Chapter 3

I was always one of those driveway heroes; you know, the type of guy who would spend hours shooting baskets all alone, monkeying up do-or-die scenarios in which the game is on the line, three seconds, two seconds...

A lot of being able to shoot a basketball accurately is muscle-memory; your reflexes taking over due to constant repetition, sort of like typing. The other part is confidence; a combination of focus and relaxation that allows the best aspects of an athlete's total self to come forward.

Now, I was never a great ballplayer; I'm not very tall -- just 5-foot, 10 inches tall now as an adult, and just 5-7 when I entered high school -- can't dribble the ball behind my back and my defense was always not much better than workmanlike. But...

"Aw, there's always a place on the team for someone who can shoot," said Uncle Mike one afternoon, watching me bomb in baskets from beyond the 3-point line that was designated by a crack in the driveway.

This was a few days after the incident with the baseball bat, and my mind was a maelstrom of conflicting impulses; a new-found urge to take risks, and the same old fears still hanging on with their fingernails.

"So you going to go out for basketball this year, Jack, me boy?" asked Uncle Mike, lighting up a Lucky Strike.

"Uh, well, I'm not sure," I said. "Don't have a lot of formal experience. Wonder if the coach will give me a chance."

"Fuck that!" snorted my uncle. "Listen, bucko, remember this: there's only one good play in basketball: the ball goes in the hoop. You can take all that no-look pass and between-the-legs dribbling and shove it in your ass. Score! That's the first and last word in any coach's playbook."

I considered that for a moment. I was about 25 feet away from the hoop. I turned, set myself and went up with the shot. An easy release, a perfect arc, and the barely audible sound of the plastic-ball swishing through the nylon netting. I did believe that every shot would go in! Stripped of the fear of failure or embarrassment, I went from shooting about 35 percent to nearly double that. A goofy grin beamed from my face.

"I think I'll give it a try," I said.

With the fervor of the newly-converted, I tracked down the freshman basketball coach, who was none too glad to see me. I hadn't played in the summer league and I was a complete -- and unimpressive -- stranger to him.

"Coach, just give me five minutes in the gym. If I don't earn a spot on the team in that time, I'll go away and never bother you again," I said, looking him right in the eye.

"Well," he said, after a long moment, "you've got confidence, I'll give you that. OK. Five minutes."

"You wanna warm up first?" he said, tossing me a ball once we were inside the cavernous gym.

"Coach," I said, "I was born warm." Yes, I know, there is a point where confidence starts to bleed into arrogance, but as the saying goes, it ain't bragging if you can do it. And I knew I could do it.

Now, of course, I knew it might be different with the pressure of a crowd yelling, or the other team defending, but none of that occurred to me at the moment. There was no coach watching, no possibility of bricklaying, just me making love to the hoop with that big fat, orange ball.

Nine-out-of-10 free throws. Fifteen-of-20 from beyond the three-point arc. "You care to see my hook shot?" I asked.

"No, no," he said. "If you can shoot half that well in a game you're already better than three of my starters I got penciled in. Team meeting is here at 3 p.m. Friday. I'll see you there."

I knew that the most important people in a high school aren't the principal or even the teachers but the janitors and the secretaries. They knew what was really going on and could make things happen if they were so inclined.

Anxious to get a chance to practice in the gym with no one else around, I befriended the head custodian. A couple of days of complimenting him on the truly wonderful work he and his staff did keeping the campus clean in the face of the total indifference of 2,000 sloppy teenagers, and a lengthy inquiry into his own sports career produced the desired result.

"Now, Mack," I said, holding up the key he'd presented me with. "Are you sure this isn't going to get you into any trouble?"

He snorted. He was a short, wrinkled black man whose appearance betrayed little evidence than he had once been -- a long time ago -- a blindingly fast high school point guard until a war wound cut short a promising career at age 19. "Shit, boy," he said, waving away the thought with a gnarled hand. "Coaches are always forgetting to lock the doors. People sneak in all the time. Just don't tell anybody about the key, or let them see you use it, and it's cool."

"Hey," I said, "you are the man. You need any help cleaning up the gym after the game? I could lend a hand."

Mack drew in a breath. "Damn," he said. "No, I don't need any help, but, boy, you are the first student in 22 years to offer to lift a finger to help me. I think maybe you the only kid in this whole school got his head screwed on right."

We shook hands and parted. That night at about 8 p.m. I hoofed it down back to school, and -- looking both ways like the good junior burglar I'd become -- let myself into the gym. When I flicked on the lights I was stunned to see somebody else there: a wiry sophomore girl named Joanne who was just lacing on her shoes when my eyes fell on her.

"What are you doing here?" she asked defensively.

'What are YOU doing here?" I replied. "How did you get in?"

"Coaches leave the doors unlocked a lot. I sneak in all the time," she said, standing there with a ball at her hip. She was about 5-foot, 4-inches tall, wearing a sloppy gray sweatshirt and baggy red shorts. Her brown hair was a little bit on the frizzy side, and her face was freckled. No makeup or lipstick, not much fashion sense but a hint of potential. I thought that perhaps this was one of those girls who might, as my Uncle Mike would say, "cleaned up good."

"OK, great," I said. "My name is Jack. I'm gonna be on the freshman team this season, I think." I walked over to her and held out a hand. She just looked at me.

"I don't care much for boys," she said, her face set in a hard expression.

I thought for a moment. Into my mind flitted memories of some of the bullies and jerks and others of my gender who'd stained my life's path.

"You know," I said, looking right into her eyes, "a lot of the time I don't either." Then I grinned.

Her face softened, a smile tugged at her bare lips. "You any good with that thing?" she asked, then blushed at her awkward choice of words. "I meant the basketball."

I laughed and bounced her the ball. "Do or die, right?"

In a minute we were friends, sort of. Joanne was a darned good basketball player, a natural point guard with great court sense and a dogged defender. She was going to be elevated to the girls' varsity as a sophomore, which was sort of a big honor.

Our one-on-one games were close, hard-fought and, frankly, quite sexy. She defended like a demon, and didn't let me get a step if she could help it. I quickly learned that I was going to stand a chance, I'd have to bomb in the ball from outside before she could go into her bulldog act.

Which I did. After she won the first game 20-15, I started to arc the ball over her. If she came out too far to defend me, I would put my shoulder down and drive past her. I won the second game 20-10 and the third 20-6.

"Damn," she said as we collapsed sweatily onto the bleachers on a break. "I wish I could shoot that well. That's the main thing I really need to improve on."

We traded Gatorades back and forth, an odiferous camaraderie growing between us. "Well," I said, working a towel over my salty face, "you know a lot of shooting well is just confidence. You've got to believe that every shot's going to go in. I mean really believe it. Then you relax and it just sort of happens."

She grinned and stretched. "A lot of things I need more confidence about," she said. A pause. "Why are boys such assholes? Present company excluded."

"C'mere," I said, and motioned her over and gestured for her to sit down in front of me. Warily, she did so, and I started to rub her shoulders and neck.