Stealing the Game (2 page)

“One to zip,” I said. “Let’s play ball.”

“
KA-CHING!
”
Weston crowed as he sank another bank shot over Zach’s head. He raised two fists high in the air.
“Kneel and worship your basketball king, puny mortals!”

“Big deal,” Zach said. “Your arms are like a foot longer than mine. You’ve got ape arms.”

“Yeah, but I’m an ape who can score. I’m money, baby!” Weston’s nickname on the team was Money Man, because he could hit the bank shot so often. Whenever he scored,
someone would yell, “Money Man just made another bank deposit!” Or the short version: “Ka-ching!”

Daniel, who was already breathing hard only five minutes into the game, stood with the ball at the top of the key, panting. “What’s—” Deep breath. “What’s the
score?”

“Ten to four,” Roger said, grinning at me. “Guess we didn’t need you after all, Chris.”

“Guess not,” I said.

Even though he was acting like a jerk, Roger wasn’t a bad guy. He was big in every way: six feet tall and a hundred and eighty pounds. He wasn’t quick on the court—his nickname
was Slo-Mo—but there was no one better at setting a pick-and-roll. When players banged into his brick-wall pick, they were dazed just long enough for him to roll toward the basket for the
pass. By the time the groggy kid remembered his name and what century it was, Slo-Mo was already steamrolling into his layup. And no one near the basket wanted to take a charge from Roger, no
matter how many free throws they got.

“Ball in,” Daniel said, and he tossed the ball to Weston. Zach, determined not to be humiliated again (Weston had already hit six bank shots over him), was doing some sort of crazy
defense dance that involved jumping around and waving his arms like someone on a desert island trying to flag down a passing ship.

“Are you in training for the rodeo?” Weston joked. “’Cuz you’re riding me like I’m a bull.”

“It’s called defense, dude,” Zach said, still jumping and waving. It might have looked weird, but it was effective. Weston tried to find an opening to turn and shoot his bank
shot, but Zach was hopping around like he was on a pogo stick.

“Get off me, Zach,” Weston said in frustration.

“I’m not touching you,” Zach said. I could hear the delight in his voice at knowing he’d rattled Money Man.

Weston passed the ball to Roger, who tried to use his fifty-pound advantage to back me toward the basket. But I’d been guarding Roger in practice for a couple years now, and I knew how to
handle him. The secret wasn’t in holding my ground. He was too big for that to work. Instead, I’d keep jabbing a hand around him, to swat at the ball. Left, then right, then left, then
left again. This scared him, because I’d stolen the ball from him so often before. Usually, he’d just stop dribbling and hug the ball to his chest until he could pass it.

That’s what he did now.

Except Zach was still doing jumping jacks all around Weston, making it impossible for Roger to pass the ball to him. And, just as Weston cut around Zach for the pass, I slid between Roger and
Weston with my arms up, making it impossible for Roger to pass to Weston. So Roger did exactly what I’d wanted him to do.

He passed to Daniel.

Daniel was surprised, because Roger and Weston had pretty much cut him out of all the plays, just passing to each other and shooting. They let him bring the ball in just to keep him from
complaining.

Daniel held the ball, confused about what to do next. So he shot it from the three-point line. The ball fell short of the basket by a foot. I dashed around Roger, snagged the ball out of the
air, and fired it to Eric, who was waiting on the three-point line as I’d told him to. Daniel, still stunned by his wild missed shot, finally ran over to guard Eric. But I’d also cut to
the three-point line far ahead of Slo-Mo. Eric threw me the ball and I quickly shot the three. The ball rattled against the rim a couple times before dropping through for two points. (Yeah, I know
it’s weird that we call the shot a
three
when you only get two points, but we like to use the same terms as the pros.)

“Six to ten,” I said.

We ran variations of that play two more times, with me shooting the three and scoring twice. That put us tied at tens.

Roger was getting a little tired from my full press on him. And Weston’s frustration at Zach’s crazy defense made him force a couple of shots that bounced off the backboard and then
off the rim.

We were able to take advantage of that lapse for me to score a reverse layup and for Eric to beat Daniel to the hoop for another layup. Then, when Weston left Zach to double-team me so I
couldn’t take another three-pointer, I bounce-passed to Zach, who sank a baby jumper. The score: 13–10.

Like the good players they were, Roger and Weston adjusted. Roger didn’t get flustered anymore when I tried to steal the ball. Weston directed Daniel to just stand in one spot about eight
feet to the side of the basket, then used the stationary Daniel as a screen to fire off his bank shot. He did this three times in a row, tying the score.

“Thirteen all,” Roger announced loudly, trying to intimidate us. But I could hear the nervousness in his voice. He’d never expected the score to be this close.

In the neighboring court I saw Tad arrive. That’s not his real name, just what I call him. It stands for Tiny Asian Dude. Tad was really old and skinny and shuffled when he walked. He
neatly folded his jacket and laid it on the grass. He was bald except for a couple scribbles of white hair on top of his head. He wore beige pants and a white shirt with black suspenders. He also
wore old man sandals that had more leather than open space, like the ribs of a whale. He carried (he never dribbled) his ancient, beat-up basketball to the free throw line and began shooting.

He was terrible. When I first saw him about a year ago, I thought he was going to be some b-ball Zen master, making every basket blindfolded. Instead, he hardly ever made a basket. And even
though he was out here nearly as often as me, he never got any better.

“Hey, Mr. Miyagi!” Weston hollered, and waved.

Roger laughed.

Weston called him that because he looked a little like the teacher in the original
Karate Kid
movie. And also because Weston was the jokester of our team and had to say or do something
funny every fifteen minutes or he’d probably faint.

Tad turned, smiled, and waved back.

“C’mon, let’s play,” I said, before Weston felt the need to say anything else.

Thing is, sometimes I felt like I had more in common with Tad than with these guys I was playing with, a few of whom I’d known most of my life. Tad comes down here every day to shoot
baskets. He has to know that the kids who watch him are making fun of him. But he keeps coming and shooting and smiling. He’s not thinking about winning, or about playing high school varsity
so he can get a scholarship, or anything except tossing the ball toward the hoop. He just loves doing it. That’s how I feel most of the time. Or want to, anyway.

“What’s the score?” Daniel asked again, standing at the top of the key with the ball.

“Thirteen all,” Roger snapped. “If you’re not going to make any points, at least remember the score.”

“Shut up, Roger,” Daniel said. “Me and Zach and Eric were here first. You didn’t have to play with us.”

Roger started to say something, then stopped. I could tell he knew that he’d pushed Daniel too far and was regretting it. Like I said, Roger wasn’t a bad guy, just an intense
player.

“Just pass the ball in already,” Zach said.

Daniel bounced a lazy pass toward Roger. It was pretty much the same pass he’d made the last four times. Anticipating it, I darted out, intercepted the pass, and cut to the basket.
Unfortunately, Roger was waiting for me, his intensity turned up to Volcanic Eruption. He slid his bulk between me and the basket. I tried to dribble around him, but he stayed with me with unusual
speed. He wanted to win. More important, he wanted me to lose.

Eric saw my dilemma and ran behind me, Daniel staggering after him. Facing Roger, I bounce-passed the ball backward between my legs to Eric. Using me as a screen, Eric shot the eight-footer for
a point, putting us ahead.

Up the slope, I heard Hoodie shout, “Yeah!” and saw him pump his fist in the air. Fauxhawk slumped angrily. Why did they care so much about our little pickup game? I wondered.

“Fourteen to thirteen,” I said, checking the ball to Roger. He tossed it back and immediately got in my face, flapping like a Tasered chicken so I had trouble seeing my
teammates.

I faked a pass to the left, then found Eric to the right. He dribbled toward the basket, but Daniel kept with him, determined not to be the cause of the loss. Eric shot the same eight-footer
he’d shot before, but this one bounced off the rim. Weston spun inside Zach’s defense and tossed an easy layup.

“Fourteens,” Roger said. “Next basket wins.”

“Win by two,” Zach protested.

“Straight up,” Roger said.

“We always play win by two,” Zach said. “Right, guys?”

“Mostly,” Eric said.

“Mostly ain’t always,” Weston said.

“When did you join the debate team?” Zach said sarcastically.

“Next point wins,” I said, and that ended the discussion. I don’t know why kids listen to me. It’s not that I’m particularly smart; my grades are mostly B’s
and C’s. And I’m not funny like Weston or clever like Theo, another guy on our school team. I don’t threaten or bully like Roger. I don’t make fun of other kids and I
don’t hang with the popular kids at school. In fact, I hardly talk at all. I guess others see my silence as strength, but mostly it’s because I’m afraid to say something
stupid.

Roger passed the ball to Weston, but Zach was jumping and swatting like he had angry bees in his pants. Weston and Roger kept passing the ball back and forth, trying to get an open shot. They
knew if they missed and didn’t get the rebound, they might lose.

Finally, too frustrated to wait, Weston forced his way in for a finger roll. But the ball nicked the rim and ricocheted to the side. I was about to grab it when I saw Daniel huffing and puffing
toward the ball, his eyes wide with excitement, realizing that this was his chance to do one thing right. I don’t why I suddenly thought of Tad, whose missed shots we could hear like the
steady patter of rainfall. Whatever the reason, I didn’t grab the ball. I let Daniel pick it up. He seemed so surprised to find it in his hands, I thought he might just run off the court with
it and be halfway home before he remembered the game.

Weston shouted, “Pass it! Pass it!”

Daniel looked up at the basket, squinting at it as if it were a football field away.

“Dribble in,” I said.

He didn’t know who said it. Probably thought it was his inner basketball coach. But he did dribble in. Instead of cutting him off and blocking his shot, I stood still and let him go around
me. He was right under the basket for an easy layup. He just stood there, staring up.

Zach launched toward him to defend the shot, but I slid into his way, blocking him.

“Dude!” Zach said, trying to squirm around me. I wouldn’t let him.

“Shoot!” Roger said. “Shoot, Dan.”

And Daniel shot.

ROGER
pulled Daniel into a headlock and twisted his knuckle against Daniel’s scalp.

“Ow!” Daniel said, but he was laughing.

“Victory noogie!” Weston announced, pulling Daniel from Roger and delivering his own quick noogie. He released Daniel, who rubbed his head, but had the biggest smile on his face.

“Let’s run it back,” Zach said. “That was close.” He glared at me.

“I gotta go,” Weston said. “I haven’t finished my algebra homework. If I don’t get at least a B on the next quiz, I’ve got to spend the weekend cleaning the
garage.”

“I’ve got a piano lesson,” Daniel said, climbing on his bicycle. “Next time, dudes.” He waved happily as he rode off.

That was it. Game over.

Zach and Eric also took off, and I could hear Zach grumbling about me as they walked.

Roger sniffed the air and frowned at Weston. “You do smell like an ape, bro.”

“Actually,” Weston said, “my little sister got a new hamster to replace her dead one and I had to clean the cage this morning.”

Weston and Roger picked up their jackets from the grass. Roger turned, looked at me, and smiled. “You’re too soft, Chris. Letting Dan have the winning shot.”

I didn’t say anything.

“See ya tomorrow,” Weston said as they walked off together. They lived in the same neighborhood.

In the court next to us, Tad continued to shoot free throws. And continued to miss.

I heard some shouting and looked over at the stone bench where those two twentysomething guys had been sitting. They were on their feet now, hollering at each other. Fauxhawk seemed really
upset, repeatedly poking his finger in Hoodie’s chest. When Hoodie finally brushed the poking finger away, Fauxhawk threw the remains of his blue Icee in Hoodie’s face.

I expected Hoodie to punch him, but he didn’t. He just brushed the chunks of blue ice from his face and the front of his hoodie while Fauxhawk yelled a couple more things and then stomped
off.

That was entertaining, I thought as I picked up my keys and basketball from the grass. I started walking home, nodding at Tad, who smiled and nodded back. He shot, missed, shuffled after the
ball, and carried it back to the free throw line.

“Chris! Hey, Chris!”

I looked around to see who was calling my name.

Hoodie was jogging toward me, his beat-up black suitcase rolling across the grass beside him. When he was only twenty feet away he pulled down his hood and whipped off his sunglasses.

It was my brother, Jax.

“
YOU
ready to take me on?” Jax asked with a grin. He snatched the ball from under my arm and dribbled onto the court.
“Let’s go, superstar. Show me what you’ve got since I’ve been gone.”