A man carries his son on his shoulders. A woman totes a baby in a sling. A pack of boys stomp with fanny packs strapped on their waists. There’s a sparse trail floating down from the top, flashing faces of pity — or pride. Meanwhile, I keep my arms and legs pumping and my chin held high.
Champ, in the lead, stops and turns to us. Ya’ll cool? he says. If one make it, we all make it, right? That’s the deal.
His timing is spot on. We are past the point of turning back being easier than pushing ahead. We reach the feeble swaying bridge. People lined up for pictures with a wood statue. From here the falls gush from above and below. From here the river, blue, a deep blue, funnels between steep slopes. Come, I say, and bring my boys into a circle. We take up hands, and I look each one of them in the eye. I want you to hear me, I say, straining against the spill of the falls. There’s nothing for you to be afraid of. All you have to do is tell the truth, I say. Today’s truth. The next seconds stretch; my God do they stretch. Remember this, I say. You, me, us — we can’t ever get trapped by who we were. Who we were is not who we are. Who we are is right here, I say. And right now. The truth of us is on this bridge. Do you know what I mean? This, I say, is us.
That’s all well and good, Mom, Champ says. But here’s a truth: We’re beat. How about we hike back down? The boys snicker and our circle breaks apart.
Oh no, I say. This is a good hurt. An earned hurt. We can’t come this far and stop short.
Chapter 44
Don’t matter?
From my biddy ball days all the way through my senior year, this place was a home, which is how (they skimp on the light bill and keep the heat so low winters a nigger could catch frostbite) the people who run the joint treat it. To top it off, it’s funky — or worse we’re talking reektastic.
But ask anybody and they’ll tell you this gym attracts the A–1 ballers, hosts the top runs in the city. You ain’t got a name if you didn’t earn that name breaking ankles and sinking game points when it’s game point apiece both teams.
The dudes balling now, though, ain’t exactly the best index of the lore. A crew of old heads and has-beens running a game the short way, sideline to sideline, shooting bricks, hobbling into the key, and talking old school smack: In your face! Swish! Money! I watch till, by what must be magic, one of them sinks a bank shot for game point. A guy with the next game asks if I’m down to run and I tell him not today, that I’m helping my bros practice, which is today’s truth, but not the whole truth, which at present I’ll keep to myself for fear it might sound malicious.
The other side of the gym is empty. KJ pokes the ball from me, dribbles over, and jacks a janky lefty jumper that falls short of the rim. Canaan jogs off alone, scoops another ball from a corner, and pounds it. He goes between his legs and around his back and crosses over, moves he mastered that year and change we lived across from a half-court, those days when he’d burn hours (in particular when Mom was out on missions) practicing, heaving his rubber indoor/outdoor rock at a rim with no net (sometimes kicking it on a missed chip shot), those months he’d spend a whole day seeing how close he could come to touching the rim. Practice that paid off. Already baby bro is the owner of a mean floor game (cut him slack on last season’s fiasco) and a crossover that could send one of these has-beens to the ICU.
Let me see it, I say, and clap at Canaan for the rock. He tosses it at me, and with no bounces I sink a jumper from out-of-bounds. It’s one-quarter luck but I say, See? What good is all that fancy dribbling if you can’t put the ball in the hole?
I can, Canaan says, and takes a shot that smacks the side of the rim.
That don’t look like you can, I say, shaking my head. I hope that ain’t what you’re calling a jimmy.
At the other end, the old heads yawp until one of them snatches their ball, tucks it under his arm, and stomps towards the door.
We (me and my bros) decide on a game of crunch and I toss the ball to Canaan for him to check it up top. He rubs the ball and he sizes us both as if he really believes he can win. If I was more magnanimous, right now I’d go lace these dudes with keen secondhand coach encouragements: Ain’t nobody giving you shit. Always outwork the next man. The only thing to fear is not having practiced enough. But that’s if I was more magnanimous, key word: if!
If you played ball like I played ball, you’d know it’s every man for himself, so don’t go to blaming me for pushing, for hand-checking on D, for tagging them with semi-benign elbows. KJ goes up and I whack the ball and him out of the air, as if we ain’t got (so says the hoop gods: Spare the hard foul, spoil the sibling) the same DNA. It’s first game: Me. Next game: Me. Third game: Who you think? We ball till there’s a reef of sweat in the front of my tee, till my boxers are stuck to my legs. A win is a win is a win is a win, I tell myself as I’m bent over gasping. We watch the old heads at the other end while I catch my breath for rematch a million. They’ve got another game going and all you can hear is the squeak of old high tops and the backboard reports of a bricked-jumper jubilee. Watching this sad show of basketball skills inspires me (maybe I’m more generous than even I thought) into a jump-shot tutor session.
I send Canaan to the free throw line. All right, I say. Elbow straight and fingertips. Snap your wrist and follow through. See the rim and nothing else. I school Canaan first and then KJ. We shoot an hour so, me shagging most of the balls. Canaan nets a shot and I carry over and ask him if he’s talked to Mom since we rode out to the falls.
What’s there to talk about? he says.
You need a reason? I say. About what’s going on.
It don’t matter, he says.
Don’t matter? I say. What the fuck you mean? I rush him and slap the ball out of his hands. It dribbles away but Canaan shags it and carries it over and the three of us meet in the free throw circle. That’s our mama, I say. Our mama. She needs us and we need her.
But Champ, if we live with Mom, where we gone stay? Canaan says.
In the house, I say.
Which house? he says
Our house, I say, assured overmuch, though not forreal.
KJ bends and stretches his shirt over his knees. Canaan hugs the ball to his chest.
How’s that? Canaan says.
Grown folks’ shit, bro, I say. Leave it to me and stick to being a kid.
They vote for pizza when we leave, so I drive to the parlor near the mall. Been here a gazillion times and always the same thought bubble hanging above my head: Who was the genius who okayed parking a big-ass fire truck (complete with a varnished wooden ladder and a barefoot mannequin frozen for good on a fireman’s pole) dead center in the floor?
This is the thought, but I don’t know why, cause we’ve never come for the sights. We’re here for the thin-crust, the paragon of thin-crust pizzas. We order a thin-crust with extra everything we like, find seats, fix our table with plates and a fizzing pitcher of pop. KJ pours us each a full mug, and I set my pager on the tabletop just in case. If you’re wondering, we’re still wearing our hoop gear; yep, we brothers fine-dining with sweaty balls and all.
What’s this I hear about more trouble at school? I say to Canaan. He turns a worried face to KJ and back to me, his diffidence amped up.
Miss H always on me, he says. He reaches for his drink, but I catch the handle of his mug and hold it.