Problem Solving

That Wednesday night, the Proving Ground was packed. On Saturday mornings those courts were our oasis, our personal playground. But not on summer nights. Our clique of ballplayers was outnumbered probably ten to one. We were in the minority in a sea of lesser ballers, people on the handball courts, parents with their little ones on the kiddie swings and in the sprinklers, teens with radios hanging out on the benches, older dudes just off work and downing beers, and that small group of dealers by the fountain at the far end of the park.

Despite those numbers, just a few minutes after our first ten players arrived, that tide of lesser ballers parted in our presence. And we stood on the main court ready to choose up a game.

“Are we going to clear the sideline of any potential weapons?” mocked Jumbo.

Though his eyes were cast skyward when he said it, that comment was aimed directly at Pirate.

“Relax. Nobody ever served three-to-five in prison for assault with an ice cooler. You don’t know the neighborhood where I grew up. That wasn’t a weapon. That was a present I was trying to give you,” retorted Pirate, who slapped hands with several players, cracking up at his own brand of humor. “Sorry, Jumbo. I was out of line for picking something up. You hit me with that big body, so I should have hit you back with mine.”

“If you would’ve hit Jumbo with your scrawny old body, you’d have cracked in two,” sniped Gene the Dream, before pointing to me. “Remember how your collarbone snapped when you tried to ram the kid?”

That was the last thing I wanted revisited. I didn’t need that ringing in Pirate’s ears, perhaps putting a target on my back if he lost his temper later. And I especially didn’t need to be in any potential conflict with Pirate while I was carrying that reading class flyer in my back pocket for him.

“Don’t remind me. I was just beginning to like that kid,” said Pirate. “You don’t believe you can whip my ass, do you, Paulie?”

“Who, me?” I replied, with just enough bend to my voice to get a laugh but not sound weak.

Then Gene shot out a straight arm into my shoulder, knocking me four feet back and nearly off my feet. That got an even bigger response, with Pirate laughing the hardest.

Hot Rod and Round Mound were the first ones to hit fouls shots. So they chose up the sides. As I could have predicted, Jumbo and Pirate landed on the same squad. That’s how it gets arranged when people want to see two players bury a personal beef. If not, the guys choosing make sure they’re on opposite teams and guarding each other.

Five minutes into the game, that incident with the ice cooler was almost ancient history.

A guy named Mario was guarding me. He was driving a Wise Potato Chip truck for the summer, making deliveries to groceries and supermarkets. Mario had seen me walking through the streets once and given me a ride to the courts. Only he was steamed as anything when I walked into the park ahead of him to be the tenth player, while he was number eleven and left waiting to play next.

“If I didn’t pick you up, I’d be number ten, and you’d be sitting,” Mario complained to me.

He was absolutely right. I felt terrible about it. So I never accepted another ride to the courts from anyone. I would rather try to outrun a car that was a few blocks away from the park, hoping it might get stuck behind a red light or two.

“It’s interesting how guys who are into drugs are always looking to get other guys involved, as if they want company when they go under. Me? I was always into basketball.” —Nate “The Skate” or “Tiny” Archibald, Basketball Hall of Famer and NBA champion

“We keep thinking that somehow or another if we’re going to sell drugs or finance drugs or use drugs that something good is going to happen. Nothing good is ever going to happen concerning drugs. . . . It’s that illusion. People keep thinking if they get involved something’s going to change. You know what changes? Where you live. You go from that address to a maximum security prison [or] a graveyard.” —Richard “Pee Wee” Kirkland, iconic streetball player who served time in prison for running a drug ring

Mario was a really good defensive player. He’d chase me all over the court from end to end. What made him an even better defender for the Proving Ground’s style of play, though, was that he had no problem grabbing you around the waist and never letting go.

I didn’t mind so much, because if I could score on Mario, who usually had a death grip on me, then I could walk into any other park in the city and practically score at will.

That night, I turned to Mario mid-game and said, “You better hope I don’t turn up dead in the street later.”

Eventually, Monk showed up wearing his street clothes—I guess so he wouldn’t be tempted to play or talked into a game.

In between games, Monk came onto the court and said, “I’m leaving for college this weekend. I just wanted to say good-bye to everybody.”

The reception he got from the Proving Ground regulars was on the cold side. Only Jumbo, Hot Rod, and I shook his hand.

“So why aren’t you playing tonight?” Round Mound questioned Monk. “You’d have a few days to recover from the beating we’d put on you.”

“Yo, hump—I mean Monk,” said Pirate, “when you try out for that college team, tell the coach that you know an old man who’s looking for a scholarship. I’ll teach them soft college boys how to play hard.”

Soon the next game began. But we didn’t make it until halftime when all the balling suddenly got cut short. That’s when three unmarked vans unloaded maybe twenty officers who stormed through the gates and converged on the far end of the park where those dealers had set up their dirty business.

There was a loud stream of applause from us and nearly everyone else there when the cops had those dealers up against the fence, patting them down.

“You’re lucky it’s just the police,” hollered Big Reggie at those dealers. “If you ever sold drugs to my kids, I’d beat you like a tambourine.”

Then the cops emptied out the entire yard, before searching every paper bag beneath every bench.

“Sorry to end your fun, fellas,” one officer told us. “This is the way it’s going to be tonight.”

“No problem,” responded Pirate, with a still half-toothless grin. “I’m relieved. When you guys come busting in, I thought you might be after me.”

“Only on the basketball court,” answered Pirate, slapping hands with Surfer Joe. “If you only knew how we played this game down here, you’d have to put up a police precinct across the street.”

Once we hit the sidewalk, everyone was either walking home or headed for their cars. But I still had the flyer in my pocket for Pirate, waiting for the right opportunity to give it to him.

I hung around for five or six minutes, pretending to watch the cops. Finally, Pirate approached his car with no one else within earshot.

“No, I wanted to give you this,” I said, producing the flyer. “There are adult reading classes at night at the library on Steinway Street. It’s Thursday and Friday nights at seven o’clock.”

I’d written at the top of the paper in big letters and numbers “THURSDAY, FRIDAY, 7 O’CLOCK” so he wouldn’t have to bother wading through the rest of it.

“So you listen to people when they talk,” said Pirate, taking the flyer from my hand and tossing it onto the dashboard of his car. “I appreciate that. Maybe I’ll look into it.”