Acorn announces the games at Rucker Park. He owns the barbershop down the block, and everybody knows him. He's big and thick, with a voice like Barry White from my mom's old records.
During the games, Acorn sits by the side of the court with a microphone in his hand. He's always got something quick to say. If you make a bonehead play, Acorn will dis you good in front of everybody. But when you do something right, he'll give you props for it, too.
If you're really special, Acorn gives you a nickname. And if the crowd hoots and hollers enough at that tag, it'll stick. It was Acorn who blessed some of the greatest street ballers with the tags that everybody knows them by.
The last few minutes of that first game was like a personal highlight tape of my best plays ever. It started with a pass I made through some dude's legs right to J.R. for an easy basket. The next time down court, I fired the ball off the backboard, and it looked like I was passing it to myself. Three guys from the other team came charging at me. But instead of catching the ball, I slapped it to J.R. for an open layup, and everybody watching roared.
“Hold the mustard on that hot dog!” Acorn echoed through Rucker Park.
Every time I touched the ball after that, Acorn called me “Hold the Mustard.”
The crowd was loving it, too, till Mitchell yanked me from the game for showboating. But when I got to the sideline, Greene threw both arms around me, and Mitchell backed off. When the game ended, Greene brought the whole squad with him out to center court and rapped his big hit, “Up Yours.”
That night, I went home with J.R. and his pops. There was leftover stew for supper, and a whole loaf of bread we finished off with the brown gravy. The walls held on to every bit of heat from that day, so Stove opened the windows wide, hoping for a breeze.
All J.R. and me could talk about was winning the championship, and how maybe Non-Fiction was the only crew that could keep us from it.
“You want something so bad, for so long. Then it's right in front of you,” said J.R. over the TV and noise from the street. “You gotta check yourself to make sure it's really happenin'. And you gotta watch out, so you don't screw up and give it away, especially to that bastard Fat Anthony.”
“But it's sweet!” I told him.
“Sweeter for you with that new tag,” said J.R., dribbling a pretend ball between his legs, till we both cracked up laughing.
Then J.R. went to his bedroom window to find the star his mother taught him to wish on. She said it was the same star from the Puerto Rican flag and that it would always watch over him. But I didn't believe in that kind of stuff and stayed in the kitchen with Stove.
“You need
confianza
âfaith in things, Mackey,” said Stove. “Or else you better believe in yourself more than anything.”
Those were just words to me then, with nothing behind them. But over the last few weeks they've been roaring in my head.
Now the championship game's in front of
me
. Rucker Park's packed tonight to see the Greenbacks finally take on Non-Fiction. But I'm not sure how much I believe in myself anymore, or what's really inside of me.
Stove's got the game ball under his arm and a whistle hanging from his neck. Only J.R.'s not hereâbecause I fucked up so bad. And his killer's standing right there, cool as anything, like he doesn't have to think twice about me giving him up.
2
WE WERE SUPPOSED to play Non-Fiction the second week of the tournament, but that game got canceled after J.R. was killed.
Greene showed up at the park a few nights before that. He left his Lexus right in front of the hydrant with the engine running and walked onto the court. He had on a Greenbacks jersey and a thick rope chain with a gold dollar sign hanging from it, studded in diamonds. Kids were all over him for his autograph when Fat Anthony started talking trash.
“Old-timersâthat's all those Greenies beat. They blew past dudes with kids of their own,” cracked Fat Anthony.
“You dis my clan to my face and it's on, Pops,” Greene shot back. “I'm not gonna cut you slack 'cause of your years.”
J.R. and me thought they were going to throw down right then, and probably so did the hundred other eyes and ears glued to them.
“Talk's cheap around here, son,” said Fat Anthony. “What else you got to put up besides your fists?”
Greene pulled a fat roll of bills from his pocket and waved it in Anthony's face. When the spit stopped flying, they had a five-thousand-dollar bet riding on the game. Greene even spotted him five points. And I swear, I saw Fat Anthony fight back a grin.
“It won't even be a game!” snarled Greene. “My team's like assassins. They'll eat up those five points in the first minute. I woulda gave you ten points if you asked for it, sucka. You're ass-stupid. You don't know shit 'bout makin' deals, Doughboy!”
But I guess Fat Anthony already got what he wanted, because after that he pulled a deaf-mute act. He just let Greene run his mouth and wouldn't answer back.
“See, you know you can't trade words with me. That's
my
business,” said Greene, grabbing the bling around his neck. “
You
hold your tongue. After the game,
I'll
be holdin' your money!”
That whole scene only ended when Greene chased after the cop who left a ticket on the windshield of his whip.
The day before the game with the Greenbacks, J.R. and me were shooting baskets at the park. Fat Anthony was talking to us from the sideline, saying how heroes are made in close games.
“People will always remember who made the winning shot in a tight game,” said Fat Anthony. “And anything less than that five-point spread's tight enough for me. The crowd wants to seeâ”
Fat Anthony pulled up short on his words, seeing Stove over his shoulder.
“Here comes the law on the court,” laughed Anthony. “I better quit talkin' 'bout the points.”
Stove pretended like Fat Anthony wasn't even there and started feeding us passes so we could work on our jumpers. Anthony watched us drain maybe a dozen shots in a row. Then he asked Stove why he wouldn't ever let J.R. and me play for him in the tournament.
“Because my father's always looking out for us,” answered J.R., raising up from the top of the circle and burying another one.
“That's all right,” laughed Fat Anthony. “I'm even glad your pops is working the game tomorrow. I know he'll keep things right.”
Then Fat Anthony stuck out his hand, and after a second, Stove shook it.
“I just hope it's a game people remember for the action
on
the court,” said Stove. “Not for what happens on the
side
.”
“And I know if there's a close call, it won't go your son's way. You're just like that,” said Fat Anthony, smiling like a guy who had a bet he couldn't lose.
I spent that whole next morning with J.R., before he got killed. We were trying to come up with a tag for him that would go with Hold the Mustard. We went through every kind of food in my refrigerator, looking for something that would fit. It was all laid out on the table next to the mustard. But nothing really clicked. Then my mom came in and yelled at us for making a mess out of her kitchen. But I was just happy to be home without her damn husband there to put me down, or hollering at me to get a part-time job instead of playing ball. J.R. knew it, too, and even made a fuss over my new nickname in front of her.
“As long as you two keep clear of trouble, I don't care what your friends call you,” Mom said, calming down enough to hug us both. “Now put everything back in that fridge the way I had it.”
In the end, there were a couple of names we thought were all right. So we wrote them out and took the list to Acorn at his barbershop. The place was packed, but he looked up from giving a haircut and smiled when we walked in.
“Maybe one day, I'll have these boys' pictures up with the rest of them,” said Acorn for everybody to hear.
The back wall of his shop is covered with pictures of famous ballers who threw down at Rucker Park. There's Doctor, Hawk, Pee Wee, Skates, Big Dipper, and maybe a hundred more. And lots of them got their tags straight from Acorn's mouth.
But when we showed him the list, Acorn's face turned funny. He looked it over for a minute like he was serious. Then he busted out laughing in that big voice.
“You boys want names?” asked Acorn, trying to hold himself together. “How about the Dummy Brothers?”
That's when everybody in the shop started laughing at us, too.
“Listen to what they came up with,” crowed Acorn. “âSweet Relish!' Can you imagine that?”
“You can't just choose yourself a nickname,” said the man getting a haircut. “That would be cheatin'.”
“It's got to come to Acorn natural-like, durin' a game,” another dude kicked in.
Then Acorn grabbed J.R. around the shoulders and stood him in front of the mirror.
“Now you can stand here all day tellin' everybody how good-looking you are,” said Acorn. “But you're better off waitin' for it to come from somebody else's mouth first. It's the same with nicknames.”
We were almost out the door when an old man said, “It's a good thing those boys got each other to talk to, 'cause nobody else in this world would take 'em serious.”
Outside, we could still hear them laughing. Then somebody opened the door to the shop, and it got louder for a few seconds, till the door got closed again.
The rest of our time together, J.R. was pissed at me.
“Pickin' out a tag was mostly your idea,” said J.R. “Only Acorn made more fun of me than you.”
But nobody's laughing at Rucker Park tonight. It's all business. Even for the warm-ups, kids got their game faces screwed on tight. I can hear the snap in every pass on the layup line. Nobody's going light. It's all power dunks, and everybody's trying to rip the rim right off the damn backboard. Sometimes you can scare another squad right out of the game when you got it cooking in the drills. But you don't scare anybody off when you're playing for the championship at Rucker Park. Not when both teams got confidence and know they belong.
Non-Fiction's real organized, and got everything planned out. They clap hands twice when the guy at the front of their layup line drives for the hoop. The third beat is supposed to be the sound of him throwing it down. And when it's working right, it sounds like drums beating.
We don't have anything worked out together for the warm-ups. Kids on our team go dolo, and do whatever they feel. Every time one of our guys throws down a monster jam, the crowd goes crazy. Then nobody can hear that bullshit clapping from the other side of the court, and that's what we want.
Both teams want to one-up each other for the crowd and really rock the house. Lots of people are still open about which team to pull for, and both squads want to win them over bad. Crowds at Rucker Park are loud, and almost right on top of the court. When they're all together on something, their voice can be like a sledgehammer that no team wants to get hit with.
I can even hear them screaming from outside the fence and down the block. There are kids sitting in trees and on the tops of streetlights. The park's mobbed, and people are still lined up on the sidewalk waiting to get inside. It takes a while because everybody gets patted down by the cops for weapons and bottles, even the players.
Half the windows on J.R.'s side of our building are filled up with people hanging out of them. I can see his bedroom window clear as anything. It's closed up tight, with the shade pulled down.
Most kids on the court can really sky. I can dunk a ball okay, but I'm not going to turn any heads like that. My game is all about being fast on my feet, so I try to lay the ball in with some real style behind it.
I cradle the pass on my fingertips, like somebody tossed me a baby from the window in a fire. I drive for the basket going a hundred miles an hour. Then I let every muscle in my body go easy. Everybody's eyes are still moving quick to keep up. That's when I find my own space, where everything else just slides by, and nothing can touch me. I plant my left foot and bring the ball over my head. And just as I finger-roll it to the rim, I flip it soft and high. I start back down to the ground the same time as the ball. The net jiggles as it slips through, and I send that same little wave down my shoulders to my hips.
The crowd oohs and aahs like I brushed them with a feather. Then I jog back to the end of the line. Only I keep my eyes up the whole way, so I don't see the spot on the court where J.R. got killed.
Greene grabs the mike out of Acorn's hand and starts rapping about me.
Â
“They call him Hold the Mustard,
But the brother's smooth like custard.
If there's a move he'll bust it . . .”
The whole park's yelling my name, and I start to feel good inside. Then I see J.R.'s pops. I know he's the ref and is supposed to stay even. But that cold look on his face turns me blank, till it robs me of everything.
Stove keeps waiting to hear something different out of my mouth.
“That's everything I saw!” I told him, the same way I practiced over and over to sell the cops on it. “There's nothin' I'm leavin' out! That's how it went down! Why do I gotta keep sayin' it?”
Anyway, nothing's going to bring back J.R.
Stove
Mackey told the cops it was two kids he'd never seen before. That they were playing two-man when one of them started arguing with J.R. over a foul call. Then the kid went loco and pulled a knife. But it wasn't like J.R. to get heated over a pickup game, or go out looking for a run when he had the tournament that night. No one else saw a thing, and that didn't make sense to me, either. The regulars at the park are always checking out newjacks who come to play on their turf. They'd drop a dime on any stranger who touched somebody from the neighborhood. But Mackey hasn't gone back on a word of his story. And he hasn't been able to look me in the eye since.
I hear that damn bet Anthony and Greene made got carried over to tonight, after the first game got canceled because of J.R. That's something else that doesn't sit right with me.
The cancer that took Carmen was from God, but I know this was even dirtier than Mackey's letting on.
An official basketball weighs twenty-one and one-quarter ounces. I've started enough games by tossing one up at center court to know. But every ball here feels heavier than that to me.