that weight disappear.
Thereâs a stop in play, and two kids off our bench scramble to the scorerâs table. One of them looks me in the eye and jogs straight for me.
âIâm in for you, Mustard,â he says, slapping my hand.
âI told you weâd wear their starters down,â yells Fat Anthony. âJust a matter of time. Get âem off the court!â
Only I could hear in Anthonyâs voice how he didnât mean it. How he doesnât 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.
âCatch a quick blow,â says Mitchell, waiting for me on the sideline. âI need you at full strength come crunch time.â
Down the line, every one of our guys gives me a pound as I grab a seat at the end of the bench.
Our squadâs got the ball. I donât 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.
Thatâs when Greene slides the kid next to me out of the way and sits his ass down next to mine. I wonât look him in the face for anything.
âI told Mitch I want you back on the court, pronto. I donât trust anybody with the ball but you,â says Greene, chewing on the ice from a plastic cup.
I watch Stove follow the play. The whistleâs 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.
âYeah!â he screams. âThatâs right!â
I feel his breath on the side of my face.
âMitch, now!â yells Greene, pointing to me.
But Mitchell wonât 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 Greeneâs teeth.
âYou gotta get back in, Mustard,â says Greene. âI need you to do your thing.â
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.
âGet it to him, Dog!â yells Greene, squeezing off the pulse in my wrist.
Dogâs arm pulls back, and I watch the rock sail through the air. Itâs ten feet over everybodyâs 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 kidâs hands. He lays it in, and we go up by eight points.
Mitchell pulls me away from Greene, talking right over him.
âItâs our chance to bury this thing for good,â says Mitchell, tapping me in the chest. âIt all runs through you out there. Take it where it has to go.â
âEverything you got, Mustard. No unfinished business,â says Greene, shoving me towards the scorerâs table.
All ten guys on the court fly past me as I walk over to the scorekeeper. Thereâs 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 donât block his view.
âIâm goinâ in on the next stop,â 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. Thereâs an X for every basket I scored. But I know there should be marks against me, too, for everything I didnât do. And theyâd probably fill up a whole page by themselves.
Fat Anthonyâs looking right at me, and as soon