Rucker Park Setup by Paul Volponi Page A

dance.
    â€œSpider needs a new pair of socks,” says Acorn. “He just got juked out of his.”
    I blow by him and miss an easy layup.
    I can’t look anybody in the face, so I watch the ball get passed around, and the seconds slip off the clock.
    The next time Kodak touches the rock, he dribbles straight into the teeth of our defense. There’s nothing in his eyes but basketball. No fear. No thinking. Nothing. And I’m jealous to my bones. Then Kodak plants a foot and pulls up. The defense slides past him, and he lets loose a one-handed floater that finds the bottom of the basket.
    â€œGood gracious! That boy’s in the Zone !” blasts Acorn. “This game’s all even.”
    The Zone’s a place where your mind and body are on the exact same wavelength. You make moves without thinking about them, and everything’s natural and pure.
    A thousand things can creep into a shooter’s head and screw him up—the defense, the crowd, or anything you carry onto the court with you. You start thinking about every part of your stroke and get thrown off. But when you’re in the Zone, you might as well be on the court alone, because nothing can get close to you. It’s just you and the basket. There’s no pressure, and everything just flows like it’s supposed to.
    But I know I’ll never find that feeling again. Not on a basketball court. Not anywhere.
    It’s crunch time, and kids on our squad are looking for me to take over.
    I pass the ball off to one of our guys, then he pushes it right back at me. It happens again with the next kid, and I feel like I’m playing Hot Potato.
    One of our kids steps up and sets a solid screen on Spider. I pop free, with a wide-open shot staring me in the face.
    â€œThat’s automatic!” somebody screams from our bench.
    I raise up to shoot, but none of it comes natural. It’s like there’s a hundred pieces to my stroke, and I got to build one on top of the other. My eyes are zeroed in on the front of the rim. But just before I release the rock, everything I’ve done flashes through my mind in fast-forward. Then, before I can blink, it’s gone with the shot.
    The ball hits iron and goes straight up in the air. Everybody’s fighting for position, and Kodak presses his body up against mine to block me off from the basket. When the ball can’t go any higher, I see the seams stop spinning. It floats down, and falls through the heart of the basket, without even jiggling the net.
    We’re back in front by a basket, and Mitchell’s chasing me down the sideline.
    â€œMustard! Mustard, stay on Kodak!” he yells. “Be the stopper!”
    I stay in front of Kodak and try to cut him off from the ball. If he’s in the Zone, I don’t want him bringing that at me, because I got nothing inside me to stand up against it now.
    Non-Fiction misses their next shot, and I chase down the rebound. Spider comes flying at me, and Kodak, too. They’re both right on top of me, with their arms straight up. I’m trapped in the corner and can’t see past. I bring the rock into my stomach to protect it. It feels like it weighs a ton, and it’s all I can do to hold on. Then I feel myself falling out-of-bounds.
    â€œTime-out!” I scream.
    I hear Stove’s whistle and drop the rock to the floor.
    The clock’s frozen solid with three minutes and three seconds to play.
    Our kids are clapping for me, and Mitchell comes up the sideline to meet me.
    â€œHeads-up play, Mustard. You saved us a possession,” says Mitchell, walking me back to the bench.
    â€œThe championship and more!” says Greene, putting a fist into the chest of every kid coming off the court.
    But when it’s my turn, I close my eyes and try to shut out every word. Then I feel the bump from his fist, and it’s like getting shoved out of a nightmare into something even worse.
    Mitchell’s telling