Ball Don't Lie by Matt de la Pena Read Free Book Online Page A

two things: a nasty dunk or a big-time altercation. And with Rob in Carlos’s face and Slim pulling Trey away from Dallas, with everybody yelling stuff out at the same time, they have their altercation.
    It’s twelve-thirty on a Thursday. Pale businessmen watching black bodies posture and toss threats. The guys on the sidelines are black. The motionless bodies scattered across the homeless court are black. The two boys reaching skinny arms up the mouth of the soda machine are black. The Mexicans are black. Even Sticky, with his flashy passes and through-the-legs-around-the-back strut, is black.
    Pale businessmen will take this story and hold everyone’s attention back in the office. They’ll all congregate around somebody’s desk. The water cooler. In the men’s room.
It’s so
wild, man. You have to go check it out sometime
.
    Fat Chuck comes down out of the bleachers with his sagging gray sweats. An overweight, always-smelling-like-tequila mulatto who shows up almost every day to watch but never plays. He goes right up to Rob and tries to talk reason.
Come on now, guys
. He places his hand on Rob’s left bicep.
Now you know Jimmy gonna come runnin out his office if you
all keep it up
.
    Rob pulls his arm out of Chuck’s grasp. Glares. He turns his attention to the pack that’s moving to the other side of the court.
You ain’t gettin that,
he says.
It’s my rock. I ain’t
movin one step from here
.
    Fat Chuck backs up and watches him.

I Could Tell
    you a lot about this game. . . .
    How a dark gym like Lincoln Rec is a different world. Full of theft and dunk, smooth jumpers and fragile egos. Full of its own funky politics and stratification. Music bleeding out of old rattling speakers from open to close. Old rhythm and blues. Stevie Wonder. Aretha Franklin. Funk. Motown. Marvin Gaye. Sometimes Jimmy gets talked into hard-core rap on weekends. Or Trey sneaks in his three-year-old demo tape.
    Always music.
    There are fat rats that scurry through the lane on game point. Beady eyes on the man with the ball. There are roaches congregating under the bleachers.
    There is so much dust on the slick floor that sometimes a guy will go to stop and slide right out of the gym. Every time there’s a break in the action, ten guys put palm to sole for grip.
    There are a hundred different ways of talking and a thousand uses of the word
motherfucker.
    There are no women.
    In the winter there are so many homeless bodies spread out across court two you can hardly see the floor. There are leaks when it rains. Rusted pots are set out to collect heavy drops. Sometimes a guy will track in mud and delay the games. Jimmy sets out a twenty-five-dollar heater and everybody puts their hands up to it before they play.
    In the summer you can hear the foundation cracking. The walls, the ceiling. Like the old gym is stretching out its stiff arms and legs.
    There are faded bloodstains and tooth marks in the wood. Arguments that end with a gun being pulled. Like a year ago when Old-man Perkins couldn’t get his call one crowded Saturday. Guy laughed right in his face. Perkins calmly walked over to the sideline and pulled a forty-five out of a gym bag.
Now, whose ball is it?
he said, holding the gun limp at his side. Drips of sweat running down his wrinkled forehead.
    Your ball, old man,
the guy said, backing up with his hands in the air.
    And everybody shows up for a different reason. A potpourri of ballers:
    Some guys come because they’re regulars. Used to seeing all the fellas on a daily basis.
    Some show for the first time on a tip from a friend. Try their skills in the best pickup around to see if they can hang.
    A couple NBA cats roll through when it’s their off-season.
    Some jokers walk through the doors looking for nothing more than a sweat. They come in wearing wet suit–looking wraps around bulging stomachs. Keep love handles away without hopping on a treadmill. They get run out of the gym after one game.
    Some guys come to drop