Rucker Park Setup by Paul Volponi

better players or if he just wants to torture us,” I’d say to J.R.
    â€œEither way, it’s still basketball,” he’d always answer.
    But it isn’t just basketball anymore. Not for me. And maybe I can’t afford to make both free throws.
    I clear the air from my lungs. Then I raise up and release the ball. It’s right on line, but I can feel that my stroke’s off a hair.
    The shot rims the basket, and spins out.
    My teammates lined up along the foul line clap for me anyway. But I can hear Fat Anthony clapping the loudest.
    â€œThis is our time, Non-Fiction,” says Anthony.
    I step back off the foul line and shake loose every part of me. You never stay at the line after a missed shot, because you know something’s off. Then I go to reset myself, and Stove walks the ball out to me.
    â€œYou could make these free throws blindfolded if you wanted,” Stove says low.
    J.R. would think up different games when we practiced foul shots. We’d see who could hit the most in the row, or the best out of twenty. Underhanded, one-handed—it didn’t matter. We’d do anything to keep it from getting boring.
    Fooling around in the park one day, I made three straight with my eyes closed. J.R. couldn’t come close to matching that, and I bragged about it for a week. Then Stove showed up at the park with a blindfold.
    â€œThis will separate the men from the boys,” said Stove. “Maybe we oughtta make it interesting, like the loser runs laps.”
    â€œNo way!” said J.R. “Pops, you should have seen Mackey nail those free throws with his eyes shut.”
    I told J.R. he was scared, and kept dissing him till he bet me. I pushed it up to ten laps around Rucker Park, with the loser skipping all the way and clucking like a chicken.
    Stove tied the blindfold on J.R. first and stood him even with the rim. He handed him the ball, and J.R. reached out for it like a blind man. But J.R. started knocking down free throws, one after another. I was in shock and felt my stomach start to turn.
    â€œReally! That one went in, too?” asked J.R. in a surprised voice.
    He made eight out of ten, and I couldn’t say a thing.
    I stepped to the foul line and swallowed hard. Then Stove tied the blindfold on me. Only it was a fake, and I could see right through it.
    They were both rolling on the floor, laughing.
    â€œÂ¡Qué lástima!” said Stove, pointing at me. “Poor chicken! Cluck! Cluck! ”
    Finally I had to start laughing, too. I never expected something like that from them. But they played me good.
    Now I’m standing at the foul line with everybody watching. I close my eyes, and there’s nothing but dark. Then I open them again, and the only thing I let myself see is the front lip of the rim. The shot’s perfect out of my hand, and settles through the net without even touching iron.
    Non-Fiction misses their next shot. But Bones out-fights everybody for the ball and taps it in. Then he turns his shoulders sideways and slips out through the crowd of players.
    We’re up 55 to 49.
    Fat Anthony thought Bones got fouled on that play. He’s all over Hamilton about it and won’t let up. Hamilton gives him a long look and a chance to back off. But Fat Anthony doesn’t take it.
    â€œYou can’t miss calls like that, Ham!” hollers Anthony. “What the fuck were you looking at?”
    That’s when Hamilton puts one hand on top of the other and hits Fat Anthony with a T .
    Fat Anthony
    I needed to pop Ham’s cork. I can’t let him ref the rest of this game with a hard-on for me. Let him get it out of his system now and smack me with a technical.
    â€œI was wrong to say that, Mr. Hamilton. From now on, nothing but basketball.”
    That’ll soften him towards my team down the stretch.
    But I got one more ace in the hole that nobody knows about. And I’ll give the signal for it to kick in any