Staking Our Claim

The stifling weather refused to break. By the following Friday night, the walls of our small apartment had absorbed every bit of that intense heat. We even had cold cuts for dinner because Mom passed on the idea of adding to that inferno by turning on the kitchen stove.

The only air-conditioning in the house was in my parents’ bedroom. Unfortunately, I was too old to sleep in there with them. The stagnant airflow inside my narrow room made it nearly impossible to breathe, even with the window opened wide. So I slept on the living room floor, where it was a few degrees cooler, my sweat seeping into the thin carpeting.

I tossed and turned most of the night—partly from the heat and partly from my muscles twitching to the moves I dreamed about laying down on that court the next morning.

We were the first five players to show up at the Proving Ground. Despite the early hour, the mercury had already climbed past the ninety-degree mark.

“Don’t warm up too hard,” cautioned Hot Rod. “Reserve some energy. We’re going to need it.”

We were occupying the same court as the week before. Of the three full courts in a row, it was the one closest to the benches, water fountains, and street parking. We weren’t about to budge for any reason. If those guys were going to try to play without including us, they’d have to move their game.

One by one their players began to arrive, gathering at the basket opposite the one we held. None of them had spoken a word to us yet. Among them was a teen who couldn’t have been any taller than five foot five, his arms covered in snake tattoos. I swear he hissed at us before spitting just off the court.

Next, a dude bordering on three hundred pounds walked in. He was definitely a few years older than me, and his mouth turned out to be as big as his belly.

“These guys got some nerve,” he complained from behind a thick black moustache. “I can’t believe they’re back, standing on that court like they own it. This is our park! We may have to give them more than an education!”

That was music to my competitive ears, because that Round Mound of Attitude sounded like has was actually willing to play us.

The instant their fifth player arrived, Jumbo smartly walked over and arranged the game, before any extra bodies might argue to take our place.

“Park rules. We choose up sides among the first ten to show up,” said Snake, pounding his dribble on the asphalt. “But screw that. We’ll play our guys against yours. Game’s sixteen by ones. Eight half. That’s when we switch baskets.”

It had been seven days of anxious anticipation for me. Now the moment of truth was finally here.

“Give us a minute or two to warm up,” sneered Round Mound. “You guys were probably here since 6 a.m. getting loose, trying to sandbag us in this heat.”

Angelo understood that those other five were now checking us out, to see whom they should guard. That’s when Angelo began missing shots badly, throwing up total bricks, hoping he’d draw their worst defender.

My eyes had settled on their fifth player to enter the park. He’d pulled up in a beat-up car with a big wooden ladder strapped to the roof. He had to be in his forties and was whisper thin, like a whip.

“First off, it’s a time investment [to develop skills]. Nobody gets good at something in a week. . . . To master something you really need to put in mass hours. So having a passion goes a long way. . . . People try to place streetball in like a genre. But I think that’s only because a couple of [famous] players back in the day were doing illegal moves. . . . For the most part, it was just basketball in the summer, which is obviously looser, where guys can utilize flash more. But to me it’s all basketball.” —Grayson “The Professor” Boucher, an Oregon native and ball-handling sensation with the AND1 Mixtape Tour and Ball Up Tour

Jumbo said, “That’s the window washer from Steinway Street, where all the big stores are. I’ve seen him work. He carries that heavy ladder around like a feather.”

His teammates were calling him “Pirate,” almost genuflecting in his presence. He ran a hand back through his uncombed red hair before he popped some dental work out of his mouth and stuffed it into his pocket. Then he drained a smooth jumper from the corner and proclaimed, “I’m ready. Let’s get this thing started. Our ball first.”

Pirate walked across the court toward us and flashed a jack-o-lantern grin, with an open space of five or six teeth missing across the top front.

Suddenly, I remembered him. It had to be six or seven years ago. I was at the courts in my neighborhood, beneath the Triborough Bridge. There were just three of us in the yard—two guys in their late teens playing one-on-one against each other, and me. I’d asked a bunch of times for them to let me into the game, but I was being ignored. That’s when Pirate walked in, not that I’d ever asked his name. He marched up to those guys and demanded to play.

“I’ll take the kid on my side,” he’d told them, pointing to me and displaying that near-toothless smile. “And it’s still not going to be a game you can win.”

Pirate only let me touch the ball to check it out of bounds. He took every shot and scored every basket on his own, with me standing around as decoration. At one point, both guys were guarding Pirate, understanding that he wouldn’t pass me the rock. That’s when he laid down the greatest move I’d ever seen. He blew past the first dude and then put the second on his hip. In one lightning-quick motion, Pirate hid the ball behind his back while simultaneously slapping the defender on his backside, making him believe the ball had been passed away. The guy frantically turned around to find me. Only Pirate still had the rock and swished it into the hoop.

“I don’t even think that’s legal,” complained the defender. “You can’t touch me like that.”

One play later, Pirate purposely elbowed him in the ribs so hard that the dude lost his breath and could barely finish.

“That’ll teach those bums a lesson,” Pirate had told me before he left the park. “And it could have been worse for them.”

Standing on the court alone, I couldn’t decide if Pirate was some kind of streetball superhero or if he belonged locked up behind bars.

Now, as Pirate and his four teammates started up the court at us, Hot Rod pointed at Pirate and said to me, “Pets, you guard the old man. Watch him close. I’ve seen him play before. He’s tricky and dirty.”

Meanwhile, Big Reggie had entered the yard. He’d taken a seat on his cooler, just inches from the court.

Slapping his huge hands together like a thunderclap, Reggie said, “Damn, I slept too late. I knew they’d be here early. I wish I was out there. But at least I’m in the front row. This is going to be better than cable TV.”