straight in front of him, he saw his parents. His eyes quickly fled back to the court. He clapped his hands and yelled out encouragement to his teammates, pretending to be interested in the outcome of the game. His mom and dad. They must have flown in early from their trip.
He risked a quick glance. They sat near Jessica now, in the family and friends section. His mom was staring back at him. Even from the distance he could see the lost look in her glassy eyes. Dad’s eyes darted about, his jaw taut, as though he were summoning up a little extra before looking at the court straight-on. Myron understood. This was all too familiar, like an old family film coming to life. He looked away again.
Leon White came out of the game. He grabbed an empty seat next to Myron. A towel boy draped his sweat top around his shoulders and gave him a squeeze bottle. Leon guzzled some Gatorade, his body glistening with sweat.
“Saw you talking with Thumper last night,” Leon said.
“Yeah.”
“You get some?”
Myron shook his head. “I remain thump-less.”
Leon chuckled. “Anyone tell you how she got that nickname?”
“No.”
“When she gets into it—I mean, when she gets really fired up—she’s got this habit of thumping her leg up and down. Left leg. Always her left leg, you know. So she’s like on her back and you’re pumping her for all you’re worth and then all of a sudden her left leg starts bopping up and down. You hear thump-thump, get it?”
Myron nodded. He got it.
“So if she don’t do that—if a guy don’t get Thumper thumping—it’s like you haven’t done your duty. You can’t show your face. You hang your head.” Then he added, “It’s a pretty serious tradition.”
“Like lighting a menorah on Hanukkah,” Myron said.
Leon laughed. “Well, not exactly.”
“You ever been thumped, Leon?”
“Sure, once.” Then he quickly added, “But that was before I was married.”
“How long you been married?”
“Me and Fiona been married a little over a year.”
Myron’s heart plummeted down an elevator shaft. Fiona. Leon’s wife’s name was Fiona. He looked up in the stands at the flashy, well-rounded blonde. Fiona began with the letter F.
“Bolitar!”
Myron looked up. It was Donny Walsh, the head coach. “Yeah?”
“Go in for Erickson.” Walsh said it like the words were fingernail clippings he needed to spit out. “Take the off guard spot. Put Kiley at the point.”
Myron looked at his coach as if he were speaking Swahili. It was the second quarter. The score was tied.
“What the fuck you waiting for, Bolitar? For Erickson. Now.”
Leon slapped his back. “Go, man.”
Myron stood. His legs felt like strung-out Slinkys. Thoughts of murder and disappearances fled like bats in a spotlight. He tried to swallow but his mouth was bone dry. He jogged over to the scorer’s table. The arena spun like the bed of a drunk. Without conscious thought he discarded his sweats on the floor like a snake changing skin. He nodded at the scorer. “For Erickson,” he said. Ten seconds later, a buzzer sounded. “Now coming in the game for Troy Erickson, Myron Bolitar.”
He jogged out, pointing to Erickson. His teammates looked surprised to see him. Erickson said, “You got Wallace.” Reggie Wallace. One of the game’s best shooting guards. Myron lined up next to him and prepared. Wallace studied him with an amused smile.
“SWB alert,” Reggie Wallace called out with a mocking laugh. “Goddamn SWB alert.”
Myron looked at TC. “SWB?”
“Slow White Boy,” TC told him.
“Oh.”
Everyone else was breathing deeply and coated with sweat. Myron felt stiff and unprepared. His eyes swung back to Wallace. The ball was about to be inbounded. Something caught Myron’s eye and he looked up. Win stood near an exit. His arms crossed. Their eyes met for a brief second. Win gave a half nod. The whistle blew. The game began.
Reggie Wallace began the trash talk immediately. “You got to be kidding me,” he said. “Old-timer, I’m gonna make you my woman.”
“Dinner and a movie first,” Myron said.
Wallace looked at him. “Lame retort, old man.”
Hard to argue.
Wallace lowered himself to a ready position. He shook his head. “Shit. Might as well have my grandma cover me.”
“Speaking of making someone your woman,” Myron said.
Wallace looked at him hard, nodded. “Better,” he said.
The Pacers inbounded the ball. Wallace tried to post Myron up under the basket. This was a good thing. Physical contact. Nothing unclasped those steel bands like battling for position. Their bodies bounced against one another with small grunts. At six-four, two-twenty, Myron held his ground. Wallace tried digging back with his butt, but Myron held firm, putting a knee into Wallace’s backside.
“Man,” Wallace said, “you are so strong.”
And with that, he made a move Myron barely saw. He spun off Myron’s knee so quickly that Myron barely had time to turn his head. Seeming to use Myron for leverage, Wallace leaped high in the air. From Myron’s vantage point, it looked like an Apollo spacecraft heading straight out of the arena. He watched helplessly as Wallace’s outstretched hands grasped the lob pass at rim level. He seemed to pause in midair, then continue rising as though gravity itself had decided to freeze frame the moment. When Reggie Wallace finally began to descend, he pulled the ball behind his head before throwing it through the cylinder with frightening force.
Slam dunk.
Wallace landed with both arms spread for applause. His taunting chased Myron up court. “Welcome to the NBA, has-been. Or never-was. Or whatever the fuck you are. Oh, man, was that pretty or what? How did I look going up? Be honest. Bottom of my sneakers look sweet, don’t they? I’m so pretty. So very pretty. How did it feel when I slammed it in your face? Come on, old-timer, you can tell me.”
Myron tried to tune him out. The Dragons came down and missed a quick shot. The Pacers grabbed the rebound and headed back up court. Wallace faked going back inside and popped way out past the three-point circle. He caught the pass and shot in one motion. The ball went in with a swish. Three pointer.
“Whoa, old man, did you hear that sound?” Reggie Wallace went on. “That swish? There is no sweeter sound on earth. You hear me? No sweeter sound at all. Not even a woman crying out in orgasm.”
Myron looked at him. “Women have orgasms?”
Wallace laughed. “Touche, old-timer. Touche.”
Myron checked the clock. He’d been in for thirty-four seconds and his man had scored five points. Myron did some quick math. At that rate, Myron could hold Reggie Wallace to under six hundred points per game.
The boos started soon after. Unlike his youth, the crowd sounds did not fade into the background. They were not one indistinguishable blur of sound, a home-court cheer to perhaps ride upon the way a surfer picks up a wave. Or a boo in a rival’s arena—something you expect and even thrive on in a perverse way. But to hear your own fans boo your specific performance, to hear your home crowd turn against you—Myron had never experienced that before. He heard the crowd now as never before, as a collective entity of derision and as distinct voices making ugly catcalls. “You suck, Bolitar!” “Get that stiff outta there!” “Blow out your other knee and sit down!” He tried to ignore them but each catcall punctured him like a dagger.
Pride took over. He would not let Wallace score. The mind was willing. The heart was willing. But as Myron soon saw, the knee was not. He was simply too slow. Reggie Wallace scored six more points off Myron that period for a total of eleven. Myron scored two off an open jumper. He took to playing what he used to call “appendix” basketball; that is, certain players on the floor are like your appendix—they’re either superfluous or they hurt you.
