4
DOWN AT THE PLAYGROUND EVERYONE FOULS and shoots too much and never allows plays to develop, but Erin and I make sure we’re always on the same team so we can work on the things that serious players need to work on, like playing help defense and executing set plays on offense too.
Even though most of the playground players are grown-ups who play ball every day instead of working a job, Erin and I usually beat these men easily, which they hate, mostly because I’m a weird minimal speaker and Erin’s a girl.
Only seven or so blocks from our homes, drug dealers hang out by the town courts and old men sit around drinking from brown paper bags. There are crack vials and used syringes strewn about the concrete that surrounds the playground. It’s not the safest place in the world, but we are under the protection of Erin’s brother, Rod.
Rod is in his late twenties, plays drums in a Pogues-type, Irish-trad-punk band, and, if the rumors are true, deals a little himself, only not on the streets. But the important part is that his reputation proclaims him to be the most unpredictable and violent Irishman ever to live in Bellmont. Neighborhood people are scared of him, and rightly so.
Once when we were freshmen there was this upperclassman named Don Little who had a thing for Erin. He followed her around school and talked sexy to her. I’m not even going to repeat some of the things he used to say because they are so horrifically base. Whenever I would hear Don Little say something lewd to Erin, my chest would get tight and my hands would ball up into fists, but, of course, my tongue wouldn’t work at all.
Don Little was a nineteen-year-old senior who had been in juvie for dealing cocaine and Erin was a fourteen-year-old kid.
One day Erin and I were walking home, and Don Little followed us and when we were far enough away from the high school he grabbed Erin’s butt and said some really lewd things.
It was like I wasn’t even there—or I didn’t matter. I was so mad that I tried to say something, but all that came out was “Heyahhhh!”
Don Little laughed and said, “Why don’t you ditch the retard and get with a real man?”
That’s when I charged him. But before I could land any punches, he dropped me with one punch to the jaw.
BAAAMMMMM!
POP!
STARS!
I remember my legs flying up in the air, seeing clouds above, and then blacking out.
When I came around, Erin was stroking my cheek, saying, “Wake up! Come on, Finley, wake up!”
Her nose was bleeding. Warm heavy drops were hitting my neck.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I beat Don Little’s ass.”
“What?”
“I punched him in the face after he hit you. I was so pissed!”
“Your nose.”
“Yeah, he got in a good shot before he ran away.”
“Are you okay?”
“Are you?”
“I think so.”
“Well, then, me too.”
She helped me up and walked me home and I asked her not to tell anyone about her defending me from Don Little, which made her laugh.
“You mean you’re not proud of your girlfriend’s ability to kick ass?” she asked.
I puked on the sidewalk in response, and immediately felt less woozy.
Erin’s brother, Rod, visited me later that night.
I hadn’t seen him in a long time, because he no longer lived with the Quinns.
He had been lifting weights and looked like a professional bodybuilder. He was wearing a tight T-shirt with skulls on it and black jeans rolled up so that you could see the white laces of his black Doc Martens boots. His head was shaved and his arms were covered with Celtic tattoos.
“Mr. McManus, you mind if I speak to your boy alone?” Rod asked.
“Why alone?” Dad asked. “We’re family.”
“I think you know why,” Rod said.
Dad and Rod stared at each other for a few seconds until Rod said, “I put in good words for you and your family, but people don’t forget.”
Dad’s face turned white and I started to feel sick when I saw that the gray hair around his temples was slick with sweat.
“We don’t want any trouble,” Dad said.
“Then leave us alone for a few minutes. Your boy’s a good kid. We know that. We’re only trying to help.”
I was surprised that my father actually left and shut the door behind him.
Rod asked me what had transpired, so I told him what I remembered.
He grabbed the back of my head and carefully pulled my forehead closer to his, so that our eyebrows were touching. His eyelashes brushed up against mine whenever he blinked. The liquor on his breath was dank and smelled sharp as a razor blade. “After tonight, brother, no one in this neighborhood will touch you or my sister ever again. I promise you that.”
The next morning they found Don Little unconscious on the town basketball court. His entire body was swollen and bruised.
His braids had been cut and his head shaved.
I heard there was a sign around his neck that read I HIT GIRLS.
The cops investigated, but neither Don Little nor anyone else ever said a word about what everyone assumed to be true.
Most people don’t snitch to the police around here.
Don Little dropped out of school and left town shortly after, and no one in Bellmont has ever laid a finger on Erin or me since.
This is why we can play pickup basketball at the town courts without being harassed by the criminals who hang around there. We know that if Rod were not around, we’d be treated differently, which makes me sort of sad.
5
IN FRONT OF HER HOUSE—a brick row home under a faded and ripped yellow awning—Erin says that she’ll be over just as soon as she’s showered, and then she kisses me once on the lips before disappearing behind the front screen door.
I jog the one block home down O’Shea Street.
The neighborhood is gray and dingy and littered with trash, but all the row homes are occupied and therefore not condemned, so our blocks look pretty healthy compared to most around here.
When I cross the street to my block, I notice Coach Wilkins’s old Ford pickup truck parked in front of our house.
Coach has come to pay me a visit and he’s now alone inside my house with Pop, who sometimes gets drunk during the day and starts dancing with family skeletons—talking freely about stuff I don’t want anyone to know, especially Coach.
I sprint into my house and yell, “Coach?”
“Finley, I’m right here. No need to yell.” He’s wearing a summer suit with no tie and fancy shoes. Why’s he dressed up?
He’s on the sofa in the living room. My pop’s wheelchair is parked next to the couch and thankfully Pop looks relatively sober.
“Coach Wilkins would like to take you out to dinner,” Pop says. He’s in a wife-beater undershirt and his tan pants are pinned under his stumps. Pop’s white hair is tucked behind his ears and falls to his shoulders. He’s not trying to look cool with the long hair; he just doesn’t care enough to make the trip to the barber. Grandmom’s green rosary beads make a V on Pop’s chest and Jesus hangs on a black cross right around Pop’s outie bellybutton.
“To a friend’s house, actually,” Coach says. And then, noticing how sweaty I am, he adds, “Looks like you’ve been working out pretty hard today.”
“With Erin Quinn,” Pop says. “That’s his lady friend.”
“She’s a fine ball player and a fine young woman,” Coach says. “So, Finley.”
I like the fact that Coach doesn’t call me White Rabbit, especially since my teammates are always trying to get him to use the nickname.
Coach says, “You want to dine with me tonight?”
I nod.
I do whatever Coach asks of me. He’s my coach.
“Why don’t you shower up and we’ll talk about it on the way. And wear something nice,” Coach says.
“I’ll be needing your assistance before you go,” Pop says.
I push Pop’s wheelchair into the bathroom, where I quickly help him change his soiled diaper.
When we return to the living room my father’s up. (Dad sleeps days and works nights.) He and Coach are talking hoops and smiling so I park Pop next to them. Pop says, “Hurry your ass up,” as I jog up the steps.
In the shower I wonder where Coach is taking me.
He’s never asked me to dinner and he’s only visited my home twice before. Once after I was beat up by Don Little, and once after I hurt my ankle sophomore year.
I can’t imagine where he would be taking me tonight, but I’m excited to find out.
6
I PULL ON MY BLACK TROUSERS and my light blue shirt with the collar and three buttons, and then Coach and I are walking out the door as my father’s telling me to mind my manners. He’s standing in the doorway looking tired but wearing the hopeful we-have-guests face that he puts on whenever anyone other than Pop and me is around.
With her hair still wet, Erin walks up to the house wearing a colorful summer dress. She and Coach say hello.
“You mind if I borrow Finley for a few hours?” Coach asks.
“Not at all,” Erin says, but when she catches my eyes I can tell she’s a little bummed, and definitely confused, so I shrug to let her know I have no idea what’s going on. I want to hang out with Erin, but I see her every night. Plus, she understands that when your coach pays a house visit, it means that something important is happening. Erin says, “Coach, when’ll you be returning Finley?”
“I’d say we’ll be back by nine or so.”
“See you then,” Erin says to me, and then she starts walking home.
“You’re lucky to have a friend like Erin,” Coach says as we get into his truck and buckle up. “People need friends. Real friends—like Erin is to you.”
The engine rumbles to life and the air-conditioning hits me in the face.
It feels really cool, but Coach doesn’t drive.
His face is dark and strong as always, but he keeps swallowing. His Adam’s apple is going up and down, so I know something is wrong.
Coach says, “You know how I’m always telling the team that basketball can teach you a lot about life and that those lessons are more important than wins and losses and personal stats, more important than the game itself—that we’re learning life lessons on the court and that’s the most important part of the experience?”
“Yeah.”
Coach is always saying that.
“Well, I think you’re going to learn a lot this year, Finley.”
Something about the way he says those words makes me feel sort of strange. Like he’s trying to be prophetic or something, and this dinner’s even more important than I originally thought.
I look at Coach’s face and try to read his eyes. I see desperation, frustration, exhaustion—what I see in the eyes of all the men who have lived in this neighborhood for too many years.
“We’ve got a bit of a situation here, Finley. Because I trust you, I’m gonna tell you a lot tonight and I want you to keep it all confidential. You can tell no one what I’m about to say. Not your dad or grandfather or Erin. Not your teammates. And especially no one at school. Can I trust you to keep this information top secret?”
I can’t imagine what Coach is going to tell me.
My heart’s beating really hard, and I realize that I’m swallowing now too.
I nod to let Coach know that I’ll keep the secret.
“Okay then. Does the name Russell Allen mean anything to you?”
I shake my head.
“Here’s the secret: Russell Allen played his first three years of high-school ball out in L.A. He gained a national reputation last year as a junior. Quite simply, he’s one of the top recruits in the country. At seventeen he already has the body of a professional ball player. I’ve seen game tapes and I’m convinced he could play for any NBA team right now. He’s a six-five point guard who can play inside and out. Smart player. Can run an offense. Rebounds. Hustles. The best high-school defender I have ever seen. And to top it off, he scored near perfect on his SATs and was able to maintain a four-point-oh GPA through three years of all-season basketball. He’s played in all the best camps. He’s been outgoing and trouble-free all through high school. Great work ethic. Every collegiate program in the country wants the kid.”
It’s clear that Coach loves this player, but I can’t figure out why he’s telling me all this—especially if Allen plays on the other side of the country—let alone why I need to keep it a secret.
“You know the Allens over on Porter Street, by that dive bar called Drinkers?”
“No.” I never go to that part of town. There are no Irish there.
“Those folks are Russell Allen’s grandparents and good friends of mine. I used to play ball with Russell’s father, Russell senior. He ended up becoming a pretty well-known jazz musician, a saxophonist. He moved to L.A. and started writing music for movies. Made enough money to put Russell into a real good prep school out there, where he did pretty well until—”
Coach is gripping the steering wheel too hard and licking his lips repetitively.
I’ve never seen Coach get nervous like this before.
“My friend Russell and his wife were murdered last February.” The word murdered gets stuck in my ear and suddenly it feels like someone is jabbing a finger into my throat. I begin to cough a little, but Coach keeps talking. It takes a few minutes for my mind to process the rest of his words. “The details aren’t important right now. But the event has had a dramatic effect on Russell junior. He’s spent some time in a group home for kids who suffer from post-traumatic stress. The Allens here in town are his closest relatives and even though they don’t feel quite up to taking on a troubled teenage boy, because Russell requested it, they have agreed to care for him until he goes to college next year.”
I suddenly realize that Russell will be eligible to play for our basketball team. And even though Coach is talking about the aftereffects of a murder, I’m ashamed to admit that I immediately begin worrying about my starting position. It’s like being told I have cancer and might need a part of me removed—the part called starting point guard.
“So,” I say, “he’s going to play for us, Coach?”
“Well, I hope he will come out for the team, but at this point his mental health is what we need to be focusing on. He hasn’t touched a basketball in months. You see, after all that’s happened, Russell’s not really right in the head. We all think that a boy with his gifts should be using them and, with so many colleges ready to give him a full ride, it would be a shame to watch him sit the season out, but we need to take one thing at a time, which is why he’s going to enroll under his mother’s maiden name. The Allens don’t want college scouts and coaches bothering Russell until he moves past his issues. The basketball world doesn’t know he’s here. And he’s not exactly interested in basketball right now. Understand?”
I have no idea why I’m in the truck.
I’m lost.
“I’ve told them that our high school can be rough and Russell would be better off in a private school, especially since he’s inherited a lot of money. But, for some reason, the Allens want the boy to play basketball for me this year. Probably because they know me, and after all that’s happened, they don’t want to put Russell into the hands of a stranger. So under the name Russ Washington, Russell is going to transition to our school, which couldn’t be any more different from the prep school he attended in California. Administration, his guidance counselor, me, and now you—those are the only people who’ll know Russell’s true identity. Okay?”
I don’t know what to say. I really don’t.
Coach says, “I thought that maybe if Russell had a friend who knew what it was like to be different, the transition might be a little easier.”
Suddenly, I think I might understand my role.
“You have a question on your face, Finley. Now’s the time to ask it.”
Even though I know that the Allens live in an all-black section of town, I say, “So, Coach, are you saying Russell’s white?”
“Does the color of his skin matter?” Coach asks.
He’s always saying that he doesn’t see the color of a man’s skin, but I know that’s just politically correct talk. Coach absolutely changes his game plan depending on the opposing team’s skin color, because black and white teams usually play different styles of basketball, and that’s just a fact.
When I don’t say anything, Coach says, “Russell’s pretty much the same color as I am.”
“Then why me?” I ask.
“Well, let’s just say that I have a hunch you two will get along. That and you’re pretty much the only boy on the team I trust to help my dead friend’s son.”
Those words make me swallow hard.
Part of me just wants to be with Erin, and yet, another part of me’s intrigued, kind of flattered, and a little nervous, all at once.
Coach shifts into gear and drives us across town to the Allens’ house.