So I started slipping out for some hoops. But it was not the same as I liked it, the same as it had been. I could not get out until after dinner had been made and we ate, which by that time it was dusk, being late fall and the days getting shorter. I was lucky to get out even at dusk and no darker, because Henri and Maurice let me off any cleaning up, taking over so I could be free to scoot out.
I did not have time to go all the way to my court in the woods, far away across the marshes. That court was also darker than others at night, because those evergreens were still thick in the winter surrounding the court and blocked out all possible light until it was black as a hole. I would have had more time later at night to play and could have taken the trip across the marshes and all, but by then everything was completely dark everywhere.
So I found myself the lightest possible court at the time of day I could play, and where I could be alone. When you have only an hour you do not want to be wasting it shooting at the same basket with clutzes talking and juking and wanting to play Around The World. You want to practice.
The place I found was this old tar half court in the other direction from town, which you find if you walk through the poor part of colored town and suddenly you are out where nobody lives anymore. There are not even any streets, and the only things alive are a few wild dogs but the bouncing ball scares them for some reason, and I was glad of that.
There used to be a school out here and the court was for the school kids, a county school but it burned down years ago. Now there is only the old black busted foundation pieces sticking up out of the ground looking like the rotten teeth of Old Man Earth.
There is never anybody there. Even if everyone knew about the court they would not come. The burnt place is scary and still smells funny and some kids were burned in the fire and probably people think their ghosts are there or hogwash like that. The court is out in the open with nothing for miles it seems, so you get the moonlight clear but the winds too, and it can get pretty cold.
The other thing that probably keeps kids away is the railroad track. The train that comes down from Washington DC to Florida comes right by the side of the court, maybe twenty-five feet away. It really wails when it blows through and makes a draft that sucks your shots off center, but so what? You can wait it out. It is gone in a few seconds.
So this is where I shot. It was not what I wanted, but it was a rim and a chain net and a ball to bounce on the hard tar. Every night I would run upstairs and put on my gray sweat suit which Maurice had brought me from when he went up to have an interview with his college. It was pretty big on me, but I grew and will grow yet. It has a hood and on the back in dark green the words PROPERTY OF BOSTON CELTICS. Then, on the front, like it was hardly worth noticing, there is a small green circle with the number 6 left out so it shows gray through the green. Just a little old 6, no big deal, but of course it is supposed to make people who know think that this is Bill Russell’s practice suit, while other kids must be running around in suits belonging to number 38 or 72 or 5. Of course this is just foolishness, there being probably two thousand of these suits with 6 on it, and anyone could never think it was Russell’s anyway, he being very large and people like me quite small. All the same, I liked the suit and it was nice of Maurice.
Then I would look in on Momma and say I was off to shoot and act all excited, which I was not that much, on account of that ugly old court. But still it was basketball and I was alone again, my body getting lighter and faster while I ran out of colored town, throwing a couple of fakes at trees to see how I moved off the shift, snapping my wrists and the cold air smelling like you could take a handful and crackle it like sycamore leaves.
My routine was to shoot as long as I could still see the hoop clearly, and then for the last fifteen minutes or so while it was getting darker to practice passes off the run. The way you do this is, you are dribbling and you make your move and draw your man but then instead of firing it up you whip the ball away from the direction you are looking or behind my back or something, to the open man underneath. The way you tell if you made the good pass is if you hit the metal pole holding up the backboard. It makes a good noise PONG if you smack it center, and a little TING if you nick it, which counts too. You can tell your pass was good even when it is dark, and probably it is even better to practice passing in the dark because you will often want to make passes while not looking in a game.
Most kids do not practice passing when they play by themselves, only shoot shoot shoot. Most people do not have any idea what you are doing when you cut loose of the ball while driving with the obvious intention of gunning it up—though that is just the point, looking like you are going to pop but instead you dish it and it’s a snowbird for the dude under. A pass is a sharp gift to a shooter.
One day I invented a new pass to practice just before I had to leave. That happens—you do something new out of a sudden feeling and then you see that it could work if you got it down, maybe changed a little motion or put something new in, and this is very exciting. But I had to leave before nailing this new pass technique, and I thought about it all the next day, itching to get back and work it out. So when I got to the court that evening I did not start with shooting, but went straight into my pass.
It was a pass slung off the backhand dribble, and very tricky. I drift off slowly to the left from the top of the key, stutter step, speed up and beat my man left and it is obvious I am going up to slip the five-foot lay-up off the boards just an iota ahead of him catching up. But I slow down at the last minute and let him catch up and then with him in the air I snap the ball backhand to the low post. It’s complicated, lots of pieces, and no room for showing off though there are several places where you make your man think you are doing something you will not. I was really working hard at these pieces, going over everything bit by bit, caring more about getting each step right and in tune, often going through the other steps sloppy until I could get to them in turn.
After a while I was getting the pieces together, and getting so I could repeat the whole process, which is a big important point for getting these little genius things under control. I drove stuttered speeded slowed and whipped, and I started nailing that pole PONG TING TING TING, crisp and clean sounding. It was still light out too.
I heard the train coming, but paid no mind, being at that important point of putting it together. I even heard it slowing down and stopping, but did not bother to check it out. The trains did that sometimes. There is a switch yard just on the other side of Wilmington and I guess the men there radio out to this engineer and tell him to take it easy if they are backed up there, and he cuts his speed or even stops and kills a few minutes if he needs to, until they radio him Come on in. Big deal. A train is a train. I kept practicing.
Then this voice, a real teasy colored whine, came wailing out of the train—Hey boy, it said, it works better if you put the ball through the hoop instead of chucking it at the pole.
Then the voice laughed and another voice sounded like a kid laughed with it but a little behind and too loud like a dumb kid that did not get the big funny joke but just went along anyway.
I ignored whoever it was. I was at a big moment, working out my stutter step and slipping the ball from my right across to my left in front, which is when a sharp defender can swipe the sucker without blinking an eye. I had to get it just so quick he would barely see it. I practiced it about five times very fast, just the stutter step switch drib, stutter step switch drib, again again again. The voice came back.
Look here folks, here’s a colored can’t even dance!
There was a murmur from more people, some chuckling. I finished my series and went through the whole move. My pass missed the post.
Now I had to chase the ball toward the train, so I thought I might as well look up and see who was doing all this jiving. If you ignore somebody too much it is worse than looking at them.
There was a black man in a blue uniform with a stiff blue cap and black bill pushed back off his forehead, leaning out the top half of a window in the train. Those train windows work funny, you can open only the top. This dude was leaning there, his elbows hanging out, hat shoved back, a toothpick wiggling in his lips, very sassy. He looked about twenty I guess, maybe older, hard to tell in a uniform. At the rest of the windows stretching back off to his right were all these white faces looking out at me, all these northern city people sitting there comfy as bugs on a dog, with their mouths closed and little smiles on their faces, on their way down to Florida to get a suntan and suck up some o.j., riding this nice train on a winter’s day and getting a little extra entertainment from a little nigger outside and a big nigger inside.
Who cared about them. I’m not shy. They did not seem mean, just sort of foolish sitting there like watching television. But that cocky ticket puncher or whatever he was, the jigaboo with the big-time stripe on his pants and cap with a badge, he was irritating and I had to try hard to make myself ignore his act. I got the ball and went back to the court.
I guess I did not ignore him completely, for I gave up on the passing, which looked kind of silly, and commenced to shoot a bit, which I knew looked better. I popped a few jumpers, showing I knew where the ball should go, then put on a couple of hanging spin moves down the lane and banked in a deuce, flipped a reverse under the boards with the left hand, stuff like that, very cool but quick, feeling pretty pleased with myself.
But this dude was set to strut for the crackers so of course he pretended not to be impressed. He said, Pretty easy to look superbad when you play with yourself.
Some of the crackers tittered when he said play with yourself. I hit a jump hook.
If you cannot play with yourself, I said, you cannot play with other people. Then I missed a double pump from the lane.
You make a better phi-los-o-pher than you do a hoop player, he said. He pretended the word philosopher gave him all kinds of trouble, like poor woolly-headed niggers never had call to use such smart big words and were out of their league. The crackers loved it. They laughed while he acted struck with himself.
I kept shooting, but he did not let me alone. He started doing the most bush thing you can, which is yell Short! or Off left! when somebody lets fly a shot. He hollered and was right a couple of times though wrong the more, but the white folks did not notice his percentage, laughing all along like he was such an expert. So, annoyed and mad at him for being such a coon as much as for messing up my game, I walked over toward the train.
As I came closer his eyes got a little thin and crafty, watching me for tricks, and the white people looked quite alarmed behind their glass like they had never been this close to a wild country jig before and I might just eat them if I got a whiff of how delicious they smelled. The colored ticket puncher’s toothpick stopped wiggling when I stopped walking and faced him.
Okay big man, I said. Let’s get it.
Then I snapped a chest pass at him hard as I could snap it WHAM! smack against the plate glass window’s lower half he was leaning on, right between his hanging elbows. I guess I knew the plate glass would not break but it was crazy to do anyway, so I must have been mad out of the usual control. The window shook terribly and the crackers all jumped back from theirs and said Ooh! But the ticket puncher handled himself better. He hardly moved. He must have wanted to jump back by instinct like anyone would, but he hung in there and looked the tougher for it like I could not faze him. My ball bounced right back to me and I caught it and stuck it on my hip.
You maybe asking for a game? he said quietly, raising his brows and jerking his chin at me.
If that’s what will shut you up, I said. He smiled, and the toothpick commenced to jiggle again. You could see he was glad I was the country savage again and him the civilized shine. It burned me up.
As to your in-vie-tation, he said, I am on duty and must regret to say I decline. A man must do his duty.
Sure, I said. Plus there’s your pretty sailor suit. A man like you does not want to go getting his pants uncreased.
A couple of the white folks laughed. I was not especially trying to get them on my side or anything, but I was not sorry to get a nod or two.
You’re a smart little black Sambo, ain’t you? the puncher said.
Yes, I said. So get your bad tiger self out here and let me make some butter, I said.
He looked at me for a second and then snapped his fingers. Immediately this big black kid popped up beside him. The kid was probably fifteen and tall, and he had that fake mean stare that city slicks come up with because they think it is the opposite of looking like soft country folk.
This is Bobo, said the uniform dude. Say hello, Bobo.
Bobo did not say hello.
Bobo, said the dude, is a star forward on the Takoma Park Junior High triple-A metropolitan greater Washington league runner-up champion Blue Devils.
Bobo grunted.
I hope Bobo has a wonderful career, I said. I bet the Celtics are already keeping an eye on him and in case they miss no doubt he can repeat the ninth grade until they catch his act.
The dude said, Bobo can kick butt on the hardwood, can you not, Bobo?
Whip your black ass, boy, said Bobo. He said it too low for all the crackers to hear, like this was real dirty talk just between us dirty colored folk.
Well then commence to whipping, Bobes, I said. What are you waiting for? Got to change into your blue devil costume or something? Come on, let’s get it.
Bobo sort of snarled and tried to look like a streetwise alcoholic junkie robber, then started to come over to where the car ended and there was a door, but the ticket punch held him back.
Wait, he said. Just wait a sec. We got to make this more interesting.
I agree, I said. I’ve been bored stiff for ten minutes.
That ain’t what I mean, Sambo. What I mean is, we got to place a little sporting em-pha-sis on this match. He pulled his head back and looked down the length of the car. We got any sporting enthusiasts in here? he yelled with a grin.
Several white men laughed and waved their hands. The dude nodded and made a sign like he would deal with them in a minute.
We got to place some risk and stakes, he said. For the par-ti-ci-pants as well as for the observers. Like, what do you have you want to play for?
Well, of course I had only my ball. So I thought a minute and then said, I have this leather basketball, but I doubt it would be much use to you, seeing as it will not laugh at your very funny lines or respond in any way unless you actually do some work with it.
It was the leather ball Coach Newk lent me. I would not lose it for the world.
The uniform dude snickered. A ball. Country nigger got nothing but a ball to his name. Ain’t you got anything else?
I left my hoe back in the watermelon patch, I said. A few white faces laughed, probably because they thought I meant it.
All right, said the big sporting enthusiast, Bobo here will stand you for your ball. He nodded and Bobo and he made to come out.
Hold on, I said. They stopped. I said, What are YOU going to put up?
Bobo shrugged at the big dude like HE sure had nothing, being just a streetwise junkie alcoholic robber who traveled light and needed only his atmosphere. The uniform dude snapped something at him and Bobo shook his head. They argued a little bit. A couple of the white men made comments like Come on, put something up, or Get on with it we got bets to place and such. A few had money bills in their hands.
What about it? I said.
Okay, okay, said the ticket dude. He looked like he was making a tough decision. He frowned and looked at me, up and down, sizing me up, then looked at Bobo. He decided Bobo’s eight inches height advantage or so must be good enough, and so he pulled out this shiny complicated looking thing and said, We’ll put up this. Then he and Bobo came on out.
When they got out I saw Bobo was bigger than I thought, both taller and fatter. I bounced him the ball to let him warm up. The other dude snatched it away from him and stuck his face close to it with a frown and studied it, like he expected it to be a cardboard cutout of a ball and not a sphere at all. Or to see if it was genuine leather. He even sniffed it.
Okay, I said, let me see your thing.
He said, oh no, no touchee. But he held it up, and I saw that it was a lantern, a beautiful one at that, official railroad issue with a brass plate on it with the name of the railroad and all kinds of tricky looking features, very classy. I said, Okay. He put the lantern down very carefully and bounced the ball to Bobo.
Listen child, he said, pointing into Bobo’s face. You best be winning or you won’t see Florida out of your swole-up eyes. Then he went back inside the car and while Bobo went ahead and warmed I watched the big dude shuffle up and down the aisle of the car, grinning and acting all jive and shucksy, taking money and making bets with the white folks. I could see that he was taking all bets, which the crackers were betting on me. This surprised me at first, but then I realized they probably did not care about throwing their money away. They were stalled on their way to throw it away in Florida, so why not get in a little practice here?
I watched Bobo a little. He was typical hip city coon, real street meat. City kids think they can learn all they need by watching pro games on television and then acting like they are those guys. They hear all the words to say, know whether to call the ball The Pill this year or The Egg, whether it’s cooler to kick yourself in the rear with your feet as you heave your jumpshot or to let your legs hang limp and spread out, very casual. Style, baby. They are so busy watching themselves on TV you can drive right past them while they fool with the fine tuning, and I am afraid that is what happened to old Bobo the blazing Blue Devil. We played make-it-take-it to ten buckets and he did not get his hands on the ball until I had scored seven straight lay-ups. I spun through him, I slipped by him, once I bounced the ball between his legs and dashed around to catch it on the other side of him and took it in for a finger roll while he still had his back to the basket thinking Now where has The Pill got to? He got a rebound once, dribbled out to thirty feet and let fly, kicking himself nicely in the rear but the shot was two feet short and that was it for his offense, as I closed out the game ten-zip. We extended it to twenty buckets and made it alternating possession, but Bobes still could not cut it. He hollered Hey! when I shot and swore horribly when he shot, he hand checked me, he yelled Get glass! when shooting a shot off the boards but none of them went in, perhaps because the backboard was not glass but iron. I slowed down a little, feeling sorry for him and knowing he would catch it from his uncle or whoever the dude was. But then I heard the engine start to stoke and steam, and as I did not want to give that sucker any excuse to short me I went ahead and hit four in a row to win the twenty. During the last few baskets the dude had come right up to courtside, screaming at Bobo to keep a hand in my face or use the bod or back me in or post me low and all this crap, and while Bobo was listening I was flying. I finished him off with one from the top of the key, PISH, just as the train blew its whistle.
That’s it, I said.
The white men inside the car had busted into cheers and were stomping up and down and crowing to beat the train whistle. The dude looked back at them over his shoulder and frowned most dismal. I could see one of his pockets was full of money the white men had placed with him. He must have planned on dropping that wad in Miami but now he would have to match it I guess. His hands were clenching and shaking.
Good game, Bobes, I said.
Bobes said nothing once again but started to slink back to the train. The uniform dude gave him a nasty clip on the top of the head with the back of his hand as he walked past and snarled something and Bobo ran onto the train near about crying.
Well, I said to the dude, you have got me about tired now, in case you want to try your own luck double or naught.
He glared like he was one quiver away from shooting me dead if only he had not left his mighty gun back in DC. But then the train tooted and he looked at it and it started to roll the tiniest bit. When he looked back at me his eyes were crafty and thin again and he smiled this tight little smile and said, See you later, jigaboo. Have a good life here in Uncle Tom’s Cabinville. Then he picked up the lantern and ran back toward the train, which was beginning to pick up speed.
Hey! I yelled. That lantern is mine! I can use it!
Kiss off, Buckwheats, he said. You be too dumb to get what’s yours.
I ran after him but he had a start on me and by now he was pulling even with the door platform and I could see him setting up to jump on from the run, and I would never see him or my lantern again. Bobo was inside the door reaching out to take the lantern or help his jive uncle on board even though he had just got smacked on the head with his back turned, which shows how bright poor Bobes is.
But then Bobo disappeared, jerked back out of the door, and two white men stepped onto the platform and blocked the way. The uniform dude was by now sprinting full speed and so was I, but he was getting tired, and keeping alongside the train going that fast and faster was getting dangerous.
Hey, he said.
Give the kid the pretty flashlight, said one of the men. They were both bald and overweight, wearing white belts and red pants and these shoes that were woven out of straw or something, but they looked like they meant business and were also having fun, which made them look even tougher.
The big-time bookie was panting by now and sweating bad, running almost full speed and barely keeping up with the train. I was gaining a little on him, but not on the train, which began to pull away.
Hey, he screamed. Come on. Let me on.
The kid won the lantern fair and square, one of the white men said. Cough it up.
I work here, the dude said. The men just smiled. You could see they would let him run clear to Florida and love it.
Give it to him, they said.
It’s railroad property, he screamed, stumbling a little toward the train and hollering like a girl in fright as he went near the wheels. I ran smoother on the grass beside the gravel track bed.
Not anymore it isn’t, the shorter man said. The other one looked at his watch and shrugged like as to say, Amazing you’ve made it this long, but soon we’ll be leaving you behind.
Help! screamed the poor nigger.
Toot toot! said one man. Chugga choo choo! said the other.
The sucker was almost exhausted. His hat suddenly whipped back off his head and flew under the wheels and got mashed but quick, and he turned his ankle and gasped and sweated, and nothing was going quite right anymore was it?
If you’re still here when we come back through next week, said one man, we’ll bring you an orange.
Choo choo, said the other, making a motion like pulling a whistle, and the whistle actually tooted. The both of them laughed at this, while the sucker was losing ground faster now and me too.
All right! he screamed but his voice cracked and it sounded silly. He looked back at me quick but hateful and in full stride tried to throw the lantern to the ground but he put too much loft on it on account of the motion and I was able to run right under it and catch it without hurting a thing. I looked up as I slowed down, and saw the men helping him aboard plenty fast now and none too gentle. After all, he had all their money and they would rather he did not stay behind, which he was too nasty to recall or perhaps could have driven a harder bargain. Maybe not, though—I think those white men would have made him come across with the lantern no matter what.
I slowed down and finally stopped, hugging the lantern to keep from jostling or dropping it. Then I went back to the court to get my ball, and sat down on it to rest for a minute and look at my new prize.
The lantern was heavy and rich-looking and beautiful. It was enameled, very hard and thick, looking like the finish on Sting Shields’s Thunderbird car that he polishes all day Saturday and Sunday and tells how much he paid to have it lacquered up in Raleigh. The glass was thick and had a few bubbles in it but this only made it look like good real glass instead of cheap stuff.
There was a gold plate on it, or maybe brass I suppose. It said CHESAPEAKE AND DELAWARE and then a little lower there was a date, 1911. Man, this thing was fifty years old!
The last thing I studied was the best. It was a sort of folding shield that slipped over the glass globe, either over half or all of it, which I guessed meant you could cover it up and let half the light out or none if you wanted to sneak. That knocked me out.
On the way home I carried my ball in one hand on my hip and in the other the lantern, swinging. It was heavy but not when you held it right, being so balanced that it swung in your hand just as you stepped and you never really felt it at all.
When I got home I showed it to Henri and Maurice and Momma, telling them all the story. Momma said what I was afraid of, that I ought to take it back to the railroad depot and give it up, as I won it without that man having the right to let me have it.
But then Maurice cleared his throat and looked very serious and said he disagreed with Momma. He said that I had competed in moral correctness and good faith not impeached by improper wagers on the part of my opponent’s agent, and to deprive me on the basis of another man’s deception of his trust would possibly serve to tip my perspective on material versus moral values. Then Mo cleared his throat again and we all sat for a second trying to figure what he said and I blurted out that for once I agreed with him.
He is right, Momma, I said.
You have no idea what he said, she said.
He said I won it fair and square and will get all wrongheaded if you take it away.
She looked at Mo and he tried to look fifty years old and she looked at Henri and he was trying not to laugh, as Mo’s big numbers always kill him. Then she looked at me. What do you want with a lantern? she said.
Light, I said. What else?
All right, she said. Heaven help us for receiving stolen property.
I clapped my hands and slapped Maurice five though I had to pull his hand out flat to do it. Henri cleared his throat and congratulated Momma on a Crisis Averted in my childhood.
Now let me get some sleep, said Momma. And Jerome, I do not want to see that light coming out from under your door at night.
Only place anybody’s going to see this light is on a little basketball court in the woods, I said. Good night all.