The Fellas All

started for the JV squad (Sticky, Dave and Sin) before Sticky got called up to varsity for the play-offs.

Sticky ran the point, led the team in both scoring and assists (25.9 ppg, 5.6 apg). Sin and Dave operated down low, controlled things in the paint.

Sin’s a muscular first-generation Puerto Rican American who was also the star running back on the JV football squad. He’s dark skinned with blue eyes. Not an ounce of body fat. The ladies tend to go wherever he’s going.

Dave’s a tall, skinny white kid from deep Venice. A section of the neighborhood people used to call Ghost Town due to the number of unsolved shootings. Everybody thinks he’s a shade crazy because he’s always mumbling to himself. He lives in a one-bedroom apartment on Fifth with his mom and three sisters. Man of the house.

Things got off to a rough start when Sticky first came in at the beginning of the school year. Sin and Dave tried to be cool after open gyms, talked to him about the team and the coach and the best-looking cheerleaders, but Sticky wouldn’t look anybody in the eye. It was his third school in two years, and he wasn’t sure these punks by the beach were worth his time.

Sure, he showed up every time the coaches opened the gym. He listened when they went over pick-and-rolls, various zone defenses, and the half-court trap. He ran the sprints hard during conditioning. Never once complained. He even showed up for the big fund-raiser on Main Street, washed and dried cars all day like everybody else. But he never said a word to any of his new teammates. No jokes. No boasting. No talk of the past. He simply kept his mouth shut, his head down.

Sin finally grabbed Sticky by the neck before the first official practice of the season. They were in the locker room and Sticky’d gone up without saying a word and shut off Sin’s reggae. He flipped it to his favorite hip-hop station and went back to lacing up his kicks. Sin froze, beanie in hand. He looked at a couple guys on the team, confused. They shrugged.

Yo, go put my tape back on, Sin said.

Sticky didn’t look up.

Yo! Sin yelled this time. Go put my damn tape back on!

When Sticky didn’t answer him that time, Sin stood up and walked toward him. See, there’s one thing most people don’t know about Puerto Ricans. You don’t mess with their music. When Sin was halfway to Sticky he tossed his beanie to the side and charged.

Sticky sensed it was coming and fired one of his Nikes. Sin ducked and grabbed for Sticky’s neck.

Sticky reached back and threw a series of wild punches, none of which landed, and then threw an elbow that caught Sin in the side of his shaved head. Sin grabbed Sticky’s arms and put him in a tight headlock. They wrestled around on the floor, clawing at each other’s faces, until the coaches came running in and pulled Sin off. Separated the two teammates.

What the hell’s going on? Coach Reynolds demanded.

What are you doing? Coach Wilkins said.

Sticky and Sin didn’t answer, they just stared at each other with fire in their eyes. The right side of Sticky’s face was all scratched up and red. Both of their chests were moving in and out quick. Their fists were still clenched.

That was when the coaches pulled Sin into their office and explained about Sticky. How he had just moved into some house off Rose with five other strays. How it was the fourth foster home he’d lived in since the age of seven. Coach Wilkins, the JV coach, leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. So cut the kid some slack, big guy, he said. You can do that, right?

Sin shifted around in his chair, touched his fingers to a red spot on his cheek, checked them for blood. Nothing.

Coach Reynolds opened up a file he pulled from his desk drawer and cleared his throat. Listen, I know there are some major discipline issues we’re facing with this kid. He thumbed through some of the paperwork. Scanned one of the pages with his finger. But he gives y’all a legitimate point guard.

He’s gonna make your life so much easier, Sin, Coach Wilkins said. His penetration will lead to easy buckets for you. Plus the kid can shoot the lights out. He’s gonna stretch defenses out and you and Dave will have a goddamn field day inside.

Listen, son, Coach Reynolds said. I want you to cut this stuff out right now, OK? Just squash it. He leaned back in his chair, worked a toothpick in between his teeth. In fact, I don’t wanna hear nothing else about you two ever again. He looked over at Coach Wilkins. Right, Coach?

Right, Coach Wilkins said.

Sin shifted around in his chair, touched his fingers to the red spot on his cheek again. Nothing.

Coach Reynolds folded up the file and put it back in his desk drawer. Coach Wilkins lifted a whistle from the floor and put it around his neck.

Sin looked to Coach Wilkins, said: All I’m saying, Coach, is that he ain’t got no respect, and if he keeps on—

What I’m saying, Sin, Coach Reynolds interrupted, pulling the toothpick from his mouth. Is we don’t need you adding fuel to the fire. Got it?

Got it, Sin said.

Good, Coach Reynolds said.

Now go stretch out, Coach Wilkins said. We’ll start practice in five minutes.

After that first practice Sin waited for Sticky in the parking lot. He didn’t say one word to him until after he knocked him to the pavement with an overhand right to the ear.

That’s right, boy! he said, pouncing on Sticky.

In the scramble, Sticky kept yelling out: I’ll kill you, man! I’ll kill you! He tried as hard as he could to roll over and get up, but Sin was too strong.

Sin put a knee in Sticky’s chest and stared down at him with this wild look in his eyes. Told him: I don’t give a shit how many foster homes you been in. And you can believe that.

After a few more minutes, Sticky stopped struggling and let his eyes come up to Sin’s. In them he saw two tiny reflections of himself. Then he turned his head and let all his muscles relax.

It was over.