Cruise Control by Terry Trueman Page A

unconsciously adjust my jock during time-outs.
    Kennedy gets the ball back and makes an easy bucket.
    It’s our ball again, and I start to bring it up court when the kid who spit in my face comes at me hard. Not even pretending to go for the ball, he crashes into me and throws an elbow into my face. I hear a popping sound as my nose and right cheek take the blow. I lose my balance and fall.
    The ref blows his whistle, but before he can get over to us, the kid who just fouled me walks onto and into me, kneeing me in the side of the head. Another whistle. I look up and the kid, his fists clenched, is standing over me.
    He whispers viciously, “Come on, chicken—maybe you’re the retard I heard about?”
    I put the back of my hand against my nose. Trying to breathe, I swallow a big mouthful of blood.
    The ref reaches us and pushes the kid away from me, signaling an intentional, flagrant foul, which means that the kid is gone. Since he’s thrown out anyway, now he really goes ballistic, screaming at me, “You chicken shit! Chicken—” But a couple of his teammates pull him away; they look back at me, smirking too, like I’m a coward.
    The thing is, though, I don’t even feel like fighting. I’m not scared, not really hurt; it’s not that I’m worried about getting tossed—I just don’t need to fight. I look at the kid once more and at his teammates who walk with him. I don’t feel angry, or like going after them. He fouled me to get me out of the game. I don’t want to leave, so I suppose I win. But even that doesn’t matter right now. My winning doesn’t mean anything—what matters is that there are four minutes thirty-two seconds left on the clock and we’re down by twelve points.
    During the official injury time-out, our trainer jams two huge wads of cotton into my nose to stop the bleeding.
    Coach asks, “You okay?”
    I smile, even though I’m a little dizzy and my nose feels sore. I answer, “Yeah, I’m fine.”
    After the time-out, I take my technical foul shot and then two more free throws. I make all of them. Kennedy’s lead is just nine points.
    I’m relaxed and totally calm. Even though Kennedy makes a few of their shots, I’m hitting shots too as we pick away.
    With two minutes and twenty seconds left, we’ve cut their lead to only five points. They miss another shot and the Hankster grabs the board, tossing the ball out to me. I bring it down court, but they’ve hustled back on defense, so I have to slow things down. I pass the ball, move to a screen, expecting a pass back, but Wille has an open easy little eight-footer so he takes it. It rims out and they get the board.
    They bring the ball back, and their shooting guard hits a clutch three-pointer. Their bench explodes, guys jumping around, hitting each other with towels, leaping into the air, celebrating; their lead is back to eight with under two minutes to go.
    I bring the ball up court, and just as I cross the half-court line I see an open lane to the basket. I start to drive but pull up at the three-point line and take my jumper. It ticks the rim but goes through.
    My head is in the game, but it’s also outside myself. Although I’m totally present and in the moment, I “see,” in some part of my mind, all kinds of stuff: Mom and Cindy up in the stands; Shawn back in Seattle; Tim-bo and Eddie Farr and even that little girl with her ugly dog—it’s weird, I’m 100 percent here and 100 percent somewhere, everywhere , else. All my life I’ve used sports to run away, but I have nothing left to run away from. As I move back on defense, I realize this is the most fun I’ve ever had playing—in fact, this is the first time in my whole life that I’ve truly been playing . I feel that sensation of flying again, that feeling of almost floating.
    After a miss by Kennedy, I grab the rebound, bring it