Lay-ups and Long Shots (3 page)

Terry Trueman

As a preteen, Terry Trueman considered himself a tremendous athlete, playing sports constantly in his neighborhood in the northern suburbs of Seattle, Washington. Only as he got into high school did he discover that his calling in life was not professional sports but typing poems, short stories, and novels in his basement with two fingers (he never took a typing or keyboarding class). Trueman does not regret the change in career directions, but his fanatical love of sports morphed into an almost psychotic ‘fanhood’ of all Seattle/Pacific Northwest teams (the Mariners, Seahawks, UW Huskies football, and Gonzaga hoops). Terry Trueman lives in Spokane, Washington, and travels the world extensively, talking about writing and watching ESPN every night in his hotel room. His wife, Patti, can usually handle his sports TV addiction . . . usually.

by

Terry Trueman

I’m twelve years old, and Brad Slater and I have played . . . I don’t know . . . maybe ten million games of HORSE in our lives. We’re playing right now. If you don’t know, HORSE is a basketball game, usually played between two players, where player 1 makes a shot and player 2 has to make that same shot. If you make the shot, whatever shot you like, a lay-in or a long shot, then it’s your turn to shoot first again and your opponent has to make the same shot as you. If player 2 misses he gets a letter, first miss an H, second miss an O and so on until you’ve spelled out HORSE, at which time the game is over and you’ve lost. If you don’t have much time you can play PIG; if you’re vulgar you can play the game by spelling out some obscene or profane swear word. Unlike regular basketball, HORSE doesn’t require dry pavement to dribble on or sidelines to keep you in bounds, no rebounding or assists, steals or traveling violations; it doesn’t demand anything other than a ball, a hoop and two or more players.

I’ve never beat Brad before,

never,

ever,

E-V-E-R

at HORSE,

at PIG

or any other

version of the game with

any other word.

Truthfully,

come to think of it,

I’ve never beaten Brad

at
anything
athletic.

But today

I’m up over

Brad’s

H-O-R-S

with my

H-O.

It’s like a

good poem,

no

it’s

a great poem

a perfect poem,

a rare and nearly impossible and

utterly

unimaginably, divine poem.

I’m
beating

Brad Slater—

I never, ever

thought

this could

happen.

Dry leaves skitter along

the asphalt;

the breeze

blows in my face.

My feet

tingle in my

athletic shoes

H-O-R-S

to

H-O . . .

“Your shot,” Brad says

tossing me the ball.

I catch it,

smile, set up

fifteen feet away,

and

launch my

fade-away

jumper . . .

Swish.

Brad grabs the rebound

walks to my

spot,

takes a few deep

breaths,

judges distance,

wind,

humidity,

takes another

deep breath

and finally

lets fly—

the ball

almost goes through

but circles the hoop and

rims out.

That’s E for Brad

H-O-R-S-E.

The way we play, after the final letter in HORSE, the loser gets to choose whether to take the shot again or make the winner repeat the shot, making it a second time; it’s like having to win by two points in Ping-Pong or volleyball or tennis—a confident player usually tries the shot a second time, and Brad is nothing if not confident, but today, now, a fifteen foot fade-away jumper is not an easy shot—Brad eyes the distance again and then . . .

“Prove it,” he says

throwing me the ball.

I stand

fifteen feet

from the hoop. . .

But

suddenly

a Robin flies

over our heads

twittering,

his eye

staring

straight into my eyes

I think he’s

smiling,

and the grey clouds

move

so slowly

that I’m sure

the sky,

silent,

watches us—

I

grab the ball

and

don’t let myself think

about . . .

No,

all these thoughts

may come later,

if I make it,

But for now

I grab the ball,

hold it

lightly

in my skinny fingers,

glance at the hoop

and

I leap,

rising high

into the air

raising my arms above

my head

as though offering

this shot to

God,

and I fade away

like a man falling

from a high cliff,

like a song’s last refrains

like

the way one’s

breath must

finally seize

at the hour of one’s

death—

And from this fading

falling, flying

I

shoot—

A tiny click

as the ball nicks the

metal hoop

yet slams

through!

All the universe is

silence

except for the ball

bouncing

once,

twice, a third time

and a fourth

each bounce smaller than

the one before it

Bounce---bounce--bounce-bounce-bounce-bounce

until it lies,

motionless, on the

dark ground.

“You win”

Brad says,

trying to sound

relaxed and cool.

Now, quickly

“Wanna play again?”

I almost say,

sure,

but the word catches in my throat

“Nah, I gotta get home.”

“Really?” Brad asks

I’m almost certain

I can hear

pain,

pain,

P-A-I-N

in his voice.

“Yeah,” I say,

staring right at him

“We’ll play again

tomorrow.”

“Okay” Brad says

feigning

calm,

faking

indifference,

“See you tomorrow then,”

he says,

his tone

anguished.

I say

“Okay.”

I hold my

smile

until I’m out of his sight.

then the breeze

blows in my hair;

my feet dance

as I walk

six inches above the earth.

My heart beats

with the strangest rhythm,

one I’ve never

felt before:

pride,

joy,

victory—

I am twelve

years old

and I don’t

realize

that

nothing,

nothing,

n-o-t-h-i-n-g—nothing

will ever

taste

this sweet

again.

CS Perryess

When CS Perryess is writing, he can never predict who’s going to walk onto the page. The day Amanda Jackson showed up, he recognized her as an alternate version of a much-appreciated BMX-riding former student. He was pleased to discover that as the story moved along, Amanda grew into someone with the potential to be as strong and wonderful as the student he remembers so fondly.

CS Perryess has a great life in a foggy little California town with his wonderful wife, Ellen, a stream ecologist and volunteer at the local animal shelter. He rides his bike to work, to the local farmers’ market, and every so often to the hardware store where people laugh at him when he’s lashing ten-foot lengths of pipe to the bike frame.