“Next basket wins,” I said, clapping for the ball.
“No,” Diego said. “Win by two.”
“Win by two, Mason Irving,” Red said as he spun around the pole under the basket.
Diego, Red, and I were the only three in the Reese Jones Elementary schoolyard. All the other kids were waiting at the car pickup line or getting on the buses to go home.
“Yo, it’s always win by two at RJE,” Diego said.
“How do you know?” I said. “You never play.”
I’d never seen Diego play hoops before, which is why I had no idea he could ball. Seriously ball.
“Ten for Diego Vasquez, ten for Mason Irving.” Red pointed at me. “It’s always win by two at RJE.”
“Whose friend are you?” I said.
“Both!” Red let go of the pole and hopped from foot to foot.
Red’s my best friend. He calls everyone by their first and last name. To him, I’m Mason Irving. To everyone else, I’m Rip. It’s a basketball nickname.
I placed the ball on my hip and shook out my dreadlocks.
Diego shook out his hair, too.
“Here’s the scene,” Diego said, smiling. “You’re lying on your bed, and rhino dung is dripping from the ceiling. It’s all over you. It’s on your face. It’s even in your mouth.”
All game long, Diego had been talking trash, mocking me, and saying nasty stuff.
I cut right, got a half-step on him, and took a shot from inside the elbow. It clanked off the back of the rim.
“You tried, son.” Diego grabbed the rebound and dribbled to the top of the key. He gestured with his chin at Red. “Time for me to finish off your little friend.”
“I’m taller than you are,” I said.
I lunged for the ball, but Diego blocked my hand with his shoulder. He then spun past me and drove in for a layup.
“Boom! In your face!” he shouted.
“Eleven for Diego Vasquez, ten for Mason Irving,” Red announced.
Diego toe-flipped the ball off the cement and jogged to the top of the key. “You’re going down, son,” he said.
“We’ll see.”
“It’s next basket now.” He shook out his hair again. “Check.” He passed me the ball.
I punched it back.
Diego swung the ball back and forth by his shins. He wanted to go left—Diego was a lefty—so I gave him the right.
He drove left, but instead of going lower-the-shoulder hard like he had been all game, he backed me down. A couple steps from the hoop, he put up a shot.
It bounced off the front rim. I boxed him out for the rebound.
“Who’s your daddy?” I said, dribbling out.
“Go, Mason Irving!” Red shouted.
“Time for me to stick a fork in your butt,” I said. “You’re done, son.”
Diego wasn’t the only one chirping. I’d been dishing out the trash talk as much as he had.
“It’s Irving’s turn,” I play-by-played. I love doing play-by-play. “Vasquez had a chance to put this one away, but he left the door open. Irving slides right and sizes up the court. He dribbles baseline … He shoots…”
“No good!” Diego bodied me for the board. “Now it’s Vasquez’s turn,” he said, mocking my announcing. “Watch him stick a fork in Irving’s butt and show him who’s really done.”
Diego lowered his shoulder and drove left. He put up a shot and banked it in.
“Ballgame!” He pounded his chest and stomped across the paint. “Who’s your daddy now?”
Red laughed along. “Who’s your daddy now?”
Diego stepped to Red. “What are you laughing at?” he said. “Now it’s time for me to dispose of you.”
“Me?” Red pointed to himself.
“Yeah, you.” Diego gripped the pole under the basket and spun around. “Time for me to beat you at free throws.”
“Ha!” I said. “This I’d like to see.”
Red’s a free-throw-shooting beast. I’ve seen him hit twenty and thirty in a row tons of times. When Red’s locked in at the line, he’s money.
“First one to miss loses,” Diego said, backpedaling to the line.
“Make him shoot underhanded,” I said to Red.
“Oh, yeah.” Red shook his fists by his shoulders. “You have to shoot underhanded, Diego Vasquez.”
That’s how Red shoots his free throws. He goes through this whole routine and then shoots the ball underhanded.
“Underhand, overhand, behind the back, whatever.” Diego bobbed his head.
I tossed him the ball. “No pressure.”
Diego glanced at Red and then placed his toes on the line. He power-dribbled a few times and spun the ball in his hands like Red does before he takes his foul shots.
“No pressure,” I said again.
Diego shot the underhanded free throw. It banged off the backboard without hitting the rim.
“Ha!” I laughed. I pounded my chest and stomped across the lane like Diego had a minute ago. “Ballgame!”
“Yo, Red still has to make his,” Diego said.
“Put him away,” I said to Red, and then spun back to Diego. “Watch how it’s done, son.”
Red set himself on the line and trapped the ball under his left foot soccer-style. He took several breaths, picked up the ball, and squared his shoulders.
“I could say some wack things right now,” Diego said, leaning in. “You want to hear some wack things?”
It didn’t matter what Diego said. Red wasn’t hearing any of it. He was locked in.
Red dribbled three times low and hard and stood back up. Then he spun the ball until his fingers were right and looked at the rim. He extended his arms and took the shot.
Underhanded.
Swish!
“Boo-yah!” I hammer-fisted the air.
“Bam!” Red cheered. He smiled his super-wide basketball smile. “Who’s your daddy now, Diego Vasquez?”