Rucker Park Setup by Paul Volponi Page B

that weight disappear.
    There’s a stop in play, and two kids off our bench scramble to the scorer’s table. One of them looks me in the eye and jogs straight for me.
    â€œI’m in for you, Mustard,” he says, slapping my hand.
    â€œI told you we’d wear their starters down,” yells Fat Anthony. “Just a matter of time. Get ’em off the court!”
    Only I could hear in Anthony’s voice how he didn’t mean it. How he doesn’t need for me to be sitting.
    I shake my head at Mitchell, like taking me out of the game was the worst mistake he could make. But another part of me wants to rip off this Greenbacks jersey and run out of Rucker Park. Then if we win, I might not even get a trophy.
    â€œCatch a quick blow,” says Mitchell, waiting for me on the sideline. “I need you at full strength come crunch time.”
    Down the line, every one of our guys gives me a pound as I grab a seat at the end of the bench.
    Our squad’s got the ball. I don’t have control over anything now. I feel the sweat stinging my eyes and my heart pounding against my chest.
    A shot rattles in and out of the rim, and I jump a foot in the air.
    That’s when Greene slides the kid next to me out of the way and sits his ass down next to mine. I won’t look him in the face for anything.
    â€œI told Mitch I want you back on the court, pronto. I don’t trust anybody with the ball but you,” says Greene, chewing on the ice from a plastic cup.
    I watch Stove follow the play. The whistle’s always in his mouth, ready to go. He runs up and down the court, breathing hard. And no air gets into that whistle till Stove wants it to.
    We score the next basket and Greene slaps me on the knee.
    â€œYeah!” he screams. “That’s right!”
    I feel his breath on the side of my face.
    â€œMitch, now!” yells Greene, pointing to me.
    But Mitchell won’t turn away from the game and puts a hand up to wave Greene off.
    Both squads score, and I watch the clock tick down inside eleven minutes. I hear the ice cracking between Greene’s teeth.
    â€œYou gotta get back in, Mustard,” says Greene. “I need you to do your thing.”
    Greene grabs me by the wrist, and the cold from his fingers sends a chill through me. Then he yanks me off the bench.
    Non-Fiction misses a shot, and Junkyard Dog snatches down the rebound. He looks up and sees we got a kid all alone at the other end of the court.
    â€œGet it to him, Dog!” yells Greene, squeezing off the pulse in my wrist.
    Dog’s arm pulls back, and I watch the rock sail through the air. It’s ten feet over everybody’s head, and nobody can touch it. Then somewhere past half-court, it starts to glide down, like a bird on its wings. It lands right in our kid’s hands. He lays it in, and we go up by eight points.
    Mitchell pulls me away from Greene, talking right over him.
    â€œIt’s our chance to bury this thing for good,” says Mitchell, tapping me in the chest. “It all runs through you out there. Take it where it has to go.”
    â€œEverything you got, Mustard. No unfinished business,” says Greene, shoving me towards the scorer’s table.
    All ten guys on the court fly past me as I walk over to the scorekeeper. There’s a book in front of him where he keeps track of everything that happens. And he does it in pen. That way nobody can ever erase something later.
    I get down on one knee in front of him, so I don’t block his view.
    â€œI’m goin’ in on the next stop,” I tell him.
    He nods his head to me without taking his eyes off the court.
    I can see the book upside down, and all the marks next to my name. There’s an X for every basket I scored. But I know there should be marks against me, too, for everything I didn’t do. And they’d probably fill up a whole page by themselves.
    Fat Anthony’s looking right at me, and as soon