At recess the next day, we played four-on-four: me, Diego, Melissa, and this fourth grader, Connor, against Jordan, Declan, Miles, and this other fourth grader, Trevor.
Our four got off to a slow start, but once Diego and I found our rhythm we were unstoppable. We ran a couple sick give-and-gos, and on one play I hit Diego with a backdoor pass that faked out Trevor so bad he scraped his palms on the pavement.
Right now we were up 10–6. Point game. We were on defense. I was doing the play-by-play.
“Declan with the ball up top,” I said. “He dishes to Jordan on the right. Jordan sends it back to Declan. Wow, that offense looks lost out there. Declan passes to Miles in the corner. Miles takes a quick shot … No good!”
Melissa boxed out Jordan for the rebound and whipped the ball to me. As I dribbled out to the top of the key, my basketball eyes spotted Diego cutting baseline. I fired a one-handed pass his way. He caught it under the hoop, shoulder-bumped Trevor, and sank the layup.
“Boo-yah!” I hammer-fisted the air.
“Ballgame!” Diego shouted. “Boom! In your face!”
We did a jumping hip-bump.
“Picking on the little kids, Diego?” someone said.
We all turned.
Mr. Acevedo was jogging onto the court.
“I am a little kid,” Diego said.
Mr. Acevedo clapped for the ball. Diego pump-faked twice before passing it.
“Let’s see you try a move like that on me.” Mr. Acevedo spun the ball on his finger.
“A little game of one-on-one?” Diego said, rolling his neck.
“Careful, man.” Declan slid next to Diego. “Teach can ball.”
Mr. Acevedo could seriously ball. Back in the winter, he played for the teachers in the fund-raiser basketball game against the varsity hoops team. He was the game’s high scorer.
“I can ball, too.” Diego rested his arm on Declan’s shoulder and nodded to Mr. Acevedo. “Let’s see what you got, Teach.”
Mr. Acevedo let the ball spin off his finger and trapped it under his foot. He then slipped off his bracelets, took the larger hoops out of his ears, and handed his jewelry to Miles.
The whole class stood along the baseline. I was between Red and Avery under the basket.
“What are we betting?” Diego bobbed his head.
“We’re not betting,” Mr. Acevedo said.
“Chicken?” Diego flapped his elbows.
Some of the kids laughed.
“No betting,” Mr. Acevedo said.
“No basketball either,” Avery said, wheeling forward. “All I hear is chitchat.” She bumped the back of Diego’s leg. “Play the friggin’ game.”
Diego bounced up and down like he had springs in his sneakers. I thought about what it must’ve been like for him not being able to play ball for so long and what it must’ve been like not knowing if he’d ever run ball again. No wonder he was so amped every time he took the court.
“What are we playing to?” Mr. Acevedo asked.
“First basket wins,” Diego said, still grinning.
“No.”
Diego flapped his elbows again. “Chicken?”
Everyone laughed.
“Not chicken.” Mr. Acevedo kicked up the ball. “Smart. Even you are capable of sinking some ridiculously lucky shot. But you’re not capable of getting lucky like that twice.” He patted his chest. “Not against me. First to two wins.”
“Whose ball?” Diego asked.
Mr. Acevedo backpedaled to the top of the key and took a shot.
Swish!
“Oh!” A bunch of kids shouted.
Mr. Acevedo patted his chest again. “My ball.”
“Way to shoot, Mr. A.,” a kid named Zachary said.
“Teach can ball!” Red hopped from foot to foot.
I cupped my hands around my mouth. “You got this, Diego!”
“Dude, take Mr. Acevedo down!” Avery called.
A few kids started clapping.
“A grown man taking on a boy with cancer,” Diego said. “Yo, that’s messed up.”
“You don’t have cancer anymore, Diego,” Mr. Acevedo said.
“Acute myeloid leukemia. Taking on a boy with AML. That’s so messed up.”
“Talk all you want,” Mr. Acevedo said, smiling. “It’s not going to make a bit of difference.”
Diego rolled his neck. “You know I’m in your head.”
He was in my head. It freaked me out when Diego joked about his cancer.
“Enough with the friggin’ chitchat!” Avery shouted. “Play the game!”
“Check.” Mr. Acevedo underhanded the ball to Diego.
Diego underhanded it back harder. “Ball.”
Mr. Acevedo lowered his shoulder and blew by Diego. He smacked his hand against the backboard as he sank the layup.
“Nice defense,” Mr. Acevedo said.
“Who’s your daddy, Diego?” I laughed.
“That’s only one.” Diego held up a finger and then pointed it at me. “Only one, son.” He picked up the ball and flipped it to Mr. Acevedo.
“Check.” Mr. Acevedo punched it back.
Diego squeezed the ball. “You want to hear something wack? One time, my uncle’s dog ate his rope toy, and the next day when the dog went to poop, he couldn’t go. My uncle had to pull the rope strings out of the dog’s—”
“Didn’t you hear Avery?” Mr. Acevedo cut him off and motioned to the ball. “Enough with the friggin’ chitchat. Let’s play.”
Diego underhanded it back even harder than last time. “Ball.”
Mr. Acevedo drove again, but this time Diego was ready. He reached in and got his fingers on the first dribble. Mr. Acevedo lost the handle. Diego scooped up the ball and, in one motion, spun toward the basket and threw up a prayer.
Swish!
“Boom! In your face!” Diego ran along the baseline and smacked hands with everyone. He smacked mine the hardest. “Who’s your daddy now?”
Daddy.
The word donged the inside of my head like a clock-tower bell.
My father.
Out of nowhere, Mom had mentioned him the other day. Now I was thinking about him again.
I bopped the side of my head and shook myself back to the schoolyard.
“Next basket wins!” Avery rolled forward. She leaned back in her chair, popped a wheelie, and did a three-sixty.
As cool as it was seeing Diego play basketball, it was even cooler seeing Avery into basketball. Up until fifth grade, she’d never even been to a game. But ever since she went to her first Clifton United game back in the fall, she’s been hooked. This coming summer, she is going to try wheelchair basketball.
“Close it out, Diego!” Xander McDonald called.
“Finish him off,” Attie Silverman said.
Next basket won. Diego had the ball.
“One time when I was in the hospital,” he said, bobbing his head, “this girl projectile-puked all over everyone. The social worker’s face and hair were covered in puke. Covered, Mr. Acevedo!” He bounce-passed the ball to him. “Check.”
“You really think I’m going to let you beat me in front of everyone?” Mr. Acevedo said.
He soft-tossed the ball back to Diego, and as soon as he caught it, Mr. Acevedo swarmed. He batted the ball up and out of Diego’s hands.
Just like I did to Diego yesterday.
“I’ll take that!” Mr. Acevedo said, plucking the ball from the air. He stared down Diego. “You got anything else to say?”
Mr. Acevedo didn’t wait for an answer. He backed Diego into the paint and shoulder-bumped him aside. Then he pivoted left and put up the shot.
Swish!
“Who’s your teacher?” Mr. Acevedo stood over Diego. He bobbed his head and beat his chest. “Boss!”