Rules For Becoming A Legend Part 10

"Ray Eat-Toe, you wake the Kirkus up in young Jimmy, so now you will beat him maybe? But only if you didnt have to get back to the work?" The Flying Finn keeps turning to the crowd as he talks, like he constantly needs to be rea.s.sured they are still on his side.

"Listen, old man, cant lose a job," Ray says, voice crackling. "My girls pregnant. I dont wanna get fired and end up homeless and crazy just like you."

The crowd oohs and Grandpa howls and Jimmy says, "Well," but then something happens. Little David Berg, all grown up and punked out, priorities mixed, skipping school to work an extra shift at Subway, steps in and says, "Yo, Ray, I just called Tommy. Its cool if we stay longer." All eyes on David now. He wilts, speaks quieter. "So you can finish the game."

Ray hunches his shoulders like hes been handed down a death sentence-and really, he has. Hes gonna be the footnote in Jimmys legend. The first casualty of the comeback. Jimmy looks at David and wouldnt you know it, David smiles before he looks away.

Everything forgiven in a second? h.e.l.l, it could happen.

Jimmy scores the last four buckets to win right through Rays sternum, and once, his neck. Blows Kamikaze inflicts on Ray just like hes been taking himself in every high school game hes played for the Fishermen. Little chippy stuff that might otherwise seem like dirty play, but in the realm of sport is lauded as playing tough. Hits that hurt, no doubt, but are discrete and precise enough the ref would probably never see, certainly never blow the whistle on. Jimmys taken so many of these over the years, he gives them as a maestro.

For the game-winner, Jimmy dusts off some vintage touch. Right after he gets the check from Ray, he splashes down from almost half-court. So far out, he divorces from gravity. You keep this world, Ill take the next. Leaves the crowd gap-mouthed like fish brought to deck. His shooting arm extended up, hand pointed down, frozen in form-hes the hook.

Somebody shouts, "Hey Ray Eat-Toe, got something in your eye?" and everyone laughs, even Jimmy a little. Ray stomps forward toward the crowd, his fist c.o.c.ked like he just might try and punch out every single person. Then he turns for a second like h.e.l.l take a swing at our man Jimmy, but Jimmy doesnt flinch like, you want me? I got more than you can take. The crowd jeers louder. Ray melts. Wanders off taking taunts, red in the ears, muttering to himself.

Jimmy laughs out loud and the people are laughing with him. Here it is, a joy in the game, the beautiful game. Used to be he was scared to mess up, now hes just loving the process. It could be this, or it could be a thousand different things.

After Ray, opponents step forth from the crowd to challenge Jimmy, and he beats every single one. Jacked-up tough and looking for a test.

Schools out so the kids crowd into cars and the back pegs of bikes to come watch Jimmy beat any and every comer. Its the Friday before Winter Break and everyones already hopped up on the short season of freedom from cla.s.s to come. Theres nothing holding them back. Theyll stay out as long as they like. And who will stop them? Boys pinch girls and girls slap back. Someone is pa.s.sing around a big bag of M&Ms. Everyone, including the losers, tingle with the sense that this is special. Kamikaze sc.r.a.ps after every ball, smiling and laughing and grunting and sweating; sweating, swatting, and galloping. Sc.r.a.ping knees and elbows, forehead and lip, he plays on until hes in such a tornado of fury and fun that he beats the Johnston twins at the same time. Two on one and it feels like they are the ones outnumbered. His stomach lurches and his head aches. He pushes past them. Just little things. And the kicker is this: Jimmy doesnt get scored on once. Unstoppable. He seems to levitate over the cement. Hes in the zone. To the crowd hes moving with almost supernatural quickness; knows the future, gets there before it happens. To Jimmy though, its effortless, everything slow; hes got all the time in the world. The basket as big as the ocean, its harder to miss than make a shot.

Its one of those "Hey you ever hear about" things. Like Hey, you ever hear about the time Kamikaze Kirkus ran his own fool self stupid into a brick wall and then three days later beat ten guys in a row, including the Johnston twins two on one? Yeah, those Johnston twins. They were all Cowapa League! Can you believe it?

Hey, you ever hear?

By the ninth game, the Flying Finn is still running as fast as his failing lungs allow him around the court. Hooting like some wizened, stretched-out monkey. Hes giddy. Hes always known deep down in his immigrant bones that him, or his son, or his grandson, was going to be great.

The crowd wants to take from Jimmy again, and poor Jimmy, hes still willing to give. They cheer and he nods his head. He wants to keep going. Keep this feeling alive. Hes feeding on a love he thought hed lost. That desperate "I need you more than you need me" love that is so powerful and full of poison. And even with nine pickup games under his belt, he could keep playing. Growing stronger with each step. Feet lighter. He could go on forever.

Part Two.

Rule 10. Get Help from Unexpected Places.

Sunday, October 22, 2000.

JIMMY KIRKUS, NINE YEARS OLD-SEVEN YEARS UNTIL THE WALL.

Jimmy was in the backseat of a luxury SUV, getting a ride to his ten-and-under tournament with the Johnston twins and their mother. Genny Mori had to work, as did, allegedly, his pops.

On the way to the tournament, Mrs. Johnston got lost in the large-numbered blocks of Southeast Portland. Everything looked the same. Huge grids of neon-topped stores, big gla.s.sy buildings, and too-perfect office parks. Jimmy sat alone in the very back, unsure of what to say.

"Dont look so serious," Mrs. Johnston said, eyeing him in the rearview. "Well find it."

Jimmy smiled, didnt say anything, the car smelled of new plastic.

"Mom, Jimmy doesnt really, like, talk," said one of the Johnston twins-Jimmy could never tell them apart.

"Brian, dont be rude," Mrs. Johnston said. Her eyes cut to Jimmy again in the mirror. "Well win the tournament. Youre just like your father, Jimmy, I swear to G.o.d. Didnt think genes could pa.s.s down something like that, but . . ."

Jimmy put his head down between his knees. Breathed in and out. He was used to this. Whenever he was out with his pops, strangers came up to ask the big man if he was playing anymore, talk about how they remembered when. Been that way since forever. Pops always changed the subject, batted down the question with a big paw like Jimmy did when kids at school asked him how come Dex-a second-grader-was already taller than him. It made him proud that people noticed his pops, respected how he had once played, but then if it were really true, why didnt Todd tell Jimmy about it? Or teach him some of his basketball secrets? He hardly ever came to watch either of his sons play and Jimmy had learned not to ask him about his balling days. Pops would b.u.t.ton right up. "I was OK," was what hed say, then back to dinner, homework, bed. Other peoples praise of Todd Kirkus up against the mans steadfast refusal to acknowledge it created a dissonance in Jimmys mind he dealt with by settling on something in the middle. Sure his pops had played ball-who in Columbia City didnt-but people were probably exaggerating about him being a great.

It hurt, the feeling that everyone else knew more about your father than you did. Still, all those things they said, "Like father, like son," or "Apple doesnt fall far from the tree," made him full up, if only for a moment, an affection he somehow credited his father because he felt in on the secret. It was a shaky conveyance of love that went: His pops was once something, and he was like his pops, so he was destined to be something too, something his pops would be proud of even if the old man wouldnt say it. And so his pops loved him.

Bottom line, though, the topic of basketball was a dead s.p.a.ce between father and son.

Mrs. Johnston trailed off and Jimmy played a game with himself: if he didnt take his head out from between his knees once, if he just stared at the gray carpet, until the Yukon was stopped and they were at the game, he would do well again. He would win the game and people would keep talking about how he was just like his old man.

When they finally found the gym, the game was five minutes in and our Columbia City boys were already fifteen points down. Jimmy and the Johnston twins rushed into the locker room, started changing. Jimmy unpacked his duffel, pulled on his uniform, listened to the crowd cheering, felt like this might just work. He could still get in there, will his team to a win. There was just one problem: Jimmy had forgotten his shoes.

Even from the locker room he could tell his team was getting beat down by the way his coach was yelling. It drove Jimmy crazy. He wanted to get out there and help. Our kid paced back and forth, tugging at his hair. If he couldnt do well here, then some chain would be broken, he was sure of it, bad things would happen.

The Johnstons mom came in, frazzled. "Whats the problem, Jimmy? Get out there!"

"Mom, this the boys locker room," one of the Johnstons said.

"Forgot shoes, Mrs. J," Jimmy said.

"Well, wear your street shoes."

Jimmy looked down to his feet, Mrs. Johnston followed his gaze. He was wearing flip-flops.

"Brian, give him your shoes."

"His feet are way big," Brian said.

"Jesus, how big, Jimmy?"

"Tens."

"What size do you wear, Chris?"

"You dont know?" Chris, the other twin, whined.

"Just tell me."

"Sevens."

The Johnstons mom tried to run her hands through her hair but they snagged-blocked because of the copious hairspray. Small-town fashion wisdom held that style and product were interchangeable. Her hair stuck up. "Small feet."

"Im only eight."

"Well, so it goes with a father like yours." Then an idea. "Look, Jimmy, Ill run out and get you some shoes. Tens? Boys, go out there and see if you can help in the meantime."

"Dont forget the ribbon!" Chris said. Ever since their coachs son had joined the army, everyone on the team had to tie red, white, or blue ribbon into their shoelaces on game day.

"Would you just focus, please?"

So Jimmy was left by himself, watching from the locker room doorway, waiting on shoes while his team got beat. Other team had this guy named Shooter Ackley. Some kid a year older out of Seaside. He was killing them and it tugged at Jimmys stomach, his heart. So. So he went. Waited until coach called a time-out and then trotted onto the court barefoot, tapped one of the Johnstons on the shoulder and said, "I got it."

I got it. He got it? Who was this kid?

He started playing before the coach even knew he was in the game-wearing no shoes at all. Ran up and down, shooting, driving, pa.s.sing. Tired the bigger Shooter Ackley out with his relentlessness. Confused him by showing no fear, attacking, attacking, attacking! Five toes vs. Nikes.

The ref, just a college kid looking to make some weekend cash, didnt notice at first. Then, when a parent from the other team-a tall, brittle mom with blouse and shoes that matched the color of her eyes-charged onto the court and yelled, "get some f.u.c.king gla.s.ses, ref; kids not wearing shoes!" the poor ref was too tied up with issuing technical fouls to do anything about it. By the time he had everything calmed down again and the tall woman removed from the building, both head coaches ejected, hed forgotten all about the issue that had started it in the first place-Jimmys bare feet. The ref blew the whistle for the game to start and Jimmy promptly dropped a three. This led the opposing a.s.sistant coach to throw down his clipboard and stomp into midcourt during play where Jimmys own a.s.sistant coach eagerly met him. Play was again paused as the ref set about calming down both coaches. By the time things were in hand, Mrs. Johnston was back with a cheap pair of Payless sneakers and Jimmy was ready to go.

And there it was. Even though Jimmy only played a little more than a quarter barefoot, it was forever dubbed the Shoeless Game. Jimmy torched the nets for thirty-five points and led his team to victory. Holy h.e.l.l he had sore feet to prove it. Jammed toenail bled red, medical tape holding ice was white, blisters all over the soles of his feet blue. Forget the ribbon, kid was an American hero on his own.

I got it? Kid was well on his way.

You hear about that? The Shoeless Game?

The Flying Finn certainly did and it gave him an idea. He needed money though, so he went and begged for a job at Normas Chowder House. Norma, the owner, made him a deal. He could sleep on a cot in the supply closet every night and get $10 a day so long as he picked the parking lot clean every morning and was gone before the lunch crowd came.

Finn sat in the parking lot, happy with a job well done, every bit of trash that had littered the cement now in a plastic grocery bag tied to his belt, ten one-dollar bills crumpled in his pocket. With his green motorcycle helmet on all sounds he made-breathing, grunts, even licking his lips-came back to him as echoes. He picked his teeth with a splinter and it sounded like cannons firing. Triumph. He didnt realize it, but this was the first step in his journey back. He hummed that favorite song of his. We will, we will, ROCK YOU.

By the time Jimmy got back to Columbia City from the Shoeless Game, word had already spread. It was October and everyone wanted to be Jimmy Kirkus for Halloween. Forget about Jimmy being a chip off the old block, he might just be a block in his own right. Dex wrapped him up in a bear hug, his mom tapped his head.

"You . . . are the champion . . . my fri-eennnnd," Dex sang, off-key.

Jimmy laughed, bit his medal like he was checking if it was real gold.

But when his pops got home, he wasnt happy. "What the h.e.l.l, our kid doesnt get enough attention, he plays a game in NO SHOES?" A full head of steam, he glared at Jimmy. "What the f.u.c.k is that?"

"I forgot them," Jimmy said.

"You, for. You forgot them?"

"Nice language, Todd," his mom said. "Maybe if youd go to a game once in a while you could."

"I could what, I could what, I COULD f.u.c.kING WHAT?" And Freight Train steamed out the front door. "Now its my fault?" His question rolled off the neighbors roof. He picked up a pumpkin, one they were planning on carving later, and smashed it down in the front lawn. It exploded on the stiff, frosty ground. Then he came back through the living room, knocking over a dining room chair on his way to the bedroom. Everyone breathed shallow in his wake. Maybe theyd choke if they took in too much.

"Come on, boys," Genny Mori said quietly. "Lets go celebrate. Ice cream at Dairy Queen. Im buying whatever you want."

"Triple-fudge banana split!" Dex shouted.

But something was wrong with Jimmy. He was breathing hard, quick. Something rising in him, he couldnt tell what. Everything in the whole day was inside his chest-no shoes, hurt feet, winning the tourney, his pops, and the pumpkin-and only breathing could keep it down. So he did more of it, and more. His head grew light. There were a lot of things in the world he didnt understand-why Salisbury Steak was on the lunch menu, how spiders got into every single room, how to grow taller-but his fathers weirdness about basketball was top of the list.

"Jimmy?" his mom asked.

Jimmy was going to explode. He took his basketball and threw it after his pops with all his might. Shouted some wordless insult that came out as high-pitched as a girl. It knocked over a vase, which shattered on the floor.

"Oh," Dex said and looked at his mom.

Genny Mori sighed, took Jimmys hand, and walked him to the door. "Lets go eat ice cream." He was too worked up to even feel a thrill at the rare gesture of his mom grabbing his hand.

Todd heard the crash. Heard the high-pitched scream. He winced. Genny. He stopped pacing the room and lay on the bed. His anger leaked out to make room for growing embarra.s.sment. The scene replayed in his mind. He wished he could change it. Tweak the character playing Todd until he seemed fatherlike. What was he to do, though? It was all for them.

When he was absolutely sure they were gone, he left the bedroom. The last two months had been tough. Raising Jimmy right, protected, was his repentance for the loss of Suzie, but once his son joined a team, he hardly saw him. He was always at practices or games. Dedicated like Todd had once been. The talk of the town. And now everyone was going to think Todd couldnt even buy his kid shoes.

He went into the living room. There was Jimmys old basketball among shards of broken vase. Scribbles covered it entirely: whenever Jimmy learned a new basketball legend, he added it onto his ball. Todd picked it up. He felt stuffed full of sand and he had felt that way for a while. He was tired of it. He set the ball on the table and swept up the broken vase. The basketball watched him work. He picked it back up. He ran his thumbs over the names written in Sharpie. Little-kid handwriting in some places, but Jimmy had gotten older. Most of it was in neat block letters now. Clyde "The Glide" Drexler. Earvin "Magic" Johnson. Wilt "The Stilt" Chamberlain. Michael "Jumpman" Jordan. Anfernee "Penny" Hardaway. Gary "The Glove" Payton. Rasheed "Sheed" Wallace.

Todd left the house carrying the ball, ignoring the smashed pumpkin. Up the street away from Dairy Queen. He remembered this route from when he was a kid. The neighbors used to lean out windows and shout, "Hey Freight Train," and "Choo-choo!" Little kids followed him, begging for autographs, sure his name on a piece of paper would be worth money someday.

Todd took a shortcut through the Lanes backyard. Just like old days. Hey, Freight Train. Choo-choo! He wondered when exactly it had changed. When the adoration rotted and turned to jealousy or disdain. Probably when his father started pressuring him to skip preseason games to play in Portland for a tournament team, the Northwest Knights. A good way to increase his exposure-play against some real compet.i.tion. And all in all, he enjoyed it. It was nice to throw his weight around with some players good enough to push back, even if it was just a little bit.

It hadnt gone over well in Columbia City, though. Small towns carry and distort news like a cave does noise. Could Freight Train Derail Fishermen Basketball?

Nope, playing for the Knights hadnt gone over well at all.

Jimmy, his brother, and his mom came home sticky with ice cream to find a little man sitting in a black car outside their house. The drivers side window was open, the engine running.

"Genny," the man yelled.

Jimmy noticed his mom light up red at the sound of that man calling to her, and though he didnt know what it meant exactly, he wished she hadnt done it.

"Doctor McMahan," she said.

"Looks like some poor pumpkin met his demise." The doctor made a sweeping motion with his hand over the guts of the smashed pumpkin laid out on their lawn. The engine tone shifted higher as it worked to stay running.

Genny forced a laugh, started walking toward the car. "You know kids and their pranks."

"Mom?" Jimmy asked. He didnt want her to talk to this man. He couldnt explain why. Theyd just got back from eating ice cream until they were sick, Genny telling them a story about a turtle who held the whole world on its back, laughing when Dex then pretended to be a turtle, waddling between the Dairy Queen tables. It had been close to perfect long since Jimmy had any right to hope things could be that way with her. Now off she went, to this stranger.

"Jimmy, take Dex in." She bent down next to the drivers window.

Fine, but the house was empty and Jimmys basketball was gone.

"Come on," Jimmy said, already running toward his parents bedroom. Sometimes his pops hid the basketball, and his mom would bring it out a few days later, shaking her head and saying, "Look what turned up." Even though it was a firm rule not to go snooping in their parents room, there was something different about today. The smashed pumpkin. His fathers unleashed rage. Jimmys hurt feet and how he had lashed back, breaking a vase, and then wasnt even punished, his mother leaning into the window of some strange mans car. Some sort of agreement had been broken, and until a new one was established, anything went.

"You look in the closet, I got under the bed."

"Were not supposed to," Dex said.