The first quarter ended, 28 to 27. Panama complained that Ameer was riding him and we needed to switch it up. “Midnight, you and I will play forward position, give Machete and Jaguar the point guard position for a quarter, just to confuse them. Big Mike, I need you to smack their balls back like this is volleyball. Don’t let ’em get near the hoop. Machete, you check that crazy red point guard, their captain.”
Second quarter, Ameer went up, Machete smacked his shot. Loose ball; the red team snatched it up. They passed back to Ameer. He went up for the shot again, kicked Machete, and sank it. The crowd went wild. The coaches were out of their seats. The referee called the foul. The black team got possession of the ball. Ameer’s shot did not count. Machete was tight. But Ameer was tight also.
“Hands in their faces!” Ameer yelled. Jaguar was dribbling, he cut left, then right, shaking the red man checking him and sinking the layup. Ameer went to his man and leaned on him. His finger was in his face and his man pushed him off. Their ball; his man passed it. Ameer dribbled, faked the pass. Machete went for the fake; Ameer was up in the air unguarded, sank the shot, and elbowed Machete on the way down. The crowd hollered. Machete’s eye was fucked up. But the ref called the foul on Machete. The crowd was in an uproar. Vega called time out.
Coach and Panama tried to sit Machete down and send in a sub. Machete argued that he was good. Dolo, who somehow crept up to the bench even though he had been missing from all of the practices and playoff games since his blowup, said, “I told y’all niggas you was gonna need me. Look at the score. Y’all only beating them by two. What? I could’ve done that,” he said and he was wearing a plain black T-shirt, not our team jersey, and a white pair of K-Swiss.
“Shut the fuck up!” Big Mike told Dolo.
“Yeah, I got your shut the fuck up. Don’t even ask me to play until you show me some money,” Dolo said. “No show, no go.” Big Mike lunged toward him. Panama pulled him back. “Focus!” Vega yelled. “He’s a nobody. Forget about him.”
“Yeah, I’m a nobody. Forget about me. But y’all five ain’t gonna get no burn. Fucking bench bums. Coach rather play a one-eyed point guard than any of you!” Dolo shouted. “Slide with me and we could work the crowd and get some money in our pockets,” he offered the bottom five. But the crowd noise and excitement level was too high. Dolo, on edge, couldn’t grab the spotlight.
Ameer’s team, refreshed from the time-out, came back, doing some kind of crazy dance steps. My mind was divided. I was the ball player who planned on defeating the opposition, and the ninjutsu warrior who had a problem with Dolo, the loose cannon from my team. Focus, I told myself, then I hit long, a three-pointer. I snatched my point guard position back and checked Ameer to put a clamp on his thirty-two-point game, which was more than half of the points his team earned. Halftime, score was 57 to 54, in our favor.
Sweating hard, I was in the black bandanna, hustling like my life depended on it. I was on Ameer so rough, but we knew each other too well. We were both canceling one another out. Neither him nor me hit any points for six minutes into the third quarter because of the way we blocked, defended, and offended. It gave our teammates the opportunity to score. Ameer got his hands on the ball somehow. I stripped him. Then he stripped me. The crowd was on their feet. I was back checking him. He passed the ball to his man. His man passed the ball to the red center. The red center passed the ball back to Ameer. He pumped, like he was going up for the shot. I jumped. He darted underneath me and hit the shot from an impossible, awkward angle. Now everyone was standing.
Our ball; Machete was dribbling downcourt. Ameer left his guard over me and pulled up on Machete. They were both in close, and talking shit to one another. “Fuck it, I’ll give you the lane,” Ameer said to Machete.
“I’ll take it,” Machete said, and headed for the layup. Ameer stripped him from behind and was on his way back down to his hoop. He passed the ball forward, then ran up full speed before the black team could get back and set up. His man passed him the ball and he layed it up. A herd of girls started calling for him, “Romeo Red, Romeo Red, Romeo Red!” It seemed like I could see his head swell too big for his neck. “That’s right!” He pumped his fist and banged his chest. Still, the score was 79 to 76, our favor, at the end of the third quarter.
Our ball, and our bench was suddenly missing four players. I shot a look towards Panama. Panama shot a look towards the bench. Braz connected eyes with Panama and me and mouthed, “Dolo,” and swiped his hand across his neck. The five starters, including myself, knew we had to be without error to win the game. I also knew we had an off-the-court problem. As I was dribbling downcourt, I saw Dolo maneuvering through the crowd. Kid had a twenty-two in his grip and his hand hidden at his side. Half a second away from approaching where Vega and Santiaga stood, I stopped and fired the basketball at him, hitting him in the head and causing him to lose balance. The gun hit the floor. The front-row crowd stood, saw the gun on the ground, and scrambled. Dolo tried to pick it up. But when he reached forward he got dragged backwards, out of the view of the players and the fans. As the rumor spread through the crowd to even the people who saw nothing, some started to make moves like bullets had been fired, when they hadn’t.
“Play ball!” Ameer shouted. The referee threw in another basketball and gave it to the red team to check. He blew the whistle and it was back on. When the crowd cleared, Santiaga was still standing, chilling in his white leisure suit, no blood on his crocs or cloth. Not even looking over his shoulders one way or another. Dolo was gone like he had never been there in the first place.
End of the fourth quarter, the score was 98 to 95, in our favor. There were eleven seconds remaining on the clock. Ameer pulled up for the shot. Big Mike gummed it and forced Ameer down. Ameer landed on Big Mike’s ankle. Big Mike was injured. He howled like a baby but drew the foul. He couldn’t be subbed. Braz doesn’t play center. Tower was gone. He shot from the line and missed, twice. Ameer sneered and grabbed the rebound. He passed the ball. His man hit the shot from the corner. It was 98 to 97, in our favor. Seven seconds left on the clock. We checked the ball. I had three reds guarding me and no opening. I bounced down the time clock. Jaguar was open. I passed the ball to him. The three reds flew towards him like flies smelling shit. He saw the tackle coming, jumped, and hit the three pointer, game over. The black team won.
In the heat of the victory, the crowd flooded the court. The ball players were mixed in the middle. The referees and coaches were all blowing their whistles. The red team lifted Ameer onto their shoulders and started a Brooklyn chant.
When the crowd was finally pushed back, the red team gave the black team no dap. They wouldn’t line up to offer the black team that sportsmanship-like handshake. Instead, their center lit a blunt and started smoking it center court.
The red and black team owners came out half court, along with both coaches. Santiaga and the red team owner, both dressed to the nines and monied men, who I had never seen before, shook hands with no animosity. Then, both coaches shook hands. The emergence of the older men with the clout and the money and control over the purse brought both the crowd and the players to a hush. Ameer broke ranks and approached Santiaga for a handshake. Santiaga raised Ameer’s hand and said, “MVP.” The crowd cheered. The red team mobbed Ameer. Without a megaphone, Santiaga began speaking. The weight of his reputation caused a sudden silence. “Without a doubt, this youth right here got that Brooklyn struggle, hustle, and fight in his blood. Even though my squad, the black team, earned the victory,” the crowd cheered at the mention of our team, “I feel good awarding this man the MVP title,” Santiaga announced.
Ameer and I didn’t acknowledge one another, like we had agreed for the whole playoffs and championship game. We kept our communication off court. We both played our best game. We both got what we wanted. Ameer had said to me when I first returned from Asia, “I’ll be mad as a motherfucker if you come back after being gone for a month and win MVP.” Now he had won and he was beaming about the
bragging rights he had secured. He didn’t even know that although he won the purse fair and square, I was never in the running for it. I had disqualified myself. I saw no reason to tell him. Both him and me were up. He was up $25,000 for MVP. I was up $10,000 for being champion top five. Together we pulled down $35,000. Divided three ways between Ameer, Chris, and me, we were all three up $11,667. That’s friendship
Back in my sweats, after our on-the-court celebration, I ducked out. Everybody had to clear out anyway. The adult league was playing on that court in a few hours. And, other than Panama’s house party, jumping off later that same night, nothing was up. The money-getting ceremony was top secret. Each starter trusted that we would get that call from Coach Vega right after the holiday weekend. As Vega put it, “You should be glad you don’t know where the real celebration takes place and that the money gets handed over after all the hype dies down. Otherwise you would be a target. This is Brooklyn. Don’t sleep.”
Soon as I took one step towards leaving, Bangs, who was standing in the back of where the crowd wrapped around the black team, began moving in my same direction. I couldn’t miss her. She was wearing the bright white tee with navy-blue letters that said MILK SHAKE. She tried to lock eyes with me. I wouldn’t let her. Instead I moved swiftly, without looking back. I had to catch the LIRR to Penn Station and the 2:15 p.m. Amtrak train to Massachusetts, then hop on the ferry boat to link back with Umma, my wives, and sister.
Of course she followed me. She’s a runner, more comfortable running than walking. She stepped onto the LIRR and said, “You wasn’t running from me, right? I just wanted to see you and talk for a minute.”
“What did I tell you about your clothes,” I said.
“I was doing good for a long while, but you didn’t come back,” she said.
“So what happened?” I asked.
“If I was going to do it that way, I was only doing it for you. What’s the sense in me dressing the way you like to see me, if I can’t see you?” she said. I just looked at her. Her body was right but her mind was never ready.
“You look beautiful to me, Superstar,” she said. I took off my black sweat jacket and put it on her. She had to cover up.
“Why ‘Milk Shake’?” I asked her.
“ ’Cause it’s thick and sweet like me and it jiggles a little,” she said. I smiled, but not on purpose, naturally. I didn’t want to encourage her. Yet she was so honest in her misunderstandings about herself. She hugged me. I didn’t embrace her.
“And what do you want the men who see that you’re thick and sweet and that you jiggle a little to do?” I asked her.
“Oh, they would know even if I didn’t have ‘Milk Shake’ on my tee. You the only one who don’t know,” she said. “At least you don’t act like it.”
I zipped up my sweat jacket to cover her breasts. “How’s your daughter?” I asked.
“I’m trying to get her off of my titties but she won’t let me,” she said, and my joint swelled.
“I missed you so much, Superstar. I see that you missed me too.” She giggled. Then she got suddenly serious. “I was lonely no matter who else came around.” She paused. “My grandmother died. It was so sad. And I didn’t want to stay in that house anymore—it was too scary. And even though I got money from her insurance, I’m still feeling kind of, I don’t know . . .” She was staring up at me.
“Where are you living now?” I asked her.
“At my girlfriend’s mother’s apartment in Fort Greene until my grandmother’s house gets sold,” she said sadly.
“How many males are living in the apartment with you?” I asked. She laughed.
“She doesn’t have any brothers, just her moms and two sisters, her and me and my daughter,” she said, not even mentioning a father because it was automatic that he wasn’t there.
“Oh, and there’s another serious thing I have to tell you, and one serious question that I have to ask you. But, not here,” she said. Then her energy built right back up and she promised, “But I’mma hurry up now ’cause if I have my own place you’ll come and see me, right?” she asked.
I didn’t say nothing, wouldn’t even look at her. In my head all I was thinking was, Oh Allah.
29. VINES • A Reflection
Unexpected, I was not a passenger on a passenger ferry with other passengers whose destination was the same as mine, Martha’s Vineyard. Instead, I was on a pretty private yacht named American Dream, owned by its captain, Clementine Moody. The aerodynamics of the body were nice and sleek. However, it was the interior that was fully fine and fresh. Cherrywood floors, and the cockpit wooded out as well. White leather high-backed couches, a beautiful leather recliner with burgundy piping and stitching, and cherrywood cabinets and tabletops. Part of the Grand Banks Heritage Yacht Collection, the East Bay 55sx was a definite luxury item. Uncle Clem had the sound system on low volume, a nice Miles Davis jazz cut I did not recognize the title of but I liked the feeling of the groove.
So many beautiful things; try not to lust them, I reminded myself. Then I also reflected that I had been on yachts ten times the value of this expensive one, with my father on business with the caked-up Arabs, cruising in the deep Red Sea. Also, I reminded myself that no matter how beautiful a material thing is, nothing is more beautiful than the sunset sky that Allah created.
So I steadied myself for whatever it was that Clementine Moody wanted. Because of the fight I had with his son Marcus, I knew there could be anything on his mind. At the same time, I was hopeful that Marcus was not a coward who ran and called his father to finish the fight that he started and lost. If he did, I would lose any remaining respect I might have had for him as a man.
He returned to the plush sitting area where he had invited me to take a seat, still wearing his captain cap, but with a Winchester shotgun in one hand and a Kodamatic 980L Instant camera in the other. Donned in his pink Ralph Lauren shirt, white khaki shorts, and Sperry Top-Sider shoes, he didn’t look threatening to me. However, my mind was swiftly calculating the possibilities of which way this scenario might move. Was he planning on getting Marcus’s revenge by murdering me and taking photos of my corpse to show and then tell his son, “This is how it should be done”? Was he planning to hold me hostage and shoot photos of me to attach to his ransom note? Nah, who would he get ransom from? Was he planning to blow my head off and dump my body in waters that were unknown to me in a place where I had never been before and make it appear to my mother, sister, and wives that I had broken my promise to come join them and had abandoned them instead? Was Marcus sitting in another room in the boat, hoping his father would negotiate a truce?
“I’m going to have the bourbon,” he said after setting down the camera, and prepared himself a drink. “Since you are underage, I’ll offer you the drink my sons have had since they each turned twelve, a glass of Chicama wine made right here on the Vineyard.”
“What’s the shotgun for?” I got right to it.
“Ignore this thing. I use it when I go duck hunting,” he said.
“Duck hunting on a boat?”
“With the Winchester, a man might have had one purpose for having it at first, but then a man and his gun get attached and somehow grow together. Next thing you know, you’re carrying it everywhere ’cause you’ll miss it if it’s gone.” He laughed two quick, insincere chuckles.
“If you have water, I’ll have that,” I said, overlooking his bullshitting.
“There’s only me today because of the July Fourth holiday. My first mate and my secretary are both off celebrating with their own families. I’ll be right back,” he said, placing his glass on the built-in coaster on the wooden table. He took his shotgun with him, though.
“Take a look at these,” he said, spreading some photos on the tabletop as soon as he returned. I looked down. The six photos were of Bangs and me in Penn Station just four hours ago. We had walked together. I stopped at a shop and bought her a jacket so I could take my Starter championship jacket back and she c
ould cover herself. In one of the photos I was unzipping my jacket from her body. In the other she was smiling and trying on the jacket I purchased, which was nothing great, but it had long sleeves and was long enough for her to pull over her hips and to cover her ass. All of the photos seemed like they were snapped, not for the art of photography, but to confirm something the way a private investigator would confirm that two people had met.
“So?” I said, my face blank. Inside I was thinking of who could have snapped the shots and how could I have possibly overlooked a person following me. But Penn Station on 34th in Manhattan is a major thoroughfare and there are thousands of people passing through at all times of the day and night, every day.
“So,” Clementine Moody repeated. “When it comes to men, ‘too good to be true’ is always an illusion. Isn’t it?” he asked me.
“Good and true are the same thing, in my estimation. If a man is good and true, why would that be an illusion?” I asked, trying to follow his reasoning.
He smiled. “Slick talker, but there’s only you and me here on the open waters. You can drop the whole religious routine. Save that for your wife,” he said.
“Routine? How about you just get to your point. I didn’t expect to see you on the Amtrak platform. You asked me to follow you here. Out of respect I did. I don’t think we came here to discuss these photos. At least I hope not.”
“You’re right. These photos are just a precursor to let you know that I see you clearly, and that I have documentation of one of your secrets. All men have secrets. Isn’t that right?” he asked. “And if any woman were to look at these photos of this pretty young thang wearing your jacket, the same one you have on right now, what would she think?” he asked, and gave a devious smile.