Shelter
Page 17
Double terrific.
Chapter 8
I WORRIED ABOUT MY MOM all day.
We exchanged a few just-checking-in-type texts. She seemed upbeat. When the final bell rang, I found a quiet corner outside and called her cell phone. She answered on the third ring. “Hi, Mickey.”
I heard a little song in her voice and immediately relaxed. “Where are you?”
“I’m back at the house,” she said, “making you dinner.”
“Everything is okay?”
“Everything is great, honey. I went to the supermarket. I shopped for clothes at the mall. I even had a pretzel at the food court. That might sound boring, but it was a wonderful day.”
“I’m glad.”
“How was school?”
“Good,” I said. “So what do you want to do this afternoon?”
“I have outpatient therapy from four to five, remember?”
“Right.”
“And don’t you normally take the bus to basketball today?”
I had my steady pickup game in Newark. “I usually do.”
“So?”
“So I thought I’d skip it today.”
“Don’t change your plans because of me, Mickey. You go play, and I’ll go to therapy. By the time you get home, I’ll have the spaghetti and meatballs ready. Oh, and I’m making homemade garlic bread too.” Another one of my favorites—my mouth was already watering. “Will you be home by six?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Great. I love you, Mickey.”
I told her I loved her too and then we hung up.
The bus station is on Northvale Avenue, half a mile from the school. Most of the commuters heading back to Newark at this hour are exhausted housekeepers trekking back to their urban dwellings after a day in the wealthier suburbs. They gave me strange looks, wondering what this white boy was doing on the bus with them.
The well-to-do grassy environs of Kasselton were only seven miles from the gritty streets of Newark, but the two cities seemed to be from different planets. I’m told that Newark is on the mend and while I see pockets of it, I mostly see the old decay. Poverty is still prevalent, but I go where the best basketball is and while you could talk prejudice or racial profiling, I’m still one of the very few white guys down here after school.
The two courts were made of cracked asphalt. The rims were rusted with metal rather than nylon nets. The backboard had dints and dings. I started coming down here about a month ago. Naturally I was greeted with skepticism, but that’s the wonderful thing about basketball: you got game or you don’t. At the risk of sounding immodest, I got game. I still get funny looks from the regulars, still get new-guy challenges, but that was something I thrived upon.
We were midway through the fifth game when I was stopped in my tracks by something I saw.
Earlier, we had chosen up sides. We play full court, five-on-five, “winners stay on, losers sit.” That gives the game high stakes. No one wants to sit. The closest thing I have to a friend down here is Tyrell Waters, a junior point guard at nearby Weequahic High School. He’s probably the only guy I’ve met here I feel comfortable with—mainly because we don’t talk all that much. We just play.
Tyrell startled a few of the regulars by picking me first. Our team won the first four games in pretty easy fashion. For the fifth game, some of the guys on the sidelines tried to stack the sides so we would have stiffer competition. I loved the matchup.
But it was during that fifth game that I lost my focus a bit. These pickup games draw a surprisingly large and diverse crowd. Local toughs—Tyrell tells me that many are hardened gang members—hung off in the distance and glared. On the right, there was always a group of homeless men who cheered and jeered like real fans, applauding and booing and betting bottles of booze on the outcome. Closer in, leaning against the fence with stoic faces was a mix of local coaches, involved fathers, skuzzy agent wannabes, scouts from prep schools and even colleges. At least one guy, usually more, filmed the games for the purpose of recruitment.
So for a second, when we were coming back on defense, I glanced over at the crowd behind that fence. On the far right was the scout who recruited for an athletically high-powered parochial school. He approached me the other day, but I wasn’t interested. Next to him was Tyrell’s father, an investigator in the Essex County prosecutor’s office, who loved to talk hoops and sometimes took Tyrell and me for milk shakes after the games. And next to him, third in from the right, standing there with sunglasses and a dark business suit, was the guy with the shaved head I’d seen at Bat Lady’s house.
I froze.
“Mickey?” It was Tyrell. He had the ball and was heading downcourt. He looked at me, puzzled. “Come on, man.”
I jogged after him, moving down to the low post. The score was 5–4, our lead. We play first team to ten by ones. No one calls fouls—you just dealt with the contact and gave it back. I wanted to walk off the court right then and there, but you just didn’t do that in pickup games. I glanced back over by the fence. The man was still wearing the aviator sunglasses, so I couldn’t see his eyes, but I had no doubt where he was looking.
Directly at me.
I set up on the post and called for the ball. The guy covering me was six-eight and burly. We jockeyed for position, but I knew I had to end this game quickly, before the man from Bat Lady’s house disappeared. I became a man possessed. I got the ball and drove down the middle, tossing up a baby hook over the front rim and in.
The man from Bat Lady’s house watched in silence.
I turned it up a gear, scoring the next three baskets. Three minutes later, with my team up 9–4 now, Tyrell hit me on the left block. I pump-faked, spun to my left, and nailed a fade-away banker over the outstretched hand of a guy who was nearly seven feet tall. The crowd went “ooo” when the ball fell through the hoop. Game over. Tyrell offered me a fist bump and I took it on the run.
“Some shot,” Tyrell said.
“Some pass,” I countered, heading off the court.
“Hey,” Tyrell said, “where you going?”
“I got to sit this one out,” I said.
“You kidding? It’s last game. We got a chance of sweeping.”
He knew something had to be wrong. I never sat out.
The man from Bat Lady’s house stood with the crowd behind the fence. When he saw me coming, he started to slide back and away. I didn’t want to call out, not yet anyway, so I picked up my pace. Because of the fence, I had to circle around to get to him.
Chapter 8
I WORRIED ABOUT MY MOM all day.
We exchanged a few just-checking-in-type texts. She seemed upbeat. When the final bell rang, I found a quiet corner outside and called her cell phone. She answered on the third ring. “Hi, Mickey.”
I heard a little song in her voice and immediately relaxed. “Where are you?”
“I’m back at the house,” she said, “making you dinner.”
“Everything is okay?”
“Everything is great, honey. I went to the supermarket. I shopped for clothes at the mall. I even had a pretzel at the food court. That might sound boring, but it was a wonderful day.”
“I’m glad.”
“How was school?”
“Good,” I said. “So what do you want to do this afternoon?”
“I have outpatient therapy from four to five, remember?”
“Right.”
“And don’t you normally take the bus to basketball today?”
I had my steady pickup game in Newark. “I usually do.”
“So?”
“So I thought I’d skip it today.”
“Don’t change your plans because of me, Mickey. You go play, and I’ll go to therapy. By the time you get home, I’ll have the spaghetti and meatballs ready. Oh, and I’m making homemade garlic bread too.” Another one of my favorites—my mouth was already watering. “Will you be home by six?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Great. I love you, Mickey.”
I told her I loved her too and then we hung up.
The bus station is on Northvale Avenue, half a mile from the school. Most of the commuters heading back to Newark at this hour are exhausted housekeepers trekking back to their urban dwellings after a day in the wealthier suburbs. They gave me strange looks, wondering what this white boy was doing on the bus with them.
The well-to-do grassy environs of Kasselton were only seven miles from the gritty streets of Newark, but the two cities seemed to be from different planets. I’m told that Newark is on the mend and while I see pockets of it, I mostly see the old decay. Poverty is still prevalent, but I go where the best basketball is and while you could talk prejudice or racial profiling, I’m still one of the very few white guys down here after school.
The two courts were made of cracked asphalt. The rims were rusted with metal rather than nylon nets. The backboard had dints and dings. I started coming down here about a month ago. Naturally I was greeted with skepticism, but that’s the wonderful thing about basketball: you got game or you don’t. At the risk of sounding immodest, I got game. I still get funny looks from the regulars, still get new-guy challenges, but that was something I thrived upon.
We were midway through the fifth game when I was stopped in my tracks by something I saw.
Earlier, we had chosen up sides. We play full court, five-on-five, “winners stay on, losers sit.” That gives the game high stakes. No one wants to sit. The closest thing I have to a friend down here is Tyrell Waters, a junior point guard at nearby Weequahic High School. He’s probably the only guy I’ve met here I feel comfortable with—mainly because we don’t talk all that much. We just play.
Tyrell startled a few of the regulars by picking me first. Our team won the first four games in pretty easy fashion. For the fifth game, some of the guys on the sidelines tried to stack the sides so we would have stiffer competition. I loved the matchup.
But it was during that fifth game that I lost my focus a bit. These pickup games draw a surprisingly large and diverse crowd. Local toughs—Tyrell tells me that many are hardened gang members—hung off in the distance and glared. On the right, there was always a group of homeless men who cheered and jeered like real fans, applauding and booing and betting bottles of booze on the outcome. Closer in, leaning against the fence with stoic faces was a mix of local coaches, involved fathers, skuzzy agent wannabes, scouts from prep schools and even colleges. At least one guy, usually more, filmed the games for the purpose of recruitment.
So for a second, when we were coming back on defense, I glanced over at the crowd behind that fence. On the far right was the scout who recruited for an athletically high-powered parochial school. He approached me the other day, but I wasn’t interested. Next to him was Tyrell’s father, an investigator in the Essex County prosecutor’s office, who loved to talk hoops and sometimes took Tyrell and me for milk shakes after the games. And next to him, third in from the right, standing there with sunglasses and a dark business suit, was the guy with the shaved head I’d seen at Bat Lady’s house.
I froze.
“Mickey?” It was Tyrell. He had the ball and was heading downcourt. He looked at me, puzzled. “Come on, man.”
I jogged after him, moving down to the low post. The score was 5–4, our lead. We play first team to ten by ones. No one calls fouls—you just dealt with the contact and gave it back. I wanted to walk off the court right then and there, but you just didn’t do that in pickup games. I glanced back over by the fence. The man was still wearing the aviator sunglasses, so I couldn’t see his eyes, but I had no doubt where he was looking.
Directly at me.
I set up on the post and called for the ball. The guy covering me was six-eight and burly. We jockeyed for position, but I knew I had to end this game quickly, before the man from Bat Lady’s house disappeared. I became a man possessed. I got the ball and drove down the middle, tossing up a baby hook over the front rim and in.
The man from Bat Lady’s house watched in silence.
I turned it up a gear, scoring the next three baskets. Three minutes later, with my team up 9–4 now, Tyrell hit me on the left block. I pump-faked, spun to my left, and nailed a fade-away banker over the outstretched hand of a guy who was nearly seven feet tall. The crowd went “ooo” when the ball fell through the hoop. Game over. Tyrell offered me a fist bump and I took it on the run.
“Some shot,” Tyrell said.
“Some pass,” I countered, heading off the court.
“Hey,” Tyrell said, “where you going?”
“I got to sit this one out,” I said.
“You kidding? It’s last game. We got a chance of sweeping.”
He knew something had to be wrong. I never sat out.
The man from Bat Lady’s house stood with the crowd behind the fence. When he saw me coming, he started to slide back and away. I didn’t want to call out, not yet anyway, so I picked up my pace. Because of the fence, I had to circle around to get to him.
