Tilt - Alan Cumyn [12]
“I’m not sure where the noodle strainer goes,” he said finally, before heading back into the kitchen.
6
In the shadows near the fence from an angle slightly behind the backboard, Stan watched Gary sink a fadeaway leaner — it couldn’t really be called a jump shot since he hardly got off his toes — that looked as probable as bird splatter landing straight in your eye. It hit the front rim, the backboard, whirled around twice, stopped again on the front rim, thought about falling out, then slumped back and in.
The night air was chilly. The glow from the auto-glass lights at the front of the building seemed far away.
Stan’s turn. Winter is coming, he thought.
Winter is coming and there is no way I’m going to sink this shot.
He didn’t even hit the rim.
“H,” Gary said.
He moved like a penguin. How could he even stay upright much less bounce the ball and shoot it almost gracefully? His feet looked dainty, like Babe Ruth’s rounding the bases in old newsreels, a large man tottering.
“On this one you have to be falling forward, like this, and it’s a scooping shot.” Gary ducked his head as if sliding under someone’s outstretched arm, fell forward awkwardly and then scooped the ball underhanded way into the air — a pathetic excuse of a shot that would never work, not in a million years.
Except it did. Swish.
Stan bounced the ball, ducked, leaned, lost his grip, scooped with his fingertips up, up . . .
“O,” Gary said.
Now he stood at the foul line — the crack where the foul line would be — with his back to the basket. The ball arced in the darkness . . . swish!
Stupid game, all about trick shots. Nothing to do with . . .
Janine Igwash cut through the shadows past the auto-glass sign and headed straight toward him.
“Any time tonight,” Gary said.
She was watching as Stan leaned back and tried to see the basket before he flung the ball hopelessly backwards.
“R,” Gary said.
“Hey,” Janine said. She had a knapsack on one shoulder and she was wearing boots with heels — heels! — so she towered over him.
Stan whirled, stole the ball from Gary — bounce bounce — twisted in a layup, got the rebound —
bounce bounce — sank a jumper, got the rebound, dribbled around Janine, and sank another jumper.
She wasn’t looking at him like she was tilted. Whatever that might look like.
“We’re playing horse,” Stan puffed. He fired the ball at Gary too hard. It went through Gary’s fingers. Stan chased down the ball — bounce bounce — then handed it back to Gary, who introduced himself to Janine and asked if she wanted to play.
“I bet you’re pretty good. It’s just horse. You know the rules? Stan already has H-O-R. Two more misses and he’s out.” He gave Janine the ball. “Just take a shot. It doesn’t matter if it goes in or not. It’s just a game.”
Janine put her backpack down by the foul-line crack. She held the ball as if it were a vase that might explode. Weren’t lesbians supposed to be good at sports? Her eyes were only for Gary. Gary! The penguin.
Janine heaved the ball in an awkward sort of set shot, both hands pushing out. It hit the rim on the way up — way too hard! — and popped straight into the air.
And in.
Janine jumped in the air, and it was Gary who slapped her a high five and said, “Wow! You’re a natural!” when she was anything but.
It was blind luck! Anyone could see!
Stan stood stiff and quiet, a human fence post.
“So now I have to make the same shot from the same place,” Gary said. Bounce bounce. He smiled for Janine, leaned back in his improbable way, lifted himself onto his toes . . . swish.
“And now Stan has to make the same shot, too.”
Bounce bounce. Stan felt himself flushing from his ankles to his earlobes.
This was not difficult. He could make this shot twenty times in a row on any ordinary day. Bounce bounce.
A jump shot is a wave that begins in the soles of the feet. It travels up through the ankles, calves, thighs, hips . . . up the spine, through the shoulder, elbow, wrist and out the fingers . . .
Clank!
“H-O-R-S!” Gary said triumphantly. Then they were at it again, Gary and Janine high-fiving.