Pick-Up Game Read online

  My boys be ballin’

  in battle-worn sneaks

  wearing attitude like

  baggy shorts. My

  boys be slight

  of frame but

  big on game. My

  boys be calling shots

  before they even

  touch the ball. My

  boys be speaking

  with they hands,

  dishin’ passes

  to the masses. My

  boys be soaking

  net cords with

  jump shots like

  summer showers. My

  boys be caught

  off-guard by

  doves floating

  outside the cage. My

  boys be bouncing

  brown spheres

  off backboards, bustin’

  rusty rims with nasty jams. My

  boys be running

  and gunning like

  they life

  depended on it. My

  boys be shinin’

  like diamonds

  under pressure.

  I’m standing by the newsstand, texting Margie (again), begging her to come to the Cage. She hits me back and says she has to see because she works on Saturdays. I hate waiting outside of the Cage. I get really anxious being that close to the court and not being able to play, so I stand by the train station and watch people spill out of the West 4th Street exit, hoping Margie is part of the spill.

  Word is out uptown that there’s going to be scouts looking at ESPN and some of his boys today. Most of these dudes are going off to college. Big D-I schools. They say I can’t play with them. Too small. Too much attitude. Out here, though, people will remember. Out here folks have playground memories. People will watch ESPN play, and the stats and the reports and the commentators will say that ESPN is a star, but there’ll be someone who was at the Cage and they’ll remember how I put it on ESPN. Today, it’s going to happen.

  “Caesar, you ready?” It’s Earl, asking me from inside the Cage.

  I walk up to him and say, “Been ready.”

  “It’s me, you, Chester Divine, LD, and we need one more. We need one more to guard their big man, Waco. We need to put a body on him.”

  “I was thinking about the Chinese dude.”

  “He’s Vietnamese, bro. Get your Asians right.”

  “I don’t care where he’s from. The boy got game.”

  “Nah, let’s go for big man over there by the handball court. I’ve seen him in the chip before. We need someone who’ll make them kids think twice about hitting the boards, a bruiser that’ll tire them out. Don’t worry. Once we start running, they’ll know that we don’t care if we break something.” Earl got a way of talking with his hands. It’s like he’s conducting an orchestra. After every point he makes, he claps his hands. “We not here to look pretty. Let’s really put it on these cats. They got sanitation game; they stink the streets up something nasty, and I heard that college boy you was talking about is here too.”

  “Who, ESPN?”

  “Dude is going to UNC, I heard.”

  “Well, I guess we’ll see then, right? Yo, if you see Margie in the crowd, let me know.”

  “Keep your mind on the game, man. Damn, that’s why you in the mess you in now. You got no discipline.”

  “Get outta here with that.”

  I hate when they start talking that “no discipline” shit. It’s not that I don’t have discipline. Last year — it’s true — I was hanging out with the wrong crowd and I messed up with Margie. I played myself. But I’m not hanging out like that anymore. Took my GED and killed it. Took my test to be a cop, post-office worker, correction officer, all that. Be like Little Eddie. Forty-two years old, dude is about to retire. But it wasn’t just the crowd, though. It’s that — look, how am I going to think about basketball if I have to take care of my abuelita, make sure there’s juice in her fridge, make sure she got her meds, make sure the super does work that needs to be done. I’m all she got right now. It’s not like she said, “No, I’m not going to take care of him” when the courts were ready to put me in a group home. Grandmoms is all I got. Her and Margie. I don’t have to be in college to play basketball. Today I’m just trying to make these cats recognize.

  “Caesar!” My uncle Charlie — I call him Tío — yells from the front of Mickey D’s, milk shake in hand, asking me if I want one even after I told him like five times to get a bottled water, but he’ll come back and say he couldn’t find a pump, thinking that it’s still 1972 and he’s still playing with Spanish Doc and all those cats from East Harlem. Tío is a little off, a little touched, but he has a good heart even though his mind might not be right. Now, if there’s someone who would’ve tore this blacktop up, it would’ve been Tío, but he got called for duty in Vietnam, and my mother told me he was double tostado when he got back. The boy had jumps, though. For real. I see ESPN from the corner of my eye. Always shining, ESPN. I look at him like I’m in such a zone that all I see is his body broken up like pixels through the Cage gate, like he’s shattered already. All his gear is fresh: new Airs, clean wristbands, got his goggles, knee pads, and you look into his eyes and know he can’t play the whole ninety-two feet. He’s one of those half court players. Press him hard enough and he’ll sing. He got magazine moves, and he probably never left his heart on the court.

  “You ready, mira mira?” he asks.

  “I got your mira mira.”

  He walks toward center court like he got a video camera following him.

  Man, that girl with the white shorts is a beast. She reminds me of Margie with that slim waist, thick badunka, big, curious eyes walking down Lexington on a summer day. I’m better when she’s around. . . . Dude called me “mira mira.” You believe that shit?

  ESPN walks up to Earl and asks when the game is gonna start; he’s tired of waiting.

  “Oyé, Caesar, limpia el piso con ese pendejo,” Tío says, taking a sip of his shake.

  “Don’t talk that oyé talk here, papi.”

  “He’ll talk whatever he wants,” I say.

  “You talk mad brave for someone who can only get as high as these nuts.”

  “Yeah, OK. Wait till we get on the court.”

  “Dejalo que habla, Caesar. Espera que lo cojas en la cancha a ver quien va hablar. Ese que se ríe último, se ríe mejor.”

  Some dude — think his name is Ups — pulls up behind ESPN and says, “Caesar, what’s good, bro?” I recognize him from the tournaments at LaGuardia House. He’s another one who got a full ride.

  “Everything good. Congrats on the ticket, brother,” I say.

  “Yeah, man, thanks. Down south. ACC.”

  “Give them some of that LaGuardia House flavor.”

  I’m not a hater. The next dude’s success has nothing to do with me. But don’t act new. I know Ups from around the way and he never been one to act new. Not like ESPN. Ups keeps it gully. If he’s on the sideline, waiting to get it in, I’m definitely picking him. But today he is my enemy.

  “Papi, marycon,” ESPN says to Tío.

  My uncle looks at ESPN with that demonic stare that my mom says he’s famous for. You can call Tío a deadbeat, a drunk, an illiterate, a no-dick, but you can’t call him a maricón. It doesn’t play well with him. Tío gets up and tells ESPN to step around the corner, so he can stitch his mouth shut. ESPN keeps walking, again, like he’s the movie of his own life.

  Tío. Damn. People think he’s crazy because he dresses like a reverend for fun. Thing is, when we see the world standing up, Tío got a way of flipping it so that it’s us that’s upside down. He could’ve made a name for himself in the chip. If it wasn’t for seeing all those burning bodies and shit . . . I bring him to my games because I know how much he loves basketball. Dude is like a walking way-back-in-the-day video special. He tells story after story about the Spanish Doc, Corky, the Goat, the Destroyer, Helicopter, Pee Wee Kirkland, all those cats; all those cats who were game tight. Some who made it, some wh
o didn’t. Tío taught me one thing: the game is lost before the first whistle gets blown. It’s like a heavyweight who can whiff defeat from across the ring. When you play ball, you can see the game to the last buzzer. It’s like you can hear a door being shut in another part of the world. I hope some of ESPN’s coaches are here. I’m gonna take him and turn him into a broomstick, the one with the hard bristles, the kind they use to sweep the curbs. I’m not worried about it. I ain’t got no one to impress, nothing to lose. After this, no basketball camp, no training, I’m just going back to the block, hopefully chill with Margie and tomorrow — go to work.

  Fish comes over and says, “Yo, Caesar, get it in today.”

  “Whaddup, Fish. That’s the plan.”

  Fish is a cool blanco. Met him up in the Jungle. Fish got heart. You can’t sleep on crazy blancos like Fish. They’re down for whatever. I still remember that day when some dude from Brooklyn was talking all kinds of smack, started calling Fish “Cracker This” and “Cracker That” and Fish said, “You know how the Indians had names like Dancing with Wolves? Well, my name is Dancing with Big-Ass Bolas!” and Fish put a step on the floor and the next thing you know he was flying high and what made it worse was that when he dunked the ball, the ball went bouncing off of Brooklyn’s head.

  “Yes, he was!” Tío is starting up with the who-was-the-best argument. By this time, he got a group of people to argue with: one older dude with a Village Voice rolled up like a telescope, another wearing aviator sunglasses (scout), one dude with a Mohawk, and his girl, a dirty blonde who’s smiling and entertained, her skin all flushed like she just came out of the gym.

  “Hell, no, he wasn’t! I don’t care what you say. Magic was better than Bird!” the dude with the Voice yells.

  This is Tío’s way of getting the crowd pumped, so pumped that they’re willing to climb trees just to see the game. I’ve seen moments when a game had to be stopped because some kid started at the foul line, spun a three-sixty, and dunked it. Fold-up chairs came flying onto the court and people in the crowd covered their faces like they witnessed a tragedy and a miracle at the same time.

  I walk over to Tío and give him my bag with an extra pair of kicks, a towel, my house keys, my money, and my phone. I check my phone one more time to see if anything came in from Margie and there’s nothing but a text from Los saying that he’s on the way with some fellas from Lexington. Just to mess with Tío, I throw in, “What about Bill Walton?” and he pinches his nostrils together with his fingers.

  Come to think of it, I need a name. “Mira Mira.” I like that. Mira Mira, look, blink, oops, too late. Mira Mira, now you see it, now you don’t, oops, you ate it. Yeah, Mira Mira, stop, go, oops, sorry. There comes that moment when your heart doesn’t pump Kool-Aid anymore. It’s like an ice cooler in front of a bodega; the only one who got the key to the lock is the owner.

  “Yo, c’mon, they’re ready,” Earl says.

  When you’re outside the Cage, you actually feel like an animal waiting to get back in, and once you get back in, you never want to come out. We all meet at half court, give each other polite Obama-’n’-Michelle power daps, and I notice that the sidewalk is getting deeper with bodies. It’s lunchtime in the Village and folks are sipping on their Frappuccinos, lemonades, eating their turkey sandwiches, and sneaking incognito sips from a straw out of that afternoon brew in a brown bag. You can even hear some jazz rehearsals sneak out of the Blue Note. The playground hum grows in waves.

  By now, my uncle got a crew sitting around him and a few of the fellas from Lexington have just arrived. Los is there. Papú, Davi, Fat Phil too. That’s the thing about my dudes from the block. Their sense of timing is dead on.

  My crew is here — it’s on. All I need is for Margie to come through. Forget that. If she comes, she comes. If not — cool. There’s work to be done out here today. Gotta show these dudes that I got game. I’m too short, they say. Too short.

  “Game is over when the game is over, fellas. Make them play the whole court!” Tío shouts.

  What Tío means is that as soon as the first inbound pass, we press from one side of the court to the other. Never let up.

  “I ain’t go no objection,” ESPN says. “I got Mira Mira.”

  “I got LD,” says Ups.

  “I got the new jack,” Waco says.

  “Ain’t nothing new about me,” New Jack says.

  “Fellas, bring it in,” Earl says.

  “I hope you all are ready for this ass-whipping,” ESPN says. “It’s gonna be some hot peas and butter out here today.”

  We huddle, and Earl starts with his clap-talk. “OK, look. Ain’t no refs out here, ain’t no endorsements, ain’t no DJs, ain’t nothing but us, the ball, and the ground. This is our game.” Earl points to the big man and says, “Rick, this is Caesar. Caesar, Rick.”

  “Whaddup, Rick,” I say.

  “Big man, put a body on Waco. Tire him out, and we gonna crash those boards like it’s a Sweet Sixteen,” LD says.

  “Got you,” Rick says.

  “Listen, man, I didn’t come from uptown to play just one game. I’m trying to stay out here all day. You heard? The name of the game is press,” I say.

  “Word,” LD says.

  “On three,” I say, putting my hand out so they can follow. “ALL DAY. One, two, three!”

  “ALL DAY!”

  The clapping outside the gate starts.

  “All day, all day, all day,” yells Tío, clapping. “Put it on that fake basketball hero, Caesar! He looks scared!”

  The first thing I have to let ESPN know is that I know his weakness. I’ve seen him play before. Seen him in the Rucker, Gauchos, and at Riverside. He got a good jump shot and knows how to move without the ball, but when he got the rock in his hand, he can’t go left.

  They get the ball first. ESPN plays the baseline. I get to him right away, and he looks shook. I force him to his left, and the first thing he does is look to pass. Tío once told me to imagine I’m something like a net, a flyswatter, or a sponge when I’m playing defense. Today I’m a glue trap. As soon as he takes the eye off the ball, he’s stuck. Sure enough, he takes his eyes off the rock. I tap it out of his hands, grab it, and spin toward our basket.

  “Yeah!” LD yells, lifting his right arm to let me know the break is on.

  “Go ahead, Caesar! And one, baby!”

  “Go, kid! Go, kid!” the viejo next to Tío yells.

  I pass the ball to LD, who is automatic on filling the lane. We got Waco in a cross fire, and I know that LD is making his way to the board. LD passes back to me and starts his leap to the board. Waco tries to block the shot and LD smashes it, a dunk that leaves the backboard shaking. Oooohs travel down 6th Avenue like a local bus.

  “That’s OK,” ESPN says. You can barely hear him, it’s so loud on the curb.

  Soon as Waco gets out-of-bounds, Rick picks him up. Everybody picks up a man. Waco looks panicked.

  “Press!” Tío.

  Waco tries to bounce the pass between Rick’s legs. It bounces off of Rick’s right leg and I grab before it goes out-of-bounds. I spin and pull up for a jumper. Fwip! Two.

  “Yeah!” LD yells. “Yeah!”

  We hold them like that for a few baskets. They can’t make the adjustments. Whatever plan they have is totally disrupted. The thing is, everyone on my team is used to running. Running to the store, running to school, running on the courts from sunup to sundown, and back in the day, during those wild Purple City days, some of us used to run from the Boys. It’s what we do. That’s the way guerrilla wars are won, and if basketball is not guerrilla warfare, I don’t know what is.

  ESPN gets a few shots off, sinking some three-pointers, but his teammates, even Waco, can’t stand the pressure.

  “Yo, Caesar, they can’t stand the heat, kid!” I hear Papú’s voice.

  “Word! Show them what Lexington is made of, son!” Davi.

  “Go, Caesar!” That voice I know. I heard it before. I could hear it in a Times Sq
uare New Year’s Eve crowd. I look up and it’s Margie. Hair pushed back, hoops on her ears, and that cheesy smile. I see her wave, and ESPN spins around me and slams it home.

  “C’mon, Caesar, stay up,” LD says. “No letup, right? No letup.”

  “You got that,” I say.

  ESPN calls time-out because one of his contact lenses fell out. I walk up to the gate and wave Margie over.

  Damn, she’s looking good as always.

  “I got your text, babe,” she says.

  “Listen, we’re almost done with these dudes. We’re scraping them. Hang out for a little. Why don’t you stick around, hang out with Tío. You know how much he likes you. After we finish, we can go eat some Papaya’s.”

  That’s what we used to do whenever I came down here to play. Go eat a couple of Papaya dogs with everything, some papaya or grape juice. That was always the deal. I do something I like: playing ball. We do something she likes, like go to a movie or a poetry slam at the Nuyorican Poets Café.

  “I can’t. I have to work,” she says, pouting her lips as if to say, I’m sorry.

  “So do I,” I say.

  “Call me when you get back to Lexington,” she says.

  “C’mon, Caesar!” LD is waving me over.

  “Give me a kiss.”

  “Caesar,” she says, as if to say, Don’t start.

  “C’mon, through the gate.” I put my lips through the diamond and stick them out like a fish that has his mouth tied shut by a string.

  “Caesar.”

  “Un beso, ma.”

  She kisses me, and I can smell the something something fleur on her neck.

  Tío yells, “Yo, get back in the game! That’s how the great heavyweights go down. Love!”

  “Took Ali,” says one of the old-timers.

  “Tyson, too,” says Mohawk.

  “Let the man play,” someone yells.