Basketball (or Something Like It) Read online

  Of course, Anabel couldn’t play T-ball in North Bridge anymore, although it wasn’t ever entirely clear why. Was it because the logistics of getting Anabel and Michael to two different games in two different towns would be too hard? Or was it simply because Mr. Morrisey was blacklisted for that entire year in North Bridge?

  So instead Anabel sat in the grass and played with her Legos while her brother stood terrified with the bat on his shoulder for three months. Anabel remembered her mother bringing sandwiches and drinks in a red-and-white cooler. She liked baseball because it was outside. She loved picnicking with her mother and playing at the schools that had playgrounds by the baseball field.

  She will always remember that summer as the last summer her mother had nothing better to do than lay in the sun and braid Anabel’s hair. It was the summer before her mother started working. Anabel and her mother watched the clouds glide smoothly across the darkening sky, sprayed bug spray all over their bodies, and cheered on Michael’s team.

  Looking back, Anabel was sure she had been just as happy, just as content, even relieved that it was her brother rounding second, getting thrown out at third, with two outs, down by one, in the bottom of the sixth inning. Even when her brother was winning, kicking the winning goal, or shooting a basket to tie the score, Anabel was relieved it wasn’t her.

  It was easier to sit in the grass, munching on pretzels, than to risk finding out you’re no good.

  Anabel

  Things started really going downhill the year Michael won the fourth-grade hotshot contest at the Hoops for Heart fund-raiser. Mr. Morrisey felt he had found his son’s real athletic niche. That was two years, hundreds of spectator hours, countless concession stand lunches (sometimes dinners), and several demanding phone calls later. It was also the year Anabel and Michael’s mother got her big promotion and started traveling for work.

  Anabel’s mother said she had thought about it for months. Should she? Or shouldn’t she? It would mean she’d be away from the family a lot. But it was a lot more money. And it was a great opportunity.

  (There was that word—opportunity—again.)

  After their mother took the position, Anabel and Michael’s father never talked about it again. Whether it had been a good idea or not. Whether it was working out for everyone or not. It didn’t matter.

  The tunnel he had begun digging, through which Michael would dribble, pass, and shoot, was now big enough to bury them all inside. Basketball was everything, and somehow Anabel got relegated to the sidelines. Her territory was reading directions to the games and then reversing them to get home. Sometimes running out to the car for an extra bottle of Gatorade. At halftime or before a game, when she had finished her homework or her one hundredth paperback book, Anabel might dribble around and shoot a little. And wait to go home.

  Basketball was everything.

  And it was all done in the name of Michael.

  What Anabel’s father did not seem to notice was, because she was spending so much time in gyms and basketball courts, his daughter could pretty consistently go ten for ten from the free throw line and had a solid 40 percent three-point average.

  In fact, Anabel herself barely noticed.

  Nathan

  Nathan left the house that morning with his sneakers in his backpack, his basketball shorts in his lunch bag, an extra T-shirt folded in his math book, and a plan. He told his mother he was going to the library after school and that Jason Burke’s mother was picking them up (so they could do homework), giving him dinner, and bringing him back to the school for a band meeting.

  “You can pick me up around seven fifteen … no, seven twenty,” Nathan told his mom.

  “In the back?” she asked. She had Nathan’s little sister, as expected, in her arms, pulling on her hair and spitting green baby food on her shoulder. Perfect.

  “No,” Nathan said. “In the front. It’s in the front. Band practice is in the front. That’s where the band room is, Mom. God.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this meeting before?” she asked.

  “Mom, I’m going to be late,” Nathan answered. “I did tell you. Last night.”

  She looked at him.

  “Mom. Band is really important to me,” he said. But that was a mistake, and as soon as it came out of his mouth he knew it. Band is really important to me? God, did he really say that?

  There was a pause. Even Nathan’s baby sister was silent for a second, as if to show exactly how entirely pitiable that excuse had sounded.

  Just then Nathan’s dad came into the kitchen.

  “Nathan, aren’t you going to miss the bus?” his dad asked, and right on cue the baby started screaming, just for no reason. And in the next beat, Nathan’s father rolled his eyes like he was really annoyed. He was really annoyed. Nathan’s father liked things, liked everything, a certain way, and that way was neat and quiet. And orderly.

  Grades were really important to him. Even shoes were really important to him. Nathan wasn’t allowed to wear sneakers to school. A practice virtually unheard of since the early 1960s, nevertheless Nathan had to wear shoes. Real shoes. Or boots. Sandals in the summer. But no sneakers. Sneakers were for the gym only, or better yet, the tennis court.

  Nathan’s baby sister was now arching her back like a gymnast and flailing her arms around. She caught Nathan’s mother in the cheek with a fist. You could tell it took all their mom’s strength to hold on to her.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Nathan’s father asked.

  “She’s a baby.” Nathan’s mother looked like she might cry. She forgot all about Nathan and his undying love of middle-school band practice.

  I might like this kid after all, Nathan thought as he ran out the door.

  “‘Bye, Mom,” he called out. “See you at seven twenty.”

  Nathan

  So it was a bad plan.

  It had a million holes in it. What if Nathan’s mother called Jason Burke’s mother? What if she came early and saw there was no band meeting? What was he going to do from 2:35 dismissal to 5:00, when the basketball clinic started? He’d be hungry.

  But it didn’t matter. By the time his mother found out, he’d be playing basketball, and at the very worst she’d realize how much he wanted this (he had already convinced himself of this). His sheer determination would be taken into consideration. That would count for something. She’d give in. And then she’d work on Dad. Besides, his mother was mad at his dad for not “ever, ever” helping with the baby. That would certainly work in Nathan’s favor.

  And what was the problem with playing basketball? What was such a big deal? Didn’t Nathan’s uncle play professional ball? Didn’t he almost make it to the NBA without even going to college? Nathan had never meet his father’s brother, but he knew about him. He was a great basketball player. A small forward who could really leap.

  However, anything Nathan had been able to find out about his uncle he had to dig for. Really dig for. Nathan’s father never wanted to talk about it. Sometimes little pieces slipped out when Grandma Estelle was visiting. Little pieces here and there, over time. Like that fact that Uncle Troy never got to play one minute in the NBA. There was something about violations. And then something about losing a scholarship. Something about a car accident and then drugs. Even something later, long after the basketball dream was vanished, about jail. And now, Nathan knew, Uncle Troy lived somewhere that might as well have been a million miles from North Bridge, and it was unlikely that would ever change.

  What Nathan knew most of all was that his father didn’t want basketball or anything that had to do with basketball in his life at all.

  But that was too bad, wasn’t it?

  It was just too bad.

  Jeremy

  Even knowing he wouldn’t be staying around much longer, Jeremy hated North Bridge. He hated most of the kids. He hated this clean, shiny gym. Suddenly twenty bucks from his grandmother didn’t seem worth it.

  He was still standing against the wall when th
e coaches—at least he figured they were the coaches— started organizing all the kids. Boys. They were all boys, except for one blonde, skinny girl who had been warming up with everybody else. She had a nasty three-point shot, but when the parents were getting thrown out, she went with them. Jeremy still hadn’t touched a ball. He squatted down against the wall. This was so different than he was used to. It was too clean, too new. The lights were on too bright.

  There was nothing scribbled on the walls. Not even traces from where someone made you stay after and scrub it off with a brush and a bucket of soapy water. This place was like something on TV, something not real.

  And there were so many basketballs rolling all over the place.

  Back home there would be twenty or thirty kids and maybe three or four balls. With everyone standing under the hoop waiting for someone else to miss or someone to make it, so they could grab the ball and dribble around a little, pick a good spot, and shoot. Then get into position, maybe yank down a rebound or just wait and hope the ball came your way again.

  But here the kids didn’t have to wait hardly at all. There were balls flying everywhere. Jeremy had just seen two jerks get hit in the head, there were so many balls. Two balls had actually rolled under the bleachers and nobody even noticed. These kids were so spoiled.

  And they sucked.

  “You here for the clinic?” Somebody was talking to him.

  “Huh?” Jeremy said.

  “Are you signed up for the basketball clinic? Are you Jeremy Binder?”

  He was one of the coaches. A really tall guy with a clipboard.

  “Yes, sir,” Jeremy answered.

  “Why don’t you warm up a little?” The guy smiled. He didn’t look so bad. He must have played basketball, if you could imagine him without the big belly and with a lot more hair. Jeez, he was probably seven feet. Anybody could be good at seven feet.

  Which made Jeremy think about his father. His father used to tell Jeremy he had some tall genes in the family. Someone way back on his father’s father’s side was like six-ten or something.

  Tall genes skip a generation, you know, Jeremy. A white kid needs all the help he can get.

  And then his father would start laughing. He was drinking by then. All the time.

  No offense, son, but you ain’t no Allen Iverson. You gotta learn to shoot. Like me. Did I ever tell you, Jeremy, I almost made all-state….

  Jeremy could remember the story, or less of the story and more of his father’s slurred speech and watery eyes. But he was forgetting how much he hated that. How much it scared him. For some reason, he was forgetting it all.

  The tall guy with the clipboard was still standing there, like he wanted something. Like he wanted Jeremy to say something.

  But Jeremy had nothing. Nothing to say. Instead he jumped to his feet and ran out onto the court. There was a ball rolling right by.

  Perfect.

  It fit into his hand. His fingers bent and gripped the leather. Leather, these balls were real leather. He started to dribble without thinking, and everything started to feel better. The sound of the ball bouncing. The rhythm and the bounce. Against the floor and into his hands. Between his legs, back and forth. Behind the back. Dribble. Head up. Ball low.

  “Okay, boys let’s line up. Balls quiet.” It was a different coach. A little short guy with a ridiculous muscle T-shirt and shorts.

  Jeremy kept dribbling. Soon his father was gone, the memory was gone, the empty feeling in his chest faded—all he could hear was the ball and the floor and the echo.

  “Balls quiet, please.”

  Jeremy looked up. That little muscle coach was pissed already. Jeremy held the ball.

  “Sorry,” Jeremy said.

  The tall guy with the clipboard was standing to the side. He nodded his head at Jeremy and smiled.

  It’s okay, son, he mouthed.

  Jeremy lowered his eyes, hoping it looked like he hadn’t seen that.

  I am so definitely not your son.

  Hank

  The clinics were so stupid. So stupid. It was all drills and suicides; running back and forth; foul line and back, half-court and back, next foul line then full court and back. Hank had come right from soccer, which hadn’t been changed after all but had been moved up an hour and a half.

  And all that meant for Hank was he had to change out of his cleats and into his basketball stuff in the car. He didn’t really have time to eat. His mother had a protein bar for him, but it was disgusting. Raspberry mocha fudge. He took two bites.

  The clinic was over. Now it was seven fifteen and he hadn’t eaten.

  “How was the clinic?” his mother asked him when she picked him up. “How did you do?”

  He hated that question. What was he supposed to say?

  I did great, Mom. I’m the best one in the whole grade. Just like you and Dad always say: I’m a winner. I’ve got the eye of the tiger. I’m a natural. The tryout will be a breeze.

  What was he supposed to say when she asked him that?

  Hank was a very good basketball player. It hadn’t been his best day, but it was far from his worst. But how had he been judged this day? The truth was he didn’t know. Hank was tired. He played okay. He made some of his shots. Missed more. He had looked around at his competition.

  There was a new boy he didn’t recognize, but everyone else was pretty much the same. All the kids from last year’s fifth grade travel team were there, and a bunch of wannabes. Hank didn’t think anything would be different. Except for that new kid.

  That kid was good. He was quiet and kept to himself, but he could handle the ball really well, like some of those city kids they had played last year. He always kept his head up and he could dribble through his legs, but not just for show. It was like it was natural to him.

  Oh, wait, and Nathan Thomas was there, and he hadn’t been there last year. He was okay, but not as good as you’d think. That was kind of funny, Hank thought. Everyone always asked Nathan to play just because he was black. That was some kind of reverse discrimination, wasn’t it?

  Hank hadn’t been listening to his mother, but he knew she had been talking the whole car ride home. Even if he didn’t answer his mother, she kept talking. She wanted information so badly she would never let on that she was mad at him. Or that he was rude for not answering.

  “So Hank, was Tyler there?”

  “Who?” Hank asked.

  “Tyler Bischoff.”

  Hank had to think a minute. Was Tyler there? Yeah, probably. All he could think of was that new kid. What was his name? Hank hadn’t even seen him at school before. He started calculating. He had heard they were only taking twelve kids on the team this year. It was sixth grade, and things were going to start to get serious. So if this new kid makes it, who will they cut? Hank’s mother was still talking, but somewhere in the last mile or so, her tone of voice had changed. It was squeakier, faster.

  “You know, Hank. I take you to school every morning. Take you to soccer. I pick you up from soccer.”

  What is she talking about?

  Hank looked out the window. It was dark, and he still had tons of homework. His legs hurt. He was tired.

  He was really hungry.

  “… Take you to basketball. Run back because you forget your Gatorade. Come back and get you.”

  His mouth was so dry it burned. That’s right—his mother had run into the middle of the clinic and waved her arms around to show him where she was placing his Gatorade. She must have seen that he left it in the car, under his soccer stuff and his knapsack. But someone had opened it by mistake (even though his name was all over the side and the lid in black permanent marker) and taken some.

  He wasn’t about to drink it after that.

  “You’d think you’d just say thank you. Just once. Just once, maybe,” his mother was saying as they pulled into the driveway.

  “Thanks, Mom,” Hank said. He hardly had the strength to open the car door.

  “Hank?” His mother lowered
her voice.

  He looked over at her.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  And he knew she was. She couldn’t help it. Hank knew his mother just couldn’t stop talking and asking endless questions. Even though the more she pried, the further Hank had to retreat. Hank couldn’t change that any more than she could.

  Nathan

  “This is outrageous. You are definitely going to be grounded.”

  “He’s home now. It’s okay.”

  “How could you do this? How in the hell could you even consider doing this?”

  His mother was trying to defend Nathan in between his father’s explosive expressions and sound-bite speeches. “He’s a boy. He just wants to play. It’s just for fun,” she was saying.

  “Fun?” Nathan’s father jumped on that one. “Lying is fun? Scaring everyone half to death is fun? Sneaking around?”

  Nathan was quiet. He had been caught. He knew he would be. In fact, he was glad he was. It was inevitable, so it might as well come now. Nathan sat on the couch with his knees pressed together and his arms crossed tightly.

  “I don’t know what’s worse. The sneaking or the lying? Or the lying about the sneaking,” Nathan’s father shouted. He wasn’t making any sense. When Nathan’s father didn’t make sense, it wasn’t a good sign.

  “Don’t wake up the baby,” his mother shot back.

  Nathan’s father let out a breath and, it seemed, a little anger with it. He turned to Nathan.

  “You lied. You did something you were explicitly told not to do. You had your mother and me worried. And Mrs. Burke, too. You have to be punished.”

  Nathan nodded. It wasn’t that he wanted to be punished. He didn’t like being yelled at, either. There was a strength behind his father’s rage, a power that was scary but, at the same time, made Nathan angry. Like he wanted to fight back.

  “Absolutely no video games for a week,” his father said.