Tilt - Alan Cumyn [16]
He was. Fucking sorry. He was a sorry excuse of a father.
Stan stared at the phone.
The school door opened and Karl Brolin and his gang — Ty Blake, Nylan Leash, Jamie Hartleman — came out like a pack of dogs all barking at once and running around the lead guy. It was too cold, too windy to play, but Brolin was bouncing an old leather ball, and he headed straight to the junior hoop. He took one of his lazy falling-away jumpers — like Gary, he barely got off the tips of his toes — that clanged the rim and fell out. No wrist release. No spin on the ball. Jamie Hartleman grabbed the rebound, lobbed up a hook but Brolin palmed it above the basket. He tried for a dunk but the ball bounded off and the huge boy hung from the rim.
It was only the junior hoop — regulation height still, of course, but it was where the younger guys were allowed to play.
Now Brolin and Blake took on Leash and Hartleman. Four starters for the senior team. Leash was the only true guard. The ball was a blur when he dribbled, and he made Brolin look slow.
On one drive Leash faked a scoop shot, passed instead, but Brolin kept trying for the block . . . and Leash ended up crumpled on the pavement holding his knee.
Brolin just stood there with his hands on his hips.
“Hey! Hey, you, kid!” Hartleman yelled at Stan. “You play, don’t you?”
Brolin pulled Leash to his feet, and the best point guard in the whole school hobbled around muttering obscenities at Brolin and then limped back to school.
“Don’t you play?” Hartleman called.
Stan put away the phone and Hartleman snapped a bounce pass at him. The leather was slick, the ball hard to handle.
Hartleman stole the ball from Stan and dribbled around like a big crazy bug before spinning one in off the backboard. Brolin and Blake didn’t even move to defend.
“I could beat you guys playing with a fire hydrant.”
So Stan, the hydrant, started with the ball out near the faded three-point line. Blake didn’t even bother covering him. Stan could have drilled a jumper. But the rim was bent, it was windy, and he didn’t want to miss, not in front of these guys. So he passed off to Hartleman, who whirled and bobbed with the two guys on him. He glanced at Stan — wide open! — then took an off-balance left-handed hook that wasn’t even close.
Thirty seconds later Brolin had a dunk and a lay-in and then Blake faked Stan out of his socks and glided free to the basket.
“Just fucking try to play,” Hartleman muttered to Stan.
Down three already! Stan got lucky on a rebound Brolin was too lazy to contest and found himself concentrating on a simple shot off the backboard as if, of all the things he wanted to do in his life, this was the most important.
A point!
Twice in a row Hartleman got double-teamed and passed off to Stan for the same ten-foot jumper that rattled in despite the wind and the bent rim.
Brolin spat on the ground. They traded a couple more baskets. All tied.
Next basket wins.
Hartleman dribbled lazily beyond the three-point line. Brolin reached but missed, reached but missed. Blake went after Hartleman, too. Stan was all alone beside the basket. Hartleman bounced, bounced . . . a little whirl . . .
. . . and here was the ball finally in Stan’s hands. He jumped, looked for the basket . . . .
And crumpled under the full weight of Brolin slamming him from nowhere.
“Flagrant foul!” Hartleman said. “Basket counts! Fucking basket counts!”
Everything looked very far up. The sky was gray, gray. The basket was like a bent black shadow.
“Are you like, dead, or what?” Brolin said to Stan. “My foul. Your ball. We’re still tied.”
The behemoth pulled him up on his feet.
Brolin placed the ball in Stan’s hands, walked him to the spot behind the three-point line. Stan stood there dizzily.
Bounce, bounce. Stan’s head still wasn’t clear. Brolin backed off him. So Stan needed to pass it off. The thought was clear but his body wasn’t responding.