Ball Don't Lie (6 page)

Mico stuck a finger in Sticky’s face, told him:
I’m gonna
tell you how this is gonna go, kid
. He took a few deep breaths, trying to calm down.
Now that I’m stayin here, we go by my
rules. I don’t care how it went with your moms. All that’s over.
From now on we go by my rules
.

He pulled a new cigarette out of his pack and lit it. Sucked in hard and threw the pack back onto the table.
Now, I ain’t
never had to mess with no kid before, but I’m gonna do like my
pops did with me. When I messed up, my pops whipped me good
.

Mico pulled in another drag and blew it to the side of Sticky’s red face.
That’s how my pops made me a man. Now, if
I’m gonna stay here in this crappy apartment
. . . He circled his finger around the room.
If I gotta live like this, man, you
damn for sure we doin things my way
.

He held the cigarette in his left hand, reached around with his right and scratched his shoulder blade. Transferred the cigarette back into his right hand.
I’m gonna make you
grow up to be a man
.

Mico reached out quick and grabbed the back of Sticky’s head, pushed his face into the couch. He held Sticky’s head still with a strong left hand and stuck the burning cigarette against the thin skin behind his left ear.

The sizzle on skin made Sticky swallow everything. Gasping and sucking. Choking. Pushing with his hands to get away. He was sucking in all the pain and dry-heaving through his mouth and nose.

Mico held his head tight, screwed the embers in.

The skin melting and dripping. The smell like burning rags. Everything snapping and cracking and breaking in his ear.

He held the cigarette there until Sticky’s charred skin pulled every last bit of the red out.

Warm piss ran down Sticky’s jeans. Darkened the faded blue denim. Pooled on the rug in front of his bare curled toes.

Sometimes I Think

if I don’t make it to the NBA I’ll kill myself. I know
it don’t sound so good when I say it, Annie, but that’s how I
feel. There ain’t nothin else I wanna do. Just play ball. I mean, I
hear them people talkin bout how hard it is to make it and all
that, but I know I could do it. Dallas says if I keep workin on
my game I got a good chance. Slim, too. They said I got the intangibles. Old-man Perkins says if he was startin up a squad
from scratch he’d be lookin for a point guard just like me.
Someone who could score points
and
get assists
.

It’s like this, Annie, God puts us here for a reason. We all
born with somethin we could do good, but it’s up to us to make
sure we use it. That’s why I play ball so much. I ain’t gonna lie,
I think God put me here to play ball. And when I go to pray at
night, I pray so I could get better and better. That’s why I grew
so much last year. That’s why I could shoot so good. It ain’t just
me doin it.

This lady I used to stay with told me all about what could
happen when you pray. And she was true. I know she was now.

Last week I was walkin back from Lincoln Rec, you know,
and I just started thinkin about all this. It was after I had one a
my best days ever. I couldn’t miss a jumper, my dribbles were
super tight, I was swipin the ball left and right from everybody.
I remember right where I was when I started thinkin about it:
corner of Washington and Grand View, right outside the
Foster’s Freeze where this crazy white dude was strummin his
guitar. I remember it was gettin all dark and there wasn’t too
many cars out. I sat down at the bus stop there and thought
about it. I couldn’t believe what’s happenin to me. How good I
could ball now. How I can take almost any guy I play against
now. And I know it ain’t just me, Annie, but God, too. I know I
couldn’t ball like that just by myself.

Do you understand what a sweet life they got in the NBA?
They got fat bank accounts and big-ass houses. They got three,
four cars each. BMWs and Expeditions. Range Rovers. And all
they gotta do is just play ball all day.

They get paid to play ball, Annie. That’s crazy.

Sometimes when I’m sitting in class I picture what it would
be like if I got there. The announcer sayin my name over the
P.A., the crowd holding up signs, me chillin out back at the
hotel after a big game, watchin some highlight I did on
SportsCenter. When I’m walkin through the airport people
pointin at me and sayin, “Is that Sticky Reichard? Nah, for
real, is that Sticky Reichard?”

When I think about that too much, my stomach starts gettin all messed up.

I know it don’t sound good, Annie, but I think if I couldn’t
make it I wouldn’t wanna be around no more. Cause it’s all I
got in my life, you know? Playin ball. It’s all I got in the whole
world. And if I couldn’t make it, I woulda been wrong all this
time about God’s plan.

But you ain’t gotta worry about all that, girl. Cause I swear
to you, man, one day I’m gonna make it to the NBA. . . .

Francine Was All

smiles when she drove up to Sticky’s foster care pad in her old-school Volkswagen van. Bumper stickers about Greenpeace and the Dodgers. Christian fish. Shiny black cross hanging like a pendulum from the rearview mirror.

Francine was the first of the foster ladies.

She had long red-gray hair and freckles. A silver cross dangling from her fragile neck. She showed up for Sticky three days after he turned nine.

The night before the pickup, all the counselors horseshoed around Sticky in the TV room. Told him how lucky he was.

This is a perfect match,
Counselor Jenny said, and everybody agreed.

She picked you out of everyone
, Counselor Amy said.

Sticky yanked his socks up and scrunched them back down. Yanked up and scrunched down.

Yeah, how often does somebody looking to adopt pick a
nine-year-old?
Jenny said, looking to the old Mexican director for the facts.
Most are looking for babies, right?

It’s rare,
the director said.

She must think Sticky’s pretty special,
Jenny said.

Amy stroked Sticky’s hair and smiled at him.
Plus you’re
such a tough little guy,
she said. She looked to Jenny, told her:
He didn’t even cry when he first came here. Most kids do, you
know
. She made a playful face to Sticky.
Do you even have
tear ducts in those eyes, mister tough guy?

But it’s OK to cry, Sticky,
Jenny said.
In fact, it’s healthy to
cry. It can make you feel better.

Turned out Francine’s husband had passed away, leaving her alone in their big house in Pasadena. All three of her own kids had grown up and graduated college. Moved away. She told the adoption agency that such a big lonely house should be shared with a child.
What better way for an old
lady like me to give back?
she said, after pulling out Sticky’s picture from a stack of thirty.
What could be better than giving a child like him an opportunity?

And Francine wasn’t just blowing smoke, she gave the situation everything she had. Hooked up three meals a day in the kitchen, told Sunday school stories by Sticky’s bed until he fell asleep at night. She took him to movies and museums and amusement parks. Held up multiplication flash cards when she found out he bombed a math test. Every afternoon she’d be there to pick Sticky up from school, her van pulled along the curb just like any other kid’s mom.

One Friday after school, Sticky pulled open the van door and spotted a wrapped package sitting on the passenger seat.
What’s this?
he said.

It’s for you,
Francine said.

Sticky stood there a sec, ran through possible holidays in his head. He picked the box up and set it back down.
But it
ain’t my birthday or nothin
.

I know that,
Francine said, and she laughed.
It’s just because I like you. Now, go on and open it
.

Sticky climbed into the seat and ripped through the baseball wrapping paper. Tossed it to his feet. He opened the box and pulled out a brand-new black suede jacket, held it out in front of his excited face.

Francine took her hands off the wheel, folded them in her lap. Her face was frozen in a smile.

Sticky reached back in the box, pulled out a white collared shirt and a pair of black pants.

You have to have nice clothes where we’re going tonight,
Francine said.

They drove straight to Santa Monica from the school. Sat in heavy traffic on the 110 with everybody else. Traffic on the 10 West. They listened to talk radio and the sound of cars gassing and breaking. The smell of exhaust floated in through their open windows.

When Francine finally pulled off the 10 at Lincoln, she headed west on Broadway. They inched through Third Street Promenade foot traffic and cars waiting to pull into parking garages. Out the window Sticky spied the exact spot he used to beg for change with Baby. Pictured himself holding out the white bowl and making the sad face Baby taught him. The felt-penned sign around his neck blowing into his face when the wind picked up. Pictured Baby right behind him, sitting Indian style and humming to herself.

Here we are,
Francine said as she pulled up to the Loews Hotel lobby, shut off the engine and handed the keys to the valet guy.
This is the place
.

Up in the fancy room, Francine came out of the bathroom wearing a long black dress and lipstick. High heels. Long silver earrings that dangled over her bare freckled shoulders. She helped Sticky tuck his new shirt into his new pants. Held the jacket out so he could put one arm in and then the other.

When Sticky was all set she took out a blow-dryer and ran a brush through her wet hair.
We’re going to eat at a place
called Ivy at the Shore,
she shouted over the hot air.
It’s a really nice place. My husband took me there for every one of our
anniversaries
. She flipped off the blow-dryer and set it down. She spun around in the mirror and then turned her attention to Sticky.
Now I’m taking you.

At dinner Francine taught Sticky about table manners: where to place the napkin in his lap, where to keep hands and elbows, how to hold the menu, which fork to use and at what time. Sticky sat stiff and listened to everything she said.

In the dim light, and with his new gear, he wondered if he looked like he belonged. Or could people tell it was his first time inside a restaurant. Ever. That it felt like a foreign country to him.

He watched a boy sitting three tables down wearing a tie. Watched the way the boy talked to adults and ordered for himself, the way he sipped soup from a spoon and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. Every move seemed so natural. Sticky swore to himself right then and there that when he got older, had money of his own, he’d be eating at places like this every single night.

Before the food came out Francine reached over and took Sticky’s hands. She closed her eyes and began a prayer:
Thank you, Lord, for this wonderful night, thank you for
bringing Sticky and me into one another’s lives. Lord, one day
Sticky, too, will come to you. . . .

As Francine went on, Sticky kept his eyes open. He watched the wrinkles in her chin stretch and fall as she spoke, her eyelids twitch. She always talked to him about God. Read Bible passages each morning while he wolfed down eggs and toast. She told him about Jesus and heaven, how to lead life like a true Christian. He could never figure out what to make of all that talk, but he liked that her words were aimed at him and nobody else.

Just as Francine released Sticky’s hands and opened her eyes, the waitress set down their plates.

Let’s eat,
Francine said.

But a year into things, Francine was diagnosed with cancer. Told she had to undergo immediate and intensive treatment just to have a chance at pulling through.

Her daughter flew in from New York two days after they found out, drove the van when they took Sticky back to his foster care pad.

They dropped him off late at night.

This is only temporary,
Francine said outside the van, tears running down her face. Her daughter stayed inside the van, left the motor running.
I promise,
Francine said.
The
Lord will make sure of it
. Her face was outlined by a glowing sliver of moon and Sticky felt bad for her.
When I get better
I’m going to rush back here and take you home.

And as she stared at him, Sticky thought it was true what she was saying. This lady. She would come back for him.

They looked at each other for a while, neither of them moving or saying a word. Then Francine smiled through her tears and took both of his hands in hers. She kneeled so they were eye-level and told him:
I love you, Sticky.

She hugged him tight.

Sticky didn’t cry when her old Volkswagen van pulled out of the driveway and into the street. The old Mexican director’s hand on his shoulder. The cold wind on the back of his neck.
Is this when you’re supposed to cry?
he wondered as the van moved slowly down the long, busy road and mixed with other taillights.
Is this when you’re supposed to feel sad
and cry?
Because his eyes were as dry as a Santa Ana.

Francine died three months later in a hospital just outside Manhattan. Sticky found out when he overheard some counselors whispering in the office.

When he heard it for a second time later that week, a big sit-down kinda conversation with the old Mexican director, he acted like he didn’t know.