“My most important tool?” Rob looked at Jim, and they laughed.
“Your mind. That’s your biggest asset.” Mansur’s front door was adorned with bumper stickers. Stuff about pork, Islam, the Devil. The collage of headlines formed a father’s manifesto, one I could not grasp.
the back
We’d spit on the tourists below from our walkways. We’d tag in the project stairwells. We’d find elevators in nearby buildings to piss in. Anything worth doing required running away.
We’d play baseball in The Back. A small dirt patch was first base, second was the lamppost, third was a crack in the ground, and the gutter was home plate. I’d been hanging out with the guys on my block for a couple of weeks when we were challenged to a game of baseball by the guys on the other project block. East versus West, they said, though we’d argue over which block was which. Their team outnumbered us two to one. I’d never seen so many dudes in North Beach together, thirty or so. Their side had fans, little kids sitting on the bench that wrapped around the tree, a dugout.
One of the kids looked me up and down. “You weak, huh?” he said, exposing a missing tooth. The row of kids laughed.
“Shut that shit up,” Rob said, pointing his aluminum bat at them. The kids were right, though. I struck out often, hit grounders, and couldn’t catch a pop fly.
It took us so long to get organized, arguing about batting order, positioning, and which team would get to bat first that we didn’t play long before it got dark. No light from the lamppost. The bulb had been knocked out.
In the final at-bat of the game, I was up. We were down by three, bases loaded, two outs, two strikes. The next pitch came, and I blasted the ball to the other end of the courtyard. If it landed past the grass in the outfield, it was an automatic homerun—we’d win. The outfielder, Moon Rock, whose name either referred to the bumps on his face or the crack rocks he sold, argued that the ball landed on the grass. I heard my teammates disputing this, but I didn’t. I ran and ran. I was the winning run. By the time Moon Rock reached the ball, I was on my way to third base. I turned the corner home, and saw Tiger, the catcher, a large Samoan kid, his hands extended, ready for the ball. Behind him, my team was waving me on, fearful faces, worried I wouldn’t beat the throw. The ball whizzed by, a couple of feet from me, and Tiger caught it. He leapt at me with the ball in hand. I contorted my body away from him and scored. My teammates piled on me, their hands rubbing my head, arms shaking me, and I couldn’t stop jumping, worried that if I did, I’d wake from this dream.
The next week, we were playing baseball again, this time amongst ourselves without the kids from the other project block. I was crouched in a fielding position near the lamppost when I saw Jerome making a beeline toward me. He had a peanut head and was wearing a parka. He was Moon Rock’s younger brother.
“What’s up,” I said. I didn’t know Jerome well. We used to have gym the same period, but I hadn’t seen him since he’d gotten locked up.
Jerome grinned. “You got a dollar for me?” He patted my pockets.
“Nah.” I smiled. I thought he was messing around.
He cocked his fist back and jerked his body. “Motherfucker, I ain’t playing with you. Let me see that glove.”
I put it behind my back. “It’s Rob’s.”
“I don’t give a fuck whose it is. Give it here.”
“You gotta ask him.” Rob was at home plate, the gutter. He looked in our direction and leaned on his bat as though it were a cane.
Jerome lunged for the glove, but I used my arm to fend him off. Back and forth we went before he finally had a grip on it. We played tug of war.
“Give it, or I’m gonna fuck you up,” he said. Jerome wasn’t physically imposing. About my size, but he had enough crazy in him to render his size moot. He could’ve let go and punched me, but giving up the glove wasn’t an option. I was just a few weeks into hanging out with these guys, a probationary period. I couldn’t give them a reason to kick me out of the crew.
“It’s Rob’s,” I shouted. “It’s Rob’s!”
I heard the bat drop, the clink of the aluminum.
“That’s mine, blood,” Rob said.
My grip relaxed. I was ready to step aside to watch the beat down. Rob was a giant next to Jerome.
“It’s mine now,” Jerome said and snatched the glove.
“’Rome, c’mon man,” Rob said. It almost sounded like he was pleading.
Jerome stuck his hand in the glove and with his other hand punched the leathery palm.
“Just give it back,” Rob said and made a half-ass attempt at grabbing it.
“Nope. What you gonna do about it?”
Rob reluctantly switched into a fighting stance.
Jerome dropped the glove and did the same.
We encircled them. They bobbed and weaved but neither was throwing any punches. “Hey!” someone yelled. “Y’all quit that. You boys get in this house right now.” It was Mansur from his apartment window.
“Yeah, you boys better get on home,” Jerome said. He smirked at the glove on the ground and walked away, one hand holding up his sagging jeans, one arm swinging loosely.
We gathered in ’Dullah’s apartment, around the kitchen table. His place was dim. They had the shades drawn up for light, but night was falling.
“Sounds like he had the Devil in him,” Mansur said. “Next time a boy comes around starting trouble—I’m talking to all you brothers now—you need to give him a good beating. Send him back where he came from.”
Mansur didn’t play. Once, we were hanging in the courtyard when we heard him scolding Sameerah for
