Where is the thick, lush green grass that Silverado Park, “my park,” has always boasted, even in the winter?
The rundown, neglected state of the buildings, fences, and the landscape was more akin to the 19th Street Playground, or some of the other East Side places. In all fairness to maintenance or whoever, it was obvious that efforts had been made to keep the place up and rid the park of its eyesores. Layers of paint were easily identifiable. But it was also quite clear that all such efforts had been futile. It was saddening.
Mercifully, I was rescued in short order when the teams took the court for the second half of play. Gone instantly was any melancholia due to the harsh realities of encroaching urban squalor. After all, what could I, a cripple whose best days were behind him, do?
Before that impossible question could weigh me down, the sweet sound of the chain net’s ching grabbed my full attention. I looked up just as team gray took the ball out. A snap glance at the scoreboard (another relic from the past) showed Red Haze up 46 to 43.
I must’ve missed something… I lamented, remembering that the red team had won the first half tip, which would’ve given the gray team the first possession of the second half. The mystery of exactly what I’d missed quickly became a non-factor as Greg Jr. pulled up and let fly with a deep three-pointer.
Ching! All net, game tied again.
“Aw shit,” I exclaimed to myself. “Things are heatin’ up.”
And they were, too.
• 4 •
Sometime during the tight, excitement-filled and fast-paced second half, team gray became my old Blazers team. The dude in the middle became my older brother Mitchell, though my sibling only stood 6’6” and checked in at 245 on his best day. The big Latino at power forward was easily substituted for Kevin Cornelius. The long-limbed, spindly outside shooter at small forward possessed the same build and skill set as my old Jackrabbit and Blazer teammate, Bradley Kline — the only white dude on any of my high school teams.
When Greg Jr. went into the post against a smaller defender on the Red Haze squad, it was impossible for me not to see shades of my old nemesis/adversary/teammate, even occasional good friend, Benny Calhoun. Though only 6’4”, Benny was wide, strong, and nimble-footed, with a basketball I.Q. that few people could match. Of course, that was before Mad Dog 20/20, Ripple, and White Port wine became his constant companions. And prior to when vacant lots, freeway underpasses, and the like became his permanent address. Sadly, it was also before Mitchell was killed in action over in DaNang, Vietnam. Before…. Yeah, it still hurt, but it was also before he’d come home on leave and slept with Sheila. Well, in all fairness, they hadn’t really slept together, not at all. In Sheila’s words, “We fucked! No love, nothing. We just fucked. And so what? You’re still whining away and chasin’ behind Annette. So, why can’t I have me some fun?” she’d spat.
“Screen left!” shouted Kevin.
I dodged a would-be red-clad obstruction and picked up my man on the other side of his intended screener. The simple, evasive defensive maneuver came as a shock to the dribbler, causing him to try a spin move, which led him directly to Benny. The latter plucked the basketball out of the surprised player’s hand as if it were a piece of fruit. Then, just like we’d practiced perhaps a million times, I jetted down court toward our goal. And just like in practice, Benny let fly a chest pass, which I coasted underneath, made the reception, elevated and softly laid-up. That was always my way, my style of playing. For Benny, it was always the spectacular and the difficult. For my brother and Big Kevin, it was all about the power, usually thunderous dunks that rocked the stanchion and the backboard. Bradley, he very seldom ventured into the hole. And when he did he looked, well…he looked sorta geeky. Me, I just kept things simple. Winning was all that ever concerned me.
“M.P., comin’ yo way,” shouted Big Kev as he moved to pick up the center for the red team, who had just rolled off a pick.
Automatically, I took two giant strides to my left to defend the guy who’d set the pick on Kev. He was near the free-throw line and appeared annoyed at my presence. His frustration only increased when he tried to get around me, attempting to roll to the basket to receive a pass from a teammate. Kevin was hounding that teammate unmercifully. Added to that, Mitch stepped up and quickly double-teamed the would-be passer. I smiled. A surge of pride exploded inside me when my big brother snagged the relatively weak bounce pass and threw a perfect strike to Benny, who was streaking down the sideline. True to form, Benny executed a flawless double-pump, two-handed jam. He immediately began running the baseline, prepared to defend the inbounds pass.
Even as I searched for the nearest opposition player to defend before he even got the ball, that magical stream of sibling pride and delight I’d experienced a second earlier returned tenfold. Without turning my head, I knew exactly where Mitchell was and what he was doing. He’d be patrolling the backcourt, à la an NFL Safety, our last line of defense, just in case. Us four other guys, we were applying a tight, gripping, full-court press, trying to get a steal. Lacking success at that, we would slow down any attempted fast breaks that could result in easy baskets for the opposition.
The thing was, Mitchell had always been there for me, through all my ups and downs from the time I was seven years old and won all of his friends’ marbles. They were all nine- and 10-year-olds. Embarrassed to have lost to a “little squirt” as they’d labeled me, they’d tried to take their marbles back. Of course, I resisted. In the end, Mitch beat up William Moore. The others relented, but still pouted for a while.
Another time, I’d won a ribbon for diving and caught the eye of Belinda Greenwood, the prettiest blonde at Stevens Junior High School. The fact that I didn’t even like her meant absolutely nothing to half of the white ninth graders. My being, not only black, but a seventh grader to boot caused my brother to have to wait for me mornings and after school for a week. It might’ve gone on forever had Mitchell not gotten tired of the cat-and-mouse routine. Yep, he called out the two biggest antagonists in front of the entire school. After he and I stood back to back, fighting for all we were worth, I had no more trouble at that school. Not even after he left for Poly High, leaving me to fend for myself.
Through thick and thin, come what may, Mitchell was everything that anyone could ever want in a big brother. He was patient, protective, both a teacher and a best friend. When he graduated from school, I, like everybody else, thought for sure that he would accept the scholarship offer from Long Beach State, or even check into City College. To say that I was shocked when he enlisted in the Army would be an understatement, but I wasn’t alone on that one. My senior year in high school was very lonely in spite of all the early athletic accolades, the attention of lots of girls, ownership of Mitchell’s 1953 Chevy, and those hot, sticky nights with Sheila Knight. It was also the year when a lifetime of confusion, uncertainty, and indecisiveness began in my personal life.
Annette Reed had sprouted up seemingly out of nowhere. That cute little skinny, knock-kneed girl suddenly became a gracious, curvaceous, self-assured swan. And that which had never been much of a secret exploded to the forefront. That shy little duckling set her eyes on me and did not let up one bit until she had captured my heart and my soul. Somehow, she was able to do that, even though Sheila Knight and I were going at it hot and heavy nearly every night.
I guess it was much easier for us to sneak around due to the fact that Sheila had a job at Memorial Hospital and her own apartment over on Wardlow Road. The love triangle between the three of us, which had actually begun that very first day my family had moved to Gale Street, had lain dormant, simmering as we aged, then heated to a boil during my senior year and in the year to come. Annette and I enjoyed the typical youthful outings — the beach, Disneyland, Magic Mountain, and the like. When we were together, it just seemed so right, so natural. We were the perfect fit and my heart soared.
But the next day or night (sometimes even the same night) I’d find myself wrapped up in the tig
ht confines of Sheila’s clutches, sweating as she whispered sweet endearments in my ear. It’s difficult at 18 not to feel like you’re in heaven when that girl’s expertise and ample charms coaxed one gut-wrenching orgasm after another out of you. Hell, even later in life she was impossible for me to resist. I seesawed between the two, more or less openly, for nearly two years.
Then, the unthinkable happened. Mitchell came home on leave after his first tour of duty in Vietnam. Although he tried very hard not to show it or cause alarm, my brother had returned a very different person. On the surface, he retained his affable manner and even-keeled nature. He even managed to come forth with his renowned, full-toothed smile at just the right time. Most people seemed to buy his act, but not our mother. And neither did I.
During his 30-day leave, I caught him staring off into nothingness an awful lot. There was just something a bit off about him. And while we had both smoked our share of weed in the past, Mitchell seemed to smoke a great deal more while he was home. He drank a lot more, too. While I was concerned, even a little troubled by his new character, I was happy to be at his side. That is, until that last Friday night, three