Rust and Bone Read Online Free PDF Page B

the dial. A damn shame, because few things in life are as sweet as the sound a basketball makes passing through an iron hoop: we’re talking dead through the heart of the net, no rim, no glass. Called a swish, that sound, but truly it exists somewhere beyond human description—if heaven has a soundtrack, man, that is it .
    My son’s going to change all that. Jason’ll make it cool to be a pure shooter again; once he’s chewing up the NBA you’ll see kids practicing spot-up j’s instead of windmill dunks. I take credit for that silkysmooth jumper of his: feet set in a wide stance, knees bent and elbows cocked at eye level, smooth follow-through with the wrist. We drilled for hours on the driveway net until the mechanics imprinted themselves at a cellular level. Read in the newspaper he went off for thirty-seven against Laura Secord High; those numbers’ll attract scouts from Div I programs, believe-you-me. Jason’s a Prime Time Player—a PTP’er, Dick Vitale would say, ole Dicky V with his zany catchphrases and kisser like a pickled testicle. My boy can tickle the twine for two, baby!
    The Mikado’s the only bar open on Saturday mornings. The TRW skeleton crew usually heads down after the shift whistle blows to knock the foam off a few barley pops. While I’m not technically employed there anymore I still like to hit the Mik for a Saturday morning pick-me-up, shake off the cobwebs and start the weekend on a cheery note. This particular Saturday it’s about noon when they kick me out. I say “they” though in truth there’s but a single bartender, a joyless moonfaced hag named Lola. I say “kicked out” but in point of fact I’d run dry and Lola isn’t known to serve on the house. Once you reach a critical impasse like that, you’d best pack up shop.
    The day bright and warm in a courtyard hemmed by the office buildings of downtown St. Catharines, the squat trollish skyline aspiring to mediocrity and falling well short. A warm June breeze pushes greasy fast food wrappers and pigeon feathers over the cracked concrete of an empty pay-n-park lot between a tattoo parlor and a discount rug store. Sunlight reflects off office windows with such intensity I’m forced to squint. Got to assume I’m drunk: downed eight beers at the Mik and polished off twenty ounces of gin watching infomercials last night. Haven’t slept in days but in high spirits nonetheless, though I must admit somewhat alarmed by what appear to be tongues of green, gold, and magenta flickering off the tips of my spread fingers.
    A trash-strewn alleyway to my left empties onto King Street. Catching human movement and the echo of up-tempo music, I wander off in that direction.
    KING IS CLOSED OFF for a two-block stretch to host a 3-on-3 basketball tournament. Ball courts staggered down the road, three-point arc and foul stripes etched in sidewalk chalk. Mammoth speakers pump out rap music: guttural growls and howls overlaid with occasional gunshots and the clinkety-clink sound slot machines make paying off. Players sit along the curb in knee-length shorts, sleeveless mesh tops, and space-age sneakers, checking out the competition or waiting to be subbed in. The staccato rhythm of ball chatter underlies all other sound: D-up! Get a hand in his face! My bad, my bad. You got that guy, man; you own him! Give you that shot—you can’t stick that shit! All day, son, all damn day. And one! And ONE!
    Weave through duffel bags and water bottles and teams talking strategy, stop at a long corkboard to scan the tournament brackets. No names, just teams: Hoopsters, Basket-Maulers, Santa’s Little Helpers, Highlight Reelers, Dunks Inc. If Jason was playing, he’d’ve given his old man a call, right? I went to every one of his high-school games, didn’t I? I say “went,” past tense, due to the incident occurring at a preseason game out in Beamsville. I