He stared at the flower stem sticking out the back of Anh-thu’s long black hair and felt happy.
Cheerleaders Screamed Out
chants and posed with blue and white pom-poms, whipped thin arms and legs around like little windup toys. The football squad leaned in close to the action on the court, sprayed venom and pointed bench-press fingers in the other team’s faces. The ten-piece band broke into hype-up-the-crowd tunes the second a ref’s whistle stopped play.
Sticky’s seventeenth birthday may have ended in a crowded holding cell, but it kicked off in a sold-out forty-year-old high school gym.
Dominguez Hills rolled into town with twenty-two wins and a bus full of hype. Players filling out purple jerseys like men. “Too much experience,” all the papers said. “Too many athletes. Two of their starters already committed to big-time colleges.” All this and it was Venice High’s first play-off game in five years.
Sticky was the hotshot sophomore who gets called up from JV for play-offs. The outsider at the end of the bench with his warm-ups still buttoned all the way.
The kid pinched out of the huddle during time-outs.
Players called up don’t see much run in the play-offs. It’s a pat on the back just being on the bench. Sticker on the helmet. But all that went out the window in the middle of the third quarter, when Dominguez Hills went up by twelve. Coach Reynolds shook his head at every face he scanned on the bench. When he got to Sticky he pointed a shaky finger, told him:
Get the hell in there, kid
. Grabbed Sticky under the arm and damn-near threw his ass toward the scorer’s table.
Run the point
.
Sticky jogged to the table and pulled off his warm-up jacket, tossed it behind the bench. He reached over and picked it back up, threw it down. Picked it up and threw it down.
Picked it up and threw it down.
Picked it up and threw it down.
It was a crazy time to have an episode, with all the varsity guys on the bench, watching, but he knew all he had to do was get on the court. That was when everything would disappear.
It took three or four more tries before he got the perfect toss. Then he slid a hand across both soles for grip.
The buzzer sounded and the ref waved Sticky into the game.
Reynolds put a hand on his shoulder and yelled something, but Sticky didn’t hear a word. He didn’t hear anything, in fact. Not his coach. Not the crowd. Not the announcer calling his name out over the loudspeaker or his teammates telling him who to take on defense. He strutted out onto the stage with nothing but a blank mind.
When the ref whistled the ball back in play, Sticky made like it was just another street ball game down at Lincoln Rec.
See, I have this theory about hoops. About what makes one dude smooth under pressure and another fold.
Sticky picked off a cross-court pass right off the bat, high-dribbled down the sideline like Deion Sanders and stuck a deep three-pointer.
The crowd rustled.
The more a player thinks about the game—what setting they’re in, who they’re running against, what folks will say depending on whether or not they hook up a decent showing—the more messed up that player is gonna play. It’s unnatural.
Sticky ripped the other squad’s point guard clean, like he was wrapped and on a shelf at half-court, took three quick dribbles and dropped in a sweet one-handed finger roll over the rim. His face broke a smile on the way back downcourt. He pointed to the crowd and pumped his fists.
He was like a showman at the circus.
The guy in the cage with the whip.
Go ahead and pick out the smartest dude in the house, and I’ll promise you he’s the most weak-minded baller. All that analyzing. Examining. Calculating. Man, you gotta stay clear out there. There’s no time for reflection when you need reaction to a situation.
The crowd started catching on to this new guy up from JV. Running the squad. Flashy passes and slick attacks on the bucket. Slashing and bombing away. Hoops on autopilot.
Sure, the game with refs is supposed to be different from the game on the street. More under control. Less razzle-dazzle. Fundamentals like they teach in clinics all across the country. How to play hoops for $425 per week. But Sticky plays with the same flavor no matter what the setting.
Every time you turned around in the second half, the announcer was calling Sticky’s name over the loudspeaker:
STICKYYYYYYY REICHARD FOR ANOTHER TWO.
COUNT IT
.
White space.
Then the whine of the school band’s trumpet, a couple thuds from the bass drum. The crowd stepping up its volume another notch. The weight of all the energy testing the old gym’s tired bleachers.
And some movie writer couldn’t have made it up any better. The way it all came down in the end. With eleven seconds left, Dominguez Hills’ star guard was at the free-throw line shooting two. Score tied 85–85. Crowd booming. Band banging through sets during a time-out Reynolds called to ice the shooter.
No matter what,
Reynolds yelled over screeching horns. The whole squad was huddled around him with blank faces, ready to gobble up whatever he fed them.
No matter what, if
he makes them or misses them, we call time out
.
When the kid stepped up to the line, the crowd was so out of control, stomping their feet and screaming, the rim actually started vibrating. The bottom of the net started flipping back and forth. The ref handed the kid the rock and he went into his routine: three dribbles, tuck the ball under the chin, deep breath. He lofted the first one up soft and it fell through.
The crowd died.
Just like that. Ball hits nylon, no more noise. Like someone in the control room flipped a switch. Dominguez Hills 86, Venice 85.
Purple jerseys went up and slapped their guy on the back, told him:
One more, baby. One more
.
The crowd topped out for the second free throw. Feet pounded bleachers like a tank rolling through. Both teams snuck over-the-shoulder glances at the wave of screaming fans. Felt deep vibrations swim through the floor and into their shoes, scale up weary legs and unfold in the pit of their stomachs.
Three dribbles, tuck the ball under the chin, deep breath. Kid lofted up another soft one, but this time it rattled around the rim and fell out. Venice’s starting center, Sinclair, ripped down the board with two hands and made a quick T around the ball.
Time out, ref! Time out!
Down one, nine seconds to play.
No time to analyze.
Venice huddled around Coach Reynolds again. A pocket of concentration. All the guys gave everything to ignore the cries of the crowd, the thumping of the band.
Reynolds reached for his stick of chalk and stared at the ground. All eyes were glued to a blank chalkboard.
All right,
here’s what we do!
he yelled, but then he fell silent again.
The crowd locked into a rhythm of sound. Two stomps and a clap. All at once. Boom boom clap. Boom boom clap. Sticky stood pinched out of the huddle with a water bottle, squirting an arc of tap into his mouth and trying to listen.
Reynolds reached through the huddle for Sticky’s arm. Pulled him into the middle of everything.
Sinclair,
Reynolds said, just as the buzzer sounded. End of time-out. End of brainstorm.
You inbound to Sticky.
Sticky, you penetrate and look for the open man. Nothing’s
there, pull up for the shot.
Everybody looked at Sticky all crazy as they broke the huddle and stepped back onto the floor. Coach put the rock in the hands of a JV kid. A sophomore. Skinny white boy who didn’t even have a name on the back of his jersey.
Sinclair put a big mitt on Sticky’s head.
Come on, youngster. Make something happen out there
.
Spread the court,
Reynolds yelled, following his team halfway out onto the hardwood. He reached out for Sticky’s shoulder but missed.
Don’t do nothing stupid, kid!
And a sold-out gym fell silent for Sticky.
The ref blew his whistle and handed the ball to Sinclair. The movements of the crowd without sound. Every kid on the court in super-slo-mo. Ticks of the clock farther and farther away. He jab-stepped at his defender and broke for the ball. Hands out. Sinclair whipped a pass in to him and the seconds started rolling:
Nine seconds on the clock . . . eight seconds. And, see, this is
what you do . . .
You size up the purple jersey in your face, man. Some num
ber 23-be-like-Mike black face with straight teeth. Braces.
Beads of sweat dribbling down his forehead. Baby Afro. The
triangle of small moles on his right cheek, calling out. Down in
defensive stance like basketball camp demonstration says.
Scared eyes.
Seven seconds . . . six seconds.
All your guys clear out. Give space so you can break it
down. Do your thing. Lay out crazy beats cause you’re the man
on the mix. Official game ball leather is soft in your hands,
man, like Anh-thu’s smooth face up in the crowd, watching.
Cup it between your fingers and forearm and feel alive.
Aware.
Necessary.
Cause, man, this is your jam they’re waiting for. And this is
your world they’re waiting in.
See Sinclair trailing the play, his big high-top sneakers like
fists against a soundproof wall.
See your path to the promised land. Without looking. Left
side of the lane, where a dozen possibilities flash through your
head. See your red carpet. See your yellow brick road. Hesitate.
Get a split-second survey.
Feel the electricity, man, of two thousand faces burning
on YOU. Four thousand eyes in the back pocket of YOUR
hoop shorts.
Revel in it.
Five seconds . . . four seconds. Take off with your head
down. . . .
Know the statues around you. Guys’ empty faces.
Know the power in your legs and feet. The spring in
your step.
Know the ticking of the clock.
Know what purple jerseys will do before they do it. It’s in
the way they lean.
Know the six inches of open lane that will be cut off by
which guy and at what point.
Know your coach’s crinkled leather face on the sideline. The
ref with the whistle in his mouth, backpedaling.
Know your defender’s wide eyes as a pathway to his mind.
Know your body inside and out. That it will do exactly as
it’s told.
Know the ball in your hands as you put it on the floor.
Know your third move before you make your first.
Know quickness.
Know stopping on a dime.
Know nothing.
Three seconds. When you blast past the slo-mo purple jersey with straight teeth, pouring out of a jar thick like syrup, the
biggest purple jersey leaves his guy to cut you off. Like you knew
he would. Like a stray dog after a fake toss.
You stutter-step around his tree-trunk legs and cross over.
You feel the brush of another purple jersey, like a rush of
wind across your left side. But you dance by that, too. When
your Nikes get in the paint, you lift into the air with the ball
cupped like a football. Like a running back going over the top
at the goal line. Dirty work before an end-Zone shuffle.
You feel the weight of everybody in the gym holding their
breath. Out of their seats and balanced on flexed toes. Bodies
frozen and useless.
Purple jersey arms swing like they might block your shot,
but here’s the thing: It ain’t nothing but a street ball game to
you. Down at Lincoln Rec. Old-man Perkins in the bleachers.
Fat Chuck. Dante and his rainbow jumpers. Everybody talking
trash and cheating on the score. It ain’t nothing but a game to
eleven with two full squads on the sideline, waiting.
Defender arms swing, but they don’t get nothing.
Hands full of empty air.
And when you got them all committed like that, exposed
and in the air, that’s when you pull it out of your pocket. That’s
when you break out the around-the-back flip, no-look style, to
a wide-open Reggie. Purple arms get sucked back down by
gravity, and your guy Reggie is laying it up off the glass for the
game winner.
And it’s nothing but that white-space thing again.
Sticky watched his coach leap up and down like a clown. Watched him hold back the assistant coaches with an arm bar. He watched the guys on his bench grab each other around the waist and point into the crowd. Slap fives and pump fists. He watched the biggest Dominguez Hills player in-bound the ball to their star guard. Watched him loft up a weak three-quarter-court prayer. Watched the way their bench crumbled when the ball fell twenty feet short as time expired.
All this. It happens for you in silence.
The final buzzer went off and the home crowd erupted. Everybody stomping their feet and yelling for the other team to get the hell out of the gym. Slapping hands with whoever stood on the right or left. As the band sounded off, all the guys on the bench sprang into the air, charged the court and dog-piled on Reggie. A pile of Venice hoops at midcourt. Sticky stood next to them, breathing fast, putting his hand on one of their shoulders, then taking it off.
A group of Venice football players charged the court with lettermen’s jackets on. They ripped big banners off the walls and paraded around the court, holding them high above their heads. Everybody on the Dominguez Hills squad sat still on their bench, watched Venice celebrate. Some had white towels spilling off lowered heads.
Coach Reynolds pulled Sticky aside in the middle of all the mayhem.
Shoulda had you up here all year, son,
he said, trying to catch his breath. Twenty-three years on a sideline in his leather-black face. He palmed the back of Sticky’s sweaty head and shook it around.
Goddamn, boy! That was
one hell of a pass you just made!