Rucker Park Setup by Paul Volponi Page B

everybody what he wants us to do. Only I’m still not listening to anything outside of my heart beating.
    Junkyard Dog squeezes my shoulder, like everything he ever wanted was riding on me now. I look down, and J.R.’s initials are staring back at me from everybody’s kicks. Then Mitchell breaks the huddle and looks me in the eye.
    â€œMustard, all the real hot dogs are sitting in the stands wishing they were playing for the championship,” he says. “You’re a leader. These kids look up to you ’cause you got the guts to go out there for you and J.R.”
    â€œAnd don’t let that fat fucker get in your ear,” says Greene, getting in front of my face. “I’m countin’ on you to be my boy.”
    I look into Greene’s shades and see my reflection—one in each eye. I don’t know which one is Mackey, and which is Hold the Mustard. I don’t know how they got split like that, or if they were ever both the same. I just know that I can’t stand the sight of either one of them.
    Stove comes back from the scorer’s table holding a silver stopwatch. Then he calls Fat Anthony and Mitchell together.
    â€œCoaches, I’m not confident in the way that clock’s been moving,” says Stove, showing them the face of the watch in his hand. “I’m gonna keep the time on the court, too, to check it. I just want you to understand that in the end, my time’s what we’re gonna live by.”
    I step back onto the middle of the court, but nothing’s changed for me. None of the clocks have moved a second, and it’s like I’m still trapped in that corner of the court.

15
    I’M SHADOWING KODAK when a Non-Fiction player throws a pass away. The ball’s headed out-of-bounds, and Kodak’s streaking to save it. I stick right with him, and the scorer’s table comes up fast.
    I’ve been holding something back ever since that morning I took Fat Anthony’s money. First I held back on J.R., thinking I could hide it from him. Now I’m holding back the truth from Stove and screwing over the team. Only I can’t play that line anymore.
    Kodak dives across the table for the ball, and so do I.
    I don’t care if I break a leg or crack my skull wide open. It’s better than being backed into a corner with no way out.
    The scorekeeper grabs his book off the table.
    Kodak reaches the rock first, slapping it backwards. It hits square in my hands and I shove the ball back off Kodak last. Then I go crashing through the trophy and land upside down on the ground with it cradled inside my arms. The marble bottom’s jabbing me in the stomach, and the gold ball that kid holds is pressed up against my throat.
    I swallow hard, and feel for every part of me. But nothing’s broken.
    Then I get pulled back up to my feet and hear all the arguing.
    Hamilton’s saying the ball was off me last. That the rock belongs to Non-Fiction. I know he’s wrong, and maybe Fat Anthony finally got the call he’s been working Hamilton for all game.
    â€œThank you, Mr. Hamilton. Thank you ,” says Fat Anthony. “That’s what we need here—a sharp set of eyes.”
    Kodak’s already back on the court. And when Stove sees I’m still in one piece, he yanks the trophy away from me, setting it back on the table right.
    Mitchell and Greene are both blowing a fuse.
    â€œChrist, Hamilton! You couldn’t see that from the other side of the court!” argues Mitchell. “Stove, you were closest to it. Why didn’t you make the call?”
    â€œIt’s more bullshit! That’s why!” shouts Greene.
    Then Greene turns away from the refs. I watch his whole body start to coil. He rips his shades off and stares straight at me. His eyes are blacker than anything I’ve ever seen, and they drill two holes into the deepest part of me.
    â€œWhat are you jumpin’ over tables with that joker