucci purse slung over her shoulder. As always, she worked her iPhone, texting or surfing or playing a brain game or whatever else she did. It baffled me how she could remain so focused on that little screen while at the same time walk, talk, and shop. Sometimes all three at once without lifting her eyes.
“Grump. More like a grouch,” said Tabby.
“Hey, enough, guys,” said Conroy. “Let’s grab our gear and hit the road.”
“You think Hena’s going to give birth to her colt tonight?” said Tabby.
“Might’ve happened already. Barley Charlie’ll take care of her,” I said, and I stood up with my gym bag.
“We’ll call Charlie on the drive home,” said Conroy, “find out how he’s making out.”
Simon had put on his Skull Candy headphones already. He began walking beside me, gym bag dangling by his knee. Across the courts in the far parking lot, where St. Michael’s parked, a silver BMW SUV was the last vehicle leaving.
“Why do you think they park so far away from us all the time?” said Simon, fixed on the BMW’s rear end.
“Maybe they don’t want us contaminating their vehicles,” I said.
“They probably think you’ll steal them,” said Anna.
“And you know this because?” I said.
“Because those are her type of people––rich and stuck-up,” said Simon jokingly.
“Okay, okay,” said Conroy. “Let’s go.” He zipped up his green army duffel bag and put his arm around Tabby’s shoulder and followed us. We drifted toward the parking lot. As we left, Mr. Wilkes was picking up garbage under the St. Michael’s bleachers with a garbage picker. I gave a wave as we passed through the gate, unsure if he’d seen me at first until he looked up and waved back.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. You don’t need to prove yourself to anyone,” said Conroy. “Besides, the past is where we’ve been––”
“And the future is where we’re going,” I said, finishing the saying. Conroy loved his quotes, sayings, and proverbs. He owned books and books of them from which I’d learned dozens since arriving at Halton House.
“You’re getting good with those,” he said proudly.
“Maybe not good enough.”