Rucker Park Setup by Paul Volponi Page A

minute.
    That’s it, send Mustard to the line to shoot the technical.
    The prick. When I tap a kid, it should be a done deal from the start. I shouldn’t have to sweat out a minute of this crap. Mustard’s playing it from the front end. He needs to hear everybody cheering his name before he gets himself too dirty. But he didn’t want to be the hero when his best friend got killed. He doesn’t even have the guts to say what really happened. I know he’s feeling that. So he puts himself on a tightrope with my money and sees how far he can go without looking down. All because he’s a spineless little nobody with something to prove.
    â€œHa! Good miss, Mustard! Good miss!”
    I thought Mustard being a coward was going to make this bet easy. I should have known better. Murders go down in a heartbeat. It takes two hours to dump a game. And that’s too much time for a kid to think.

12
    THERE’S A LIGHT shining off that trophy, and it catches my eye. J.R. and me used to joke that it was more beautiful than any shorty we knew. Every year we’d watch that trophy as much as the second half of the championship game.
    We’d won lots of trophies balling. So do most kids playing youth league. When you’re young, they give you a trophy just for tying your kicks right. Then you get older, and the trophies start to mean something.
    Some of the best players to throw down at Rucker Park never won a championship. Only one squad a year gets to hold that trophy, and they got to survive everything to do it.
    â€œIt’s not just on the court,” I told J.R. before the tournament started. “It’s every step you take in this neighborhood. You never have to lower your head to anybody with that trophy behind you.”
    â€œIt’ll put me ahead of my pops at Rucker, too,” said J.R. “And he’s just gonna have to live with that.”
    Every inch of the dude on top of that huge trophy is covered in gold—his arms, his face, and the uniform he’s got on. One arm is straight over his head, with a basketball in his hand. He’s holding the rock up to the sky, like nobody could ever jump up high enough to slap it away.
    Acorn only hands out one trophy right after the game—to show that a whole squad pulled together to win the championship. All the players take turns holding it in front of the crowd, even guys on the bench who never got into the game. Then later on, everybody gets a trophy of their own to keep.
    â€œI got twenty-seven trophies on those two shelves in my room. But I wouldn’t keep any of them next to the big one,” said J.R., before this year’s tournament started. “That’s goin’ on the top shelf by itself. All the others are gonna have to fit underneath. I don’t care if I gotta push some into the closet.”
    â€œYou got to. That’s for the championship of all street ball. The rest of ’em are just kiddie toys,” I said. “I don’t know what I’d do with mine. Maybe I’d put it on a gold chain and wear it around my neck.”
    â€œOh, shit! Rucker Park bling!” cracked J.R.
    J.R. and me would have done anything to win that trophy. But now it’s sitting right in front of me, and I’m holding back on my best game.
    They’ll give J.R.’s trophy to Stove for sure if we win.
    I’d tell him how J.R. wanted to keep it on his top shelf. Only that’s not what his pops wants to hear out of my mouth. I don’t know what I’d do with my trophy now. I just know it’s not going to mean shit to me, compared to before.
    I’m a step back off my man. He scores on a jumper from deep in the corner, and I probably couldn’t have stopped him anyway.
    It’s down to a four-point lead.
    The ball’s in my hands, and while the score’s under the point spread, half of everything I fucked up is off my back. But I don’t feel one damn bit of