Chapter 10

Setting a Roster

We needed a name for our tournament team. In the four or so months we’d been playing together as a unit, we’d never once considered calling ourselves anything.

“How about ‘Those Five Guys’?” suggested Angelo when we met the next afternoon at the courts beneath the Triborough Bridge.

No one argued against it, so it stuck.

Our only problem was that we couldn’t go into a tournament with just five players. Not even if we wanted to. The minimum number of players on the sign-up sheet was eight per team.

There would probably be some leftover players from the Proving Ground. Ones who weren’t asked to be on that squad. Only none of us wanted to run with those guys on our team and have people think we couldn’t win without them.

Monk knew a college star who was home for the summer.

“He’d probably be the best player in the tournament,” said Monk. “We’d have to build our game around his.”

“Do you want to ride the bench? Give him your spot in the starting lineup?” asked Hot Rod, before Monk shook his head.

Nobody wanted to sit, especially for a stranger.

“I know some guys who were a year behind me at Saint Demetrios,” said Angelo. “You’ve seen them. They’ve played against us here, under the bridge.”

“They’re younger and probably only know how to play nice-nice ball,” said Jumbo.

“Could you invite them to the Proving Ground on Saturday?” I asked Angelo. “Just to see if they can stand the heat.”

In the back of my mind, I could hear the voice of that guy who wanted to test Reggie and me. And I knew I was almost parroting him.

“I’ll give them a call and find out,” said Angelo.

“And if they don’t work out, we can write their names on the roster anyway,” said Hot Rod. “They wouldn’t have to know.”

“That doesn’t sound legit,” said Monk. “We could get into trouble.”

“With who?” mocked Jumbo. “The basketball police?”

 

* * *

Saturday morning at the Proving Ground, a teenage girl in basketball shorts and sweat socks stood on the sideline. She was there with two guys who I figured were her older brothers, because the three of them looked alike. Between games she came onto the court with them and drained a bunch of jump shots.

“You’ve got some nice rotation on that ball. But you need more arc,” said Pirate, who didn’t get a verbal response from her, just a slight nod.

“Stacey’s going to be a senior next year,” said her biggest brother. “She’s a scoring machine. She’ll get a college basketball scholarship for sure.”

A half hour later, their group of three on the sideline had grown to five. Then it was their turn to play.

The previous game had been won by a squad of Pirate, Reggie, Jumbo, Monk, and me.

“I’d better guard her, Pets,” said Monk to me privately. “Can you imagine Reggie, even by accident, knocking her into a fence?”

“She’s all yours,” I said.

I didn’t want to be the one to check her. It was a losing proposition. A guy was supposed to stop a girl on the court. So all you could do was look bad if she scored in your face.

“You’re guarding the girl?” Pirate questioned Monk. “She’s here to put on a show. Make sure that doesn’t happen. I’m not looking to sit next game.”

Reggie added, “This is an equal-opportunity country. But that doesn’t mean she gets a free pass out here. Make her earn everything.”

“Of course,” said Monk, his voice cracking a bit.

As the game started, I could see the pressure building on Monk’s shoulders. The other squad was intent on working the ball to Stacey. It almost felt like that was the reason they showed up—not to win the game but to prove that she could score here.

Both of Stacey’s brothers were setting screens for her. Monk ran into a couple of them. Though Stacey missed her first shot, which rattled around the rim before bouncing out, she canned her second jumper. That bucket diminished our lead to 2–1.

A few possessions later, Stacey was stationed deep in the corner when they worked the ball down low to their tallest player. Monk dropped off her to double-team the ball. It was a split-second defensive choice that most of us would have made. But the rock got kicked right back out to Stacey, probably as planned. Monk sprinted toward her. Only Stacey released a long jumper that caught the front lip of the rim, bounced up to the top of the metal backboard, and then fell home.

“You’re supposed to be smart, right?” Pirate chirped at Monk. “A future college boy?”

“He doesn’t have any street smarts,” added Round Mound from the sideline. “Just book smarts.”

She scored once more on Monk, who’d run into another screen set by one of her brothers.

At halftime we held a slim 8-to-6 advantage.

“Paulie, she’s yours now. Stop her,” said Pirate, as the game paused for both squads to change baskets.







“I had always played with the guys and learned to arch the ball over my brothers, who were a foot taller. I realized early on that the winner wasn’t always determined by size and strength, just as later I would realize the single characteristic distinguishing an outstanding athlete from a Hall of Famer was not always physical ability, but desire. . . . I played pick-up games with guys like Magic Johnson . . . with Calvin Murphy and Julius Erving. . . . They were fast, but so was I. They had size, but I had quickness. They had strength, but I had heart.” —Ann Meyers Drysdale, Basketball Hall of Famer who recorded the first quadruple-double in NCAA Division I history with double digits in points, rebounds, assists, and steals in a single game








As the second half began, I was shadowing Stacey everywhere. I couldn’t hand-check her because I didn’t know where I should or shouldn’t touch her.

Her biggest brother tried to set a pick on me. But before he could block my path, Reggie blasted him. And I could hear the air leave his lungs as he got crunched.

After that, her teammates focused more on looking over their shoulders for the next potential hit and less on setting screens for Stacey.

The next time Stacey touched the ball, I was right in front of her and completely on balance. Her shoulders squared toward the basket, and I knew she was about to shoot the rock. I almost couldn’t believe it, because I was in perfect defensive position. She should have realized that.

As she released the rock, I’d beaten her to the top of her jump. I blocked the ball cleanly with my entire palm, and you could hear the smack all over the yard. I sent that ball nearly fifty feet on the fly in the opposite direction. It sailed out of bounds and across the two adjoining courts, all the way to the far fence.

There was a roar of approval from the sideline by the Proving Ground regulars.

“That’s called defense, Miss!” shouted Round Mound. “That’s what we’re known for in this yard!”

I refused to whoop it up with the crowd. Instead, I remained stone silent, looking down at the asphalt, so as not to challenge or embarrass Stacey with any kind of stare. The game had come to a complete halt with the rock at the other end of the park. None of the guys on my squad would make a move to retrieve it, and neither would I.

One of her brothers asked me, “So are you going to get it?”

“Why would I do that?” I answered. “I didn’t put up that shot.”

Stacey took a first step in the direction of the rock, before that same brother said, “Stay, Sis. I’ll get it.”

He grumbled and complained all the way over there and back. But wild horses couldn’t have dragged me after that ball. It had nothing to do with showing up Stacey. That was my block. My moment to bask in the glory until someone else returned the rock.

Pirate gave me an approving nod as he calmly chewed on a fingernail.

We pulled away to win that game easily during the second half. Stacey didn’t attempt another shot. On their way out of the park, both of her brothers made some remarks into the air about our style of play.

I felt sorry for Stacey. Her brothers had brought her to the Proving Ground for the wrong reason. They wanted to show off how good she was instead of having her game challenged by players who might be better. I wanted to tell Stacey exactly that. But she was walking out of the gate, silent between her siblings. And I understood that right then she didn’t want to hear any opinions from me.

Entering through the gate at the opposite end of the park was Angelo’s trio of players from Saint Demetrios, almost two hours late. The three of them looked like they were still hungover from Friday night.

“I thought these were supposed to be good Greek boys,” Hot Rod chided Angelo, who was already marching toward them. “The ouzo must have been flowing till two in the morning.”

“Are you guys going to be dependable?” questioned Angelo.

“Saturday mornings are rough,” replied J. K., the one whose eyes were open the most. “Other than that, we’re good. I guarantee it.”

J. K. was about my height, almost six feet. Only he had a good seventy pounds on me. For somebody that round and stout, he could motor up and down the court surprisingly quickly, resembling a bowling ball with legs and a headband.

Stevie, a tall string bean, lived by the Triborough Bridge. On my walks to the courts there, I’d sometimes see him in his front yard, sunning himself with a mirrored reflector while reclining in a lounge chair. He would start tanning himself in April. By the time June rolled around, Stevie looked like he’d spent time at the equator.

The third kid, a dark-haired weight lifter, was named Bass—like a bass guitar.

Right away, Jumbo asked him, “Hey, Bass. You have any siblings named Viola or Tuba?”

“That would be cool. We could start our own band,” said Bass, giving Jumbo a high five, before playing a riff of air guitar.

The three of them played in the next game, and we watched closely. Early on, Reggie put the hammer down, throwing his body around. They reacted like petrified deer, frozen in the headlights of an onrushing Mack truck. Pirate didn’t even take them seriously enough to raise an elbow.

“It looks like Sesame Street out there!” sniped Surfer Joe from the sideline. “One of these teams needs to learn its ABCs!”

Their squad got blown out. It was more of a total surrender on the part of the Saint D boys than a defeat. And the three of them walked off the court with their heads hanging down.

“I thought there’d be more fight in them,” said Angelo.

“Don’t worry. This was perfect,” theorized Jumbo. “Now they’ll understand their place on Those Five Guys—riding the bench behind us.”