Playing Without the Ball Read Online Free PDF Page B

a ponytail. I thank her warmly and she leaves.
    Spit wipes her nose with her hand. “Getting a cold,” she says. “So you think you’ll get cut?”
    “I don’t know. It’s close. If I play my ass off the rest of the week, I think he’ll have to keep me.” I stare into space for a few seconds, then shrug. “It ain’t up to me.”
    Second day. Kaipo’s bringing the ball up slowly and deliberately, grabbing a breath while he can. I pull the front of my T-shirt out of my shorts and wipe the sweat from my face, but it doesn’t halt the tide. I’m dripping and panting but I’m into this, it’s been intense. You lay off this guy for a second and he kills you, taking advantage of any hesitation. I love it. He kicks my ass most days, but once in a while I have the edge. On those days I know I’m a player, because Kaipo’s game never wavers much. If you nail Kaipo twice a year, you remember it.
    He crosses midcourt and I shadow him, not quite pressing. We’ve been guarding each other for half an hour steady and he hasn’t outplayed me by much. Coach sent some more guys packing a while ago, so there’s only twenty-six left. I know I’mgetting a long look because I’m one of the guys who could be sacrificed.
    I love the rhythms of basketball, the ups and downs. You get burned a few times, make an awful pass, clank a few shots off the rim. But then you get in harmony, hit two, three jumpers, quick, sharp, like hammering nails.
    Kaipo tries to penetrate and I swipe at the ball. But he gives a quick fake and he’s past me, setting up at the top of the key and firing. It swishes.
    I take the inbounds pass and dribble up quickly. Kaipo picks me up, focusing hard with those crossed eyes. I pass to Alan Murray on the wing, then take it back. I give a look inside but there’s no one open. Murray sets a pick for me at the foul line and I take it and shoot. It swishes, too, and I forget about getting burned on defense.
    “Lazy,” Coach says to Kaipo. “Fight through those screens, Brian.”
    Kaipo doesn’t acknowledge the coach. He says “Nice move” even as Coach is riding him. He dribbles upcourt, drives into the lane, then throws a wild, behind-the-back pass out of bounds.
    Coach blows his whistle. He stares hard at Kaipo. “Ricky,” he says. “Get in there for Brian.”
    The guy with the roses usually comes in around 11, walks from one end of the bar to the other, and sells about three flowers a week. It works like this: maybe there’s two or three women down one end, kind of huddled together in a cloud of cigarette smoke. Some factory-working cowboy or a plumber’s assistant will hand the flower guy three bucks, point out the woman he thinks is most vulnerable, and send the guy over to her with apaid-for rose. I’ve seen this happen enough times to know that it doesn’t work.
    I’ve thought about it, though. This week especially, like if Julie ever comes back with her tennis elbow and interested smile. Maybe that could work.
    Or maybe I could get the guy to walk into the gym some Tuesday morning at 6. Ha.
    Third day. Kaipo and two of the other starters are sitting on the stairs to the gym when I leave the locker room. He nods as I come up.
    “Jay,” he says.
    “Hi.”
    “Cut day,” he says.
    “Right.” I stop two steps below him and shrug.
    “You should make it,” he says.
    “You think?”
    “I do, yeah.” He looks around. “That doesn’t mean it’ll happen.”
    I take a seat. I like Brian, but we haven’t ever been close. He’s started varsity since our sophomore year, when I was just barely playing JV.
    He leans in close and squints. “He’s big on this kid Ricky, if you haven’t noticed.”
    “Yeah. I noticed.” I also know that I’ve been outplaying Ricky all week, even if only by a little.
    “Coach isn’t real objective,” Kaipo says. “You better kick ass today.”
    I put out a palm and he slaps it. He’s a decent man with big hands. “Thanks,” I say. I get up and go