Philadelphia Fire. John Edgar Wideman

you and so on till you miss. Whoever rebounds the miss is next up. Anybody can guard the one with the ball, but the last one who missed has to check him. Keep track of your own points. Call out your score each time you hit a shot. When you close in on twenty-one the whole mob comes chasing you. No out of bounds, no fouls. Point is you got to get the ball. Show what you can do with it when you got it.

      A way of loosening up. A way of seeing who can play. No passing, no teamwork, no slowdown or fast break. Everybody up against it. One on one on one.

      Even after enough bodies to run full court, no game starts because older players begin to straggle in. Some sit on the sidelines. One or two join in the one-on-one game, wolfing, joshing, schooling the young guys. Clearly stronger, more experienced, able to dominate and talk trash and have it their way.

      A box is set up and begins blasting. Players synchronize their dribbling, head fakes, spins and stutter steps with the tunes. Music’s inside the game. If you can’t hear it, you can see it. Somebody always getting off, doing his step in the middle of the action. On time. Younger players drift off to a single basket behind the fence where they mess around during the whole court run. People shoot for teams. Everybody takes a turn on the foul line till ten make it or the first two choose squads. Somebody calls winners. Somebody shouts. Got next after you. First out’s decided by another shot from the top of the key, make-it-take-it, and the run’s on.

      That’s how it was supposed to start. And it did. They got that part right.

      Been awhile, Cudjoe is thinking, and that’s why he missed. On line but not enough arch. He’d returned to the park to find a game and now he was trying to guide the ball rather than shoot it. Shooting’s all in the mind. You must believe the ball’s going in. Confidence and the amen wrist flick of follow-through. You reach for the sky, launch the ball so it rotates off your fingertips and let it drop through the rim. When you hold on too long, when you don’t relax and extend your arm and let nature take its course, you shoot short. Because you don’t believe. Because you’re trying too hard to maintain control, you choke the ball and it comes up short.

      First go-round only six made it so a second chance for everybody who blew. This time Cudjoe’s too strong. Ball boomerangs off the back of the iron. He sits out the first run. Takes winners with two other guys who missed their free throws.

      Game was rag ass. Too much like one on one. A neighborhood run. No surprises. Too much assumed and conceded. A few good players who weren’t half as good as they thought they were, sloppily doing more or less what they felt like doing. A few possessed one outstanding skill or talent and slipped it into the game when they could, often when they shouldn’t. Defense nonexistent. Everybody going for steals or blocks instead of hanging tight with their man. Chump city. More action cooking around the court than on it. Block long Eldorado drop top docked at the curb. Deals going down. Basketball game like a TV set playing in a crowded room and nobody watching.

      Who’s next?

      There’s a spot for you, O.T.

      My man wants to run, too.

      He’s five then. You, your man, that dude over there talking to Peewee, this brother and me.

      Solid.

      My name’s Cudjoe.

      This Mike. They call me O.T. What’s the score?

      Just started, man.

      Ain’t much out there.

      Early. This the first run.

      Cudjoe. My oldest brother used to play with a dude name Cudjoe.

      What’s your brother’s name?

      Darnell.

      Darnell Thompson?

      Yeah.

      And you’re Skeets?

      When I was little I was Skeets.

      How’s Darnell?

      He’s in the slam, man. Five years now.

      Damn.

      Dope, man. Into the dope shit, you know.

      Darnell?

      Yeah. Surprised everybody. My big brother always a together dude. Never in no trouble. He looked out for me. More like a daddy to me, you know. Then dope, man. He just couldn’t handle. Stealing and shit.

      Damn. I’m sorry. Ran with Darnell many a day. Right here. Darnell could bust the jumper.

      He was tough. Used to watch his every move and wanna be like him some day. I remember you now. Cudjoe. Kind of a different name, you know. Remember the name. Now I’m remembering seeing you play with my brother. You had a nice game. You still busting?

      Up next with you.

      Can you still do it?

      I’m in shape. I can run. But it’s been awhile since I’ve played. Not much ball where I was.

      Ain’t nothing out there on the court. We’ll win a few and you be cooking like the old days.

      Skeets grown up.

      Been a long time since they call me Skeets.

      You in school?

      Was, man. I’m working now, you know, so I can go back.

      Did you play ball?

      First semester. Then the books. I fucked up. Lost my free ride. Had to drop out. I’m going back, though. Working now so I can pay my way. Coach say, you know, if I make the team, he’ll go to bat for me. See if he can, you know, get me some money.

      Good luck with it.

      Yeah. I’ma get myself together. Make something of myself, man. It’s been nice talking to you.

      Sorry about your brother.

      That’s the way it goes.

      Cudjoe watches O.T. move off. Darnell Thompson all over again. Big, black, graceful. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, short, bouncy, almost delicate steps. Darnell’s soft, easy manner. Eagerness in his voice as he leans into a conversation. Enjoying what he’s saying, what you have to say. Taller by inches than his brother. O.T. had grown a body to fit Darnell’s enormous hands. Ten years. Did anything get better instead of worse? Why couldn’t he believe Darnell’s brother? Why did he hear ice cracking as O.T. spoke of his plans? Why did he see Darnell’s rusty hard hand wrapped around his brother’s dragging him down?

      One guy on their squad a leaper. About Cudjoe’s height, six one or six two, only leaner, younger. Not much of a shot, but he’d go after everything that missed. Quick as a frog off his feet, a hustler, battler who loved running the court, banging underneath. Then a short dude, runty and arrogant, who pushed the pill downcourt helter-skelter, advantage or no, constantly jamming himself up. Favored behind-the-back, through-the-legs, over-the-backboard passes. Disappeared when the ball not in his hands. When it was in his hands, he forgot about the other four people playing with him, dribbled himself into trouble so he could dribble out again, feeling taller and slicker each time he escaped a trap he’d created for himself. O.T.’s friend Mike was solid, skilled, understood the game; he was dependable, fun to play with. O.T. a monster, operating a foot or so above everybody else. Took what he wanted. Changed gears when he wanted to. Let the other team stay close enough to believe they had a chance. Then blew them away—steals, slams, blocked shots.

      Cudjoe did his bit. Hit a lay-up and a couple jumpers from the wing. Fed the free man. Dealt the ball away from the dribble-happy dude. His legs gave out in game three. Downhill from there. A question of holding his own then, not being a liability, not making dumb mistakes, playing tough D.

      No wheels. Knew what I wanted to do but my wheels just wouldn’t turn.

      His team retired undefeated. Only one serious challenge all evening. A squad had loaded up for them. The best of the rest and Dribble King had decided it was show time, doing his roadrunner act, and they were down three hoops, 6–9, in the twelve-basket game. Finally O.T. glared at Mr. Pat-Pat