When We Were Young Page 4

bright-red explosion and near simultaneous parting of the gray fortress, followed by a resounding left-handed thunder dunk — all I could say was, “Damn, what a move!”

  Then, as if to confound and confuse the onlookers even more, or maybe to show his athleticism, the dunker seemed to hang in suspended animation for just a “real-time” fraction of a second. Then he slowly floated down, touching the ground lightly. In less than a heartbeat, he pivoted around and darted to the half-court line.

  I’ll say this for the gray team; though they had clearly been sucker-punched gunshot by the opening tap and monster dunk, they responded like true champs. The two-man wall separated in near synchronized motion. The shorter dude took the ball out and passed it to the other half of the obstruction that had been scaled by the red team’s undersized highflier. The face on that guy was very familiar, and so was his gait, size, and the easy way he handled the rock.

  I racked my brain, momentarily coming up blank as the guy advanced the ball, his head on a swivel as he methodically surveyed the court. At half-court he was met by the red-clad dude who’d jumped center. The guy made a hard dribble to the right then casually went behind his back. In a sudden burst of speed he turned on his afterburners and left the would-be defender stuck and shaken out of his shoes.

  That’s when it clicked. This kid had to be Greg Fletcher, Junior — the 6’6” point guard who’d gotten a full ride to one of the Florida schools a couple of years ago after leading Long Beach Poly to three consecutive CIF (California Intramural Federation) Sectional Championships. The familiarity in his game was because I’d known, and played both with and against his father, Gregory, since the 10th grade. We played together for Poly, but were opponents in Federation play. Greg Senior lived on the East Side and represented the Rec.

  Like his dad, the kid handled the rock like it was a yo-yo, an extension of his hands. Once he’d easily shaken off his defender, he flung a 30-foot bounce pass cross-court to a wide-open teammate in gray standing at the three-point line on the baseline. This guy caught the ball, and in one fluid motion flicked his wrist, letting fly with about a 25-foot shot just a millisecond before a hand attached to a fast-moving red streak appeared in front of him. Without a backward glance, the shooter rushed down court to take his place at the forward position in a two-three-zone defense that featured a size comparable to most division-one ball clubs.

  In addition to the aforementioned beefy 6’9” center for the gray team, there was a Hispanic dude who matched him in bulk and stood a solid 6’7” himself. The dude who’d sunk the baseline three-pointer occupied the other wing. And while he was thin — reed thin — he had to be about 6’3”, and had long, willowy arms, which gave him a huge and incredible wingspan to match what I would soon come to see was his deadly outside shooting touch. That left the guard tandem, who had failed to guard the goal on the opening tap, playing up top. Greg Jr. had to be the oldest, at maybe 22. These dudes were big, strong, and young.

  On the other side was a team of older dudes; five brothers, a white dude, and the guy who’d jumped center for “Red Haze,” as I learned they’d dubbed themselves. At barely 6’3”, the biracial dude was the tallest man on their seven-man squad. What they brought to the dance were seven guards. I soon saw that each one of them could handle the ball, shoot, pass, and boy could they move. This was evidenced by how easily they moved, cut, set picks, and wound up with an uncontested lay-up by their center on their second possession of the game.

  After that possession, the red team showed what their real strength was: a stifling, full-court, man-to-man defense. It caught the big Latino by surprise. The way the play unfolded was textbook. After converting the lay-up, the red team’s center followed the skinny, gray-clad, outside shooter as he took the ball out of bounds. The dude contested that first inbounds attempt, and he nearly came up with a steal. But he did block the pass, albeit right back out of bounds into the face of the willowy-armed guy from team gray. More vigilant this time, the passer faked the inbounds as he searched frantically for a teammate. His desperate search prompted me to scan the court myself.

  “Ahh,” I muttered under my breath. No wonder this cat is damn near panicked, nobody’s open.

  And that was a fact. Every member of the gray team had a smaller, but very-much-present man from Red Haze draped all over him. These dudes, all guards...well, they were living up to the position’s title. They were guarding, playing each gray-clad player without the ball. At the last possible second, perhaps aware that he was very near to being called for a violation, the dude heaved the ball in the direction of Greg Jr. Whether it was instinct, the result of practice, confidence in his teammate, or maybe osmosis, I would never know.

  As I watched the rock fly, I followed its path until it reached its zenith, then the slower decline. My first thought was that the pass was headed out of bounds, having been tossed so desperately. I think Greg Jr. thought so too, because he seemed to pull up at the last second as he neared the sideline, near half-court. A sudden streak of red flashed before me, elevated between the out-of-bounds line and where Greg Jr. stood staring expectantly as the ball descended. Then, right before our eyes, a hand — an extremely large hand — reached out and snared the ball. The player attached to that hand landed lightly on his feet, accelerated, and within a half-dozen dribbles, executed another uncontested lay-up.

  His next move demonstrated he had been well coached at some point in his life. He never even saw the ball drop through the hoop, because he went directly to the out-of-bounds line and waited for someone on team gray to take out and inbound the basketball. Apply pressure though he might, the 6’1” guy in red was…well … 6’1”. Greg Jr., the guy inbounding the ball, faked the pass to the left; then, using his 6’6” frame, launched a near-perfect chest pass to his big center, who upon recognizing the press being applied, came back as an outlet. Using his bulk as a shield, he caught the ball, came to a stop, and set a huge pick for Greg Jr., who had followed his own pass.

  After running his defender into the left shoulder of his big guy, Greg literally snatched the ball from his teammate’s big hands and easily advanced into the forecourt. Once there, he slowed down and waved his 6’9” shield into the key, where the latter assumed the post position deep in the lower box. Right away I recognized the gray team’s game plan. They were going to pound the ball inside and use their superior size — a completely different strategy than that of the smaller, quicker red team.

  “Oh, shit!” I shouted.

  The big guy in the paint was only a ruse designed to force a double-team, which came almost immediately from the wing. And wouldn’tcha know it, that’s precisely where the ball went. Standing there, wide open, not a red jersey in sight, was the previously mentioned, long-limbed shooter. Yep, bang — another light flick of the wrist and same result: a three-pointer knotting the game at six.

  In a flash, seeming to snatch the ball out of the net, a brown-skinned brother sporting big dookie braids and whom I estimated stood about 6’1”, stepped out of bounds and rifled a line drive to the smallest member of team Red Haze, sprinting down the sideline. This guy never dribbled the ball. He caught it, took one giant step, slung a pass to the wing, cut down the lane, got a return pass, and elevated for a soft, easy, two-handed dunk, putting his team up eight to six.

  I found myself wishing that the grass wasn’t damp, because it was obvious that this game was gonna beone to remember. Then came that nagging ache as my right leg, weak from the thigh down, started to pulse. Not much at first, but the combination of the early-December morning chill and me putting weight on the leg served to warn me that the ache would become a painful throb. I leaned forward, grasped two solid handfuls of cyclone fence, and subtly shifted so that more of my 205 pounds rested on my left leg. I didn’t want to miss a thing.

  The action was hot and heavy, nonstop, with several lead changes as play proceeded. Neither squad was able to enjoy being in the lead for very long. During that first half, the large
st differential was three points by the gray team. At the half, they were knotted at 13, and for a hoops fanatic like myself, it’d been well worth any discomfort that I’d endured.

  While the teams went to the restroom, grabbed water, or just rested, I stretched out my limbs and removed my lined trench coat. At some point during that first half, the temperature had warmed up quite nicely, and I had actually begun to sweat. After checking the grass’s moisture, I flipped my coat inside out and laid it on the ground, then slowly eased myself down on top of it. My eyes began to scan the park as members of both teams began trickling back toward the court, some waving to friends, others chatting amicably with onlookers. And in a huge departure from when we were young, I witnessed a couple of gray-clad and red-clad dudes laughing and talking, even backslapping one another amicably.

  As I gazed around, I also experienced a bit of shock and disappointment at the park’s overall condition: shabby. There were gang signs sprayed over other gangs’ identification marks. Graffiti seemed to cover nearly every inch of every structure within eyesight. It was deplorable and very depressing.

  What happened?