Team Seven (30 page)

Me and Beezy are arm’s-length-cool, and I don’t give two fucks, he can have Tunnetta. After it all went down, I still had a good amount of weed at the house and about two thousand dollars in cash, and I didn’t really know what to do with it, so I signed up for a basketball camp in Honesdale, Pennsylvania. From what I heard the best players in the nation always attend this camp, at least that’s what Coach Fulton told me.

It was like the plug got pulled and the block felt stale and old, sort of like ruins. I still wake up and scramble my eggs and watch
American Gladiators
on ESPN Classic but nothing seems to feel the same anymore.

I finally got my cast off my right hand and it feels weak as hell and my jump shot’s pretty sorry, but it’ll all come back slow. At least I got my body back in shape. I make layups in my sleep—it’s like riding a bike. I can still hoop. I work out
late at night, two or three in the morning when the whole town’s asleep, seven days a week. I sprint between the telephone poles and dribble around the sewer caps, even after Bible study.

I’m slowly starting to accept the block’s new version of normal, but I know I have to get outta here. Sometimes I sit on the front porch half expecting to hear bass thumping out of the trunk of Reggie’s Jeep or to look up the street and see Smoke and his boys blazing up, posted on top of the hill, playing music of their own, but I don’t and never will again. The suntan ladies still oil-fry under the sun, sipping their liquor-mugs, gossiping about each other to each other, and the old folks still perch on their high porches reading books or magazines, slowly watching the days passing them by. Now the crows line up single file across the telephone wires, cackling cries that echo out bouncing around the block and ruining the other birds’ songs.

These days the only thumping on the block is my basketball against the concrete. The neighborhood feels so empty now, the stillness is a silent reverence, the block’s testament to the fact that the streets can turn a cool cat into a killer in a matter of seconds, and what’s done is done. It’s hard to know what’s on someone else’s mind or what the next man is willing to do to silence the voice that gnaws away and hammers at the back of his head.

Knowing what I know now, I realize I understood very little about both of them cats and it’s not about the wrong and the right or the good or the bad of the situation. I fired no shots but I know my role facilitated things. I got caught up and didn’t realize the gravity of the moment. Reggie always told me to stop fucking around and now I see what he meant. Regardless of my intentions, some things just can’t be taken
back, and nothing can be done against the truth, regardless of how long it takes to see through the initial onsets of denial. It went down how it did and bottom line I learned from both of them.

So now that I’ve finished packing my bags, I’m leaving. I told Ma that I was going to a basketball tournament in New York and she didn’t question me too hard about it. Before Ma can wake up and prod me any further about it, I’m going.

As I tiptoe out of the house with my backpack on and my duffel bag in my hands, Papa Tanks is outside bright and early, his whole upper half under his red Dodge Neon. He slides out from under the car and looks at me with confusion in his face, “Champion, where you going wit’ bags all packed up?”

“To a basketball camp, Pa-Paw. I’m taking a bus, it stops in New York first.”

“I sure hope you’re going where you say.” He fixes me with a serious look and sort of shakes his head at me.

“I am, I promise.”

He shrugs his shoulders and slides back under the car and I start walking toward Mattapan station. I signed myself up for the camp and paid for it with my own money too. I got a pair of new basketball sneakers, and after spreading the money around a little bit I’m leaving town with fifteen hundred dollars in my pocket.

As I walk away from town, I start thinking about Jasmine and Reece. Since the night I first met them, I’ve wanted to reach out and visit little Reece, but I didn’t really think Jasmine would have cared to hear from me. As I cross the bridge carrying my bags into Mattapan, I walk down River Street and ring Jasmine’s bell. She answers the door in sweatpants and a mesh head wrap.

“Yes?” She blinks at me all fast like I’m stupid or something.

“Well, I—I … I know that there’s nothing I can say that could really help change what happened. I just been wondering if you two were okay, and so I know Reggie was close to my mother and I know you’re a mother and I just thought maybe this could help toward something someway somehow.” I hand her a stack Reggie-style, ten hundred-dollar bills, leaving myself with five hundred. Jasmine takes the money out of my hand and drops it on the floor.

“What did you have to do to get this money? Bet I wouldn’t wanna know. All of your kind make me sick.” I kneel down and start picking up the bills off the floor when I hear a man’s voice coming from inside the apartment. I can’t make out what he is saying but she calls back, “It’s nothing, babe.” She steps to the side and slides her body half behind the door. “That’s got to be dirty money in your hands—is it burning a hole in your pockets? You watched that man self-destruct in this place and you just rode along for the ride. Reggie didn’t need people like you yes-men in his life. Get the hell from ’round here, lil’ nigga.” She slams the door.

I want to say, “Hey, but that’s not me,” but I don’t respond. Clearly I showed her different. I just turn around and walk back toward Mattapan station and I stand alone, ready to prove to myself that I can still hoop.

I think I am going crazy as I start to get on the trolley and hear two older voices yelling “Champion” over and over again, like they are calling someone. Papa Tanks calls me that sometimes and the only other person who calls me that is my father. I step into the car and sit down with my bags in front of me and turn to look and, sure enough, it’s him, my father in his convertible, and one of my strung-out halfway-house-looking uncles hopping in the passenger seat. They’re waving me to come over to the car but I nod my head at them, look
away, and put on my headphones. The doors ding closed and the engine sneezes on and the train rattles a bit as we take off. I look at them one last time, now it seems like they are cursing me, until a few cars behind them start blowing their horns. They speed off, and I watch the backs of their heads fade as the trolley rumbles and clacks away.

I would first like to thank God without whom none of this would be possible. I am eternally thankful to my mother, Jean Burke, faithful partner in the trenches, and the strongest person I know. To my sisters, Xandria and Ayana Burke, for always looking out for me and setting such a great example. Proper respect and thanks to my grandparents, Lloyd and Ruby Sharp, two trailblazers ahead of their time, and to whose memory this novel is dedicated. I couldn’t imagine what my life would be like without Mary Coats, thanks for everything, my dear, it’s just the beginning! To Robert and Shari Coats, thank you for believing in our dreams.

Much love and respect to Charlie Tufts and Brian Atkinson, my two day-one Lothrop-Ave. brothers, I couldn’t have asked for two better best friends. Much thanks to Carmen and Al Atkinson, for letting me eat up all your food and somewhat live at your home for most of my teenage years and anytime I’m in town. To Robert Badwah, my surrogate older brother, I cherish the times we shared, I think of you often. Thanks to Dave, Ann, and Paul Eder-Mulhane for allowing me to play basketball in their driveway at all hours and for their continued friendship and encouragement over the years.

I’d like to thank the teachers and faculty who helped and encouraged me during my high school years: Michael Langlois, Katherine Lanson, Emily Lucket, Mr. Young,
Mr. Collier, Ms. Star, Mrs. Wilson, Christian Huizenga, Mr. Blute, Nancy Bradley, Maria Gupta, Paul Murry, Cecilia Pan, Landon Rose, and Donna Williams.

I owe a huge debt of gratitude to the teachers and faculty who took the time to help me realize my value in the classroom. Special thanks to Anne Reenstierna for taking a chance on me while I was slightly rough around the edges seventeen-year-old and welcoming me into the Brimmer and May Community. To Nancy Drourr, for being a great teacher, adviser, and friend. Your encouragement and support over the years have been instrumental. To Janita Robinson, for listening to my earliest writing, before I had the courage to show it to anybody else, and for urging me to continue. To Amanda Lombardo, for introducing me to the work of Zora Neale Hurston and changing the way I thought about literature.

I owe a huge thank-you to my agent, David McCormick, for believing in this project before it was finished and for his unwavering support, patience, and editorial insight while we worked on the manuscript. I’d also like to thank Bridget McCarthy and the staff at McCormick & Williams. Another huge thank-you to my editor, Gerry Howard, at Doubleday, for also believing in this project and helping make this a much better novel. Thanks also to Jeremy Medina and the staff at Doubleday. I couldn’t have asked for a better team to introduce me to the game.

The Iowa Writers’ Workshop changed the course of my life forever and I will always be grateful. Thank you to Lan Samantha Chang and Connie Brothers, for bringing me out to Iowa, treating me great, and giving me the time, resources, and space to write. I’d like to thank the Maytag Fellowship, the Iowa Arts Fellowship, and the MacArthur Foundation for the financial support that allowed me to complete this novel.
Thanks also to Deb West and Jan Zenisek, for all the laughs and helping me stay on schedule while I was a student at the Workshop. I’d also like to thank the amazing cast of fiction writers and professors who have taken the time to read my work, and have knowingly or unknowingly offered meaningful conversation and encouragement. Many thanks to: James Alan McPherson, Marilynne Robinson, Peter Orner, Benjamin Percy, Allan Gurganus, Paul Harding, Tom Grimes, Silas Zobal, Gary Fincke, Karla Kelsey, and Tom and Sarah Bailey for their generosity. I’d also like to thank Lisa Scott, Phil Winger, Dr. Lucien T. Winegar, Dan Olivetti, and Dr. Dave Ramsaran.

Here’s the part where I give a few shouts to some old teammates and friends:

Special shout to my SU homies: Josh Robinson, Donta Phillips, Bryan “B.Maj” Majors, Erich Majors, Kenny Anyanwu, Jose D’Oleo, EJ Duncan, Big Rob Cosgrove, Harvey Pannel, Daryl Augustus (gone too soon), Zac Smith, Katie Peters, and Yvonne Donovan.

To my college basketball teammates: Hunter McKain; Fran Brzyski; Jason Dawson; Frank Marcinek, Jr.; Matt McDevit; Joel Patch; Spenser Spencer; and Chad Cohle. Thanks to Coach Frank Marcinek, it may have taken a bit but I’m glad we found common ground.

To Khailia Williams, Jason England, Ayana Mathis, and Nikki Terry, thank you for your generosity when I first arrived in Iowa City.

To my great friend, colleague, and sparring partner Nick Butler, the Workshop wouldn’t have been the same without those nights around the starlight. To my sister from another
mother, A. Naomi Jackson, for all the laughs and good conversation, I can’t wait for your book. To the first friend I made in Iowa City, Scott Butterfield, much respect and thanks for always keeping it 100. To Dr. Lisa Kim, you are an amazing person and I’m thankful I’ve had the pleasure of working with you. To Ken Duerre and Susan Hazen-Hammond, for your continued friendship, thank you.

Last but not least I’d like to give the biggest shout-out to all the underdogs out there who are misunderstood and underestimated, and yet continue to overcome … keep on pushin’.

God bless,

Marcus Burke, September 25, 2013

Iowa City, Iowa

Marcus Burke grew up in Milton, Massachusetts, just outside of Boston. A standout athlete, he attended prep school at Brimmer and May and was recruited to play basketball at Susquehanna University, where he played varsity for all four years. But a knee injury limited his playing time, so he took up fiction writing instead and was accepted to the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, where he was awarded a grant in honor of James Alan McPherson from the University of Iowa MacArthur Foundation Fund. He lives in Iowa City, Iowa. This is his first novel.