Playing Without the Ball by Rich Wallace Page B

you’re older you’ll find a way to … reconnect. Sarita told me a little.” She smiles at me like the older waitress at the diner, the breakfast lady. “Sarita’s father is ill … in that same way, I think.” She’s rubbing Spit’s arm kind of tenderly. Spit looks, what, sweet? Young. Comfortable.
    And I suddenly feel very grateful to be here. Nobody’s rubbed my arm like that for a long, long time, if ever, but somebody will.
    I say, “I think, when my father was here looking out for me, she could pretend that I was okay. So we could at least talk sometimes. Now she knows I’m on my own, so she gets pissed at my father all over again. Like it’s all his fault.”
    Spit reaches over and rubs my hand. The food is good. We stop talking about distant parents, and Spit’s mother tells me about her early childhood in Portugal, the way her own parents loved their five children, how her father worked in a cannery. I stay until late in the evening. We play cards. They teach me a carol about a farmer who is awakened by a bird and told to make preparations for the arrival of three guests.
    I mean, I have guilt, too, about not being able to talk to my mother, but part of that is loyalty to my father. As big a screwup as he’s been, at least he tried. He tried for a good long time.
    He’s still trying, I guess. I know he is.
    It’s snowing lightly when I leave, but there’s no wind. A good night for sleeping after all.

THREE

Weasel
    I go with Alan to the Sturbridge Holiday Tournament on Tuesday evening. Sturbridge has won this thing like ten years in a row, but it’s kind of shameful the way they stack the field. Tonight we’re playing West Sullivan, New York, for example, which couldn’t beat our freshman team. I mean no disrespect, because this is a school with like twenty-five kids in their graduating class every year. We’ve got ten times that many.
    The “championship” game tomorrow night will be against either Forest City or Montrose, which are both small and not exactly powerhouses. While other teams look for tough early season opponents to prime the pump, our school just looks for easy wins.
    Brian Kaipo scores eight points in the first quarter, and the lead quickly reaches double digits. Early in the second, he makes a nice steal and races upcourt, two strides ahead of everybody else. He can’t quite dunk, but he makes a spectacular reverse layup that gets the crowd on its feet. I notice Coach stand up, too, but he doesn’t look pleased. He stands there with his arms folded, glaring at Brian.
    Brian steals another pass and goes the length of the court again. He could easily make another layup, but he swings a behind-the-back pass toward Jared Hall. Jared’s not expecting it. The ball glances off his fingers and winds up in the third row of the bleachers.
    Ricky gets up from the bench, takes off his warm-up top, and goes over to the scorer’s table. He goes in for Brian, who gets a huge cheer from the crowd. Coach makes him sit next to him, and you can see him chewing him out, although he doesn’t raise his voice enough that you can hear it.
    Brian’s arguing back. Eventually, he gets up and goes to the other end of the bench, shaking his head. He doesn’t play at all the rest of the night.
    After the game, Alan and I walk down Main Street to hang out by Turkey Hill, which is something I wouldn’t normally do, and never would do alone. You have to have a certain credential to hang out here, a certain level of rebellion or machismo.
    There’s not a whole lot of things that are less cool than being president of a Methodist youth group, but Alan seems to thrive on it. Which in a way makes him extra cool, because he’s accepted in most circles in spite of that.
    He starts talking to a guy named Gary who’s wearing a long Army-type coat. The guy glances at me and nods.
    “Weasel been around?” Alan asks.
    “I seen him before,” Gary says. He looks back at me, not sure if I can be trusted.