Rules For Becoming A Legend Part 14

And then there was the afterward cuddle. A concept she hadnt even believed existed outside of movies before McMahan. She described his affections to Bonnie as teacup cuddling. Small, fragile and taken in small sips as if someone were watching and might ding him for bad manners. Pinkie up. Hip goes here, hand goes there.

"Sweet Jesus," Bonnie said. "Who would have known the little guy had it in him."

"I know."

"Its like he stepped off the cover of a romance novel."

"Hes nice."

She was able to see him two to three times a week-evenings worked fine with the boys at practice or going to Pedros house and Todd still in night-shift purgatory-time she spent sweating with McMahan in his expensive condo, under his expensive sheets, crying about their lost kids into expensive tissues. He cultivated in her the belief that there was still a chance for her life yet. He liked to talk about the future. She could study hard, go to medical school, become a doctor too. They could run away and open a clinic somewhere tropical. And why not? It seemed her family needed her less than she ever dared to think. The Flying Finn just had to move back in, and it seemed everything was fine-everyone except Genny Mori. What was to stop her?

As to what Doc McMahan saw in her? It came to be a million things-how Genny Mori was compa.s.sionate about his recent loss, laughed at his jokes and listened to his opinions-but interest always starts with just one thing.

"If youd have told me when I was eighteen that Id be with Freight Train Kirkuss girl, Id have called you insane," he told her over smoozy-lit dinner at his condo. "I played against him in high school. People thought he was such a big deal."

"Youre with me because Im Todds wife?" He saw her anger swelling.

"No, no." McMahans face lit up red, he could fell it. "Its just life is extremely interesting. How it all ends up, you know? You never think itll go where it does. Im with you because its impossible to not be. Im with you because I care very deeply for you. You are my obsession. Truly. I love you, Genevieve, I do."

Teacup loving.

One day, while the Flying Finn took a fitful nap in full biking gear, Todd and his boys shot hoops at Tapiola.

"So you were gonna go D-1, huh pops?" Dex asked.

"I had some offers," he said.

Jimmy whistled. "Oregon?"

"Oregon, OSU, UCLA, even some East Coast schools." Todd smiled. "The NBA. Larry Brown called your grandpa about me. He was coaching the New Jersey Nets back then."

"And your knee went out?" Dex asked.

"Thats about it." He paused, shot the ball. Another drain. The net swayed.

"You got in a fight, Pops?" Jimmy was looking at Todds feet. "With a cop?"

Of course his kid had heard the story. Columbia City, she liked to hear her own voice. However theres truth, and then theres what youre willing to believe. Todd bet on the second. "Where you hear that? I blew out my knee at practice, and thats all she wrote." If Jimmy pressed, if he really pressed, Todd would tell him the truth. First his son had to prove thats what he wanted.

For the rest of the day, our kid Jimmy tried to come to terms with the fact that his fathers knee injury had happened on the court, not off like he had always thought. Sure, Jimmy knew about injuries. NBA players had them. Knocked them out for a few games, sometimes knocked them out for good. It hadnt seemed real though. Like really real, if that made any sense. And with the knowledge that it had happened to his pops, it was real. Really real. It was a strange thought because the game he loved had only ever given him good, solid things. Got him and Pedro a spot at the popular table even though he rarely spoke with girls and had nothing to add to the jokes or talk on music and movies. It gave him a language to use with Dex-a kid who had no trouble being cool and popular and at ease. It had brought his pops back into his everyday life, blinking like a mole in the sun.

So can we blame the kid for being shocked that the beautiful game also brought dark things with it? h.e.l.l, even though our kid Jimmy was set to enter high school in a few weeks, he was still a little kid in many ways. Finding out that his pops busted his knee playing the magical game was like fleecing him of the invincible wool all young people think grows around their lives.

Our poor Jimmy.

Later, as he ran along the river walk, easily putting distance between himself and Dex, he was so caught up in the thought that basketball took as well as gave that he grew careless with his feet. He tripped. His hands were quick enough to brace the fall, but they slipped in the gravel. He smacked his chin. In his cloudy vision after the hit, he swore he could see the sandy-skinned movement of something scuttling off. Something huge. He felt pain in his ankle.

Walking back home, Jimmy leaned on Dex and kept his weight off the gimpy ankle. The whole way, Jimmy mumbled his delirious complaints. "Im gonna grow sandy skin, tongue bread crumb. I need white tears. Tears from a sand toad."

"Youre talking crazy, Jimmy. Sand toads? Come on."

The next morning Jimmy still felt dizzy, his ankle sore, and when he tried to shoot, he was off. Nothing would go in. What a muddy and cold feeling for the kid. In the next few days his ankle healed and his touch came back-but it was too late, in some ways, for Jimmy. Our kid Kirkus had seen the other side of the coin and it was frightening and viral and taking root in his chest, spreading everywhere.

Rule 13. Dont Talk Much, or, Talk Too Much.

Monday, December 24, 2007.

JIMMY KIRKUS, SIXTEEN YEARS OLD-SEVEN DAYS AFTER THE WALL.

Christmas Eve. Joy to the world. But Santa was a stinker and there appeared a terrible gift on the Internet. A blog t.i.tled The Missteps. Its first and only entry actually went live on Sat.u.r.day, December 22, but for the first day and a half of its existence, it was largely ignored aside from a comment by hoop_star_45 who wrote, "d.a.m.n . . ." By midday of the twenty-fourth, inside the Oregonlive.com high school basketball chat room, purpleperson128 posted: "You remember Jimmy Soft, now I guess Kamikaze Kirkus? Check it:" with a link to The Missteps. Suddenly the blog post jumped in hits. The comments below the first from hoop_star_45 exploded downward. Everyone had an opinion about Kid Kirkus and the Nine Games.

The Missteps.

Kamikaze Kirkus and the Grand Trick.

Columbia City High School Junior, Jimmy Kirkus, aka Kamikaze Kirkus, has the entire town buzzing. Two disappointing seasons into his Fishermen career, and everyone is eating out of his hand again. Yesterday at Peter Pan courts, Kirkus beat ten opponents in a row. This included such luminaries of Fishermen basketball as Ray Atto and the All-League duo, Brian and Chris Johnston, at the same time.

However, this apparent resurgence of our long-lost star is the absolute worst thing that can happen to Fishermen basketball, especially in our final season at 6A. If Coach Kelly allows Kirkus back on the team, prepare yourself for another downward spiral with Jimmy, or should I say Kamikaze, piloting.

Jimmy has been anointed Chosen One since grade school. I remember first hearing about him after the Ninth Shot when he was just a kindergartener. A shot from a kindergartner? We had taken it too far even then. But lets look at the facts. He was a standout in grade school and middle school. A fine thing, but plenty of kids with a little coordination do well in those leagues. Then he had one full and disappointing season of Fishermen basketball. Then last year, with him sitting out for understandable reasons, we posted a respectable 13-13 record behind the blossoming of the Johnston brothers. So far this season, and its still only December, were 3-2 sans Kamikaze. Why risk tarnishing our swan song in 6A with a risky bet on a shaky kid?

Many people are saying 6A is the strongest its ever been this year. Dont you think Jimmy will be in a little over his head?

Quick history lesson for those young people who think Jimmys new nickname is so cool: back in World War II kamikaze pilots were the guys who flew their planes into battle ships. They destroyed themselves and the ship too.

Kirkus is a good kid whos gone through some terrible things, but as a fan and lifelong resident of Columbia City, I cant in good faith put any more hope in him-and neither should you.

Last night Jimmy Kirkus may have beaten ten other young men. However that wasnt the greatest feat he managed-he also pulled the wool over our eyes.

Its Coach Kelly who calls Todd about the blog post.

"Todd?" is the first thing he says when Freight Train answers the phone.

"Yeah, coach?" Todd knows its him right off.

"I just want you to know that this whole Missteps thing has nothing to do with me or any of my staff." A let-out of breath. "I dont know who it is, but it sounds like that letter to the editor from back when you were playing? Look, I just wanted to let you know. Id never be involved in that sort of thing with Jimmy, especially since. Look. Its not any of us, Im just saying."

"Thanks for reaching out, Coach," Todd says, having no clue what the h.e.l.l hes talking about. He takes down the blogs address and then hangs up. They have dial-up Internet at the house but its nothing Todd really messes with. He got it for Jimmy to do stuff for school, although only thing he ever sees the kid getting into when he pa.s.ses by is ESPN or Nike and one time the shot, belly-b.u.t.ton up, of a naked woman, oiled and glistening with huge b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

After what seems like an unnecessary amount of screeching noise, Todd manages to get connected, info card from the installation guy clutched in one hand. He taps out the address with his two index fingers. Missteps pops up. The blogs format all simple. No photos and done in purple and gold. Hard to read with those two colors bordering the text but the content tips Todd in. He splashes down in the words and comes back up dripping with anger. He clicks madly about the post, looking for any kind of name he can a.s.sociate with this piece of s.h.i.t thats hammering on his son. He wonders if its the same person who wrote that opinion piece from years before. Certainly the same tone. He suspected who it was then, and if he finds that his hunch is right now, one big fatty sun-gla.s.sed head was going to roll.

Fifteen minutes after Todd Kirkus reads the blog post hes down at the high school, storming through the winter-break-emptied halls, looking for the computer lab and Johnny Opel. Whoever had answered the phone when he called Opels house-sleepy-voiced, female-said hed be down here. Merry Christmas. Opel, guy who graduated same year as Todd and Genny and went bouncing around town working gas station jobs while reading fantasy novels at the pump. Then, boom, computers, Bill Gates and soon, the Internet. Johnny Opel was sucked in. Started his own business called Dr. Wires, helping people with their computer programs, going in and killing viruses, driving around a stupid van hed painted himself with a computer that had slanted eyes and a wriggling line for a mouth, thermometer jutted from its lips. Eventually hed become the computer teacher at the high school and Dr. Wires shifted into a weekend business. Todd guessed the pay working for the school was steadier.

He found the computer lab on the first floor, nestled among the senior lockers, a room he remembered as being Business 2 when he was in school. Hed once made a business plan for the cla.s.s with James Berg about a lawn care company whose main pull was that Todd and James would work with their shirts off. Dumb-a.s.s high school stuff.

Todd ducked into the room, trembling. Johnny sat in a large cushioned wheelie chair, using a full table for a desk. Before him were three different monitors all sitting at different heights and angled to face him like inquisitive eyes of the same alien animal. His head jerked up at Todds presence.

"Hiya, Todd."

"Looky, its Johnny Opel." Todd was trying for casual, not an easy thing for him. He felt that if he were smaller it would come off better, but there was no way around the fact that he was huge. Tall and boxy in high school, hed only packed on around his equator in the years since. Especially this last year. His hands in tight orbit between food and mouth. Eating somehow doing a trick on his thinking. Sounds, mostly. Thats what he thought about. Had they screamed? Had the breaks?

He closed his eyes, slowed himself. He could do this, seem calm. He didnt want to spook Johnny Opel so bad the guy didnt help him. "How you been? Still here, I see. No Bermuda vacation plans for you."

"I sunburn too easy." He took a slow sip of an enormous 7-Eleven bucket of pop.

"Hey, you know back in the day we always used to say you had a good name to be a rock star. You ever try that out? Being a rock star?"

The wrong thing to say. In school Opel been obsessed with Kiss and wore his hair long. Got pushed around some because of it.

"No I guess I havent tried being a rock star, Todd."

"Oh, well, too bad. You would make a good one." Then, trying to take some of the weight out of the conversation, backpedal, "I tried to be a basketball star once, you saw how that worked out, ha ha."

Johnny sighed. "Whats up?"

Todd ran a hand through his hair, paused to itch at the back of his skull. "Well, I guess youve seen this thing on the Internet? A website called, I guess, its a web blog or something, called Missteps?"

"Oh, that. Yeah, I saw it."

"I was hoping, because you got Dr. Wires and youre the computer teacher, you could tell me who made the d.a.m.n thing? Or at least take it down maybe."

"I dont know, Todd."

"Opel, its not really for me though, you know? Its about my son, hes a quiet kid, like not really one to use what he got from playing basketball to lord it over other people. Different from me, you know? Look, I was an a.s.shole, I get that. In high school, the worst. But this isnt for me. Jimmy, hes already had a tough go of it lately." Todd sank Johnny Opel with a stare that said what he hadnt said-You know, about him and the wall and everything else.

Already Opel was typing. "I dont know what Ill be able to do about taking it down. This blog is hosted by Google and theyre pretty tight, really, for a public, free setup. We can send in a complaint, and theyll shut it down in a couple of days themselves. But what I can do now is post a link as a comment directly to the administrator, and h.e.l.l have to click it to approve or not, which will then get his ISP and Ill be able to get his physical location, you know. Or proximity. Like where his house is."

The whole explanation is beyond Todd and he has the distinct thought hes forgetting whats being said even as its being said. He noticed something in Opels eyes just before hed cut them to the screen. Must be strange for him to see the former king of high school groveling.

While he works, Todd paces the room ringed with computers all showing the same rushing stars screen saver. He touches the mouse of one computer and it murmurs to life. Desktop a blown-up image of Columbia City High Schools mascot, the Stomper. Big old fisherman with one foot forward, ready for a giant step into the future. Dopy nose and droopy eyes, Todd remembers how he was always a little embarra.s.sed to be seen with that logo on his jersey while the other teams rocked things that could kill you. Cougars, lions, bears.

"d.a.m.n, guy already responded and, hes at, looks like the address is . . ." Johnny says. He looks up from the screen, hesitating.

"Yeah?"

"I guess its old man Berg." Johnny coughs and takes a pull of his c.o.ke. "At least Id give it a ninety-eight percent probability it is."

Well G.o.d-f.u.c.king-d.a.m.n. Its not how he thought it would feel. Knowing this. No blow-the-circuits-out anger. What Todd feels, really and truly deep into his bones, for the first time in his life, is old.

Meanwhile, Jimmys in his room, lying on his back, pa.s.sing his ball up to the ceiling, where it b.u.mps softly and dislodges paint flakes, thinking about what his grandpa said in the car. Magic. His basketball giving the people a little something to take with them. This thought almost bails out a bankrupt love. Almost. It still doesnt seem different enough from when he played to be perfect and anything less was failure. He cant slip back into basketball being his only counterbalance. That weight, hes found, is inconsistent.

Hes noticed, thinking about his past, that there are moments that seem small in the before but grow big in the after. This thing the Flying Finn said about magic? Maybe its a giant in the after. Seeing his mom lean into Doc McMahans window, face red, back when he was nine? Thats a redwood. The fact that his father keeps a dead cow skull glued to the dashboard of his work rig? A mountain. His grandpa a periodic b.u.m? An ocean.

He needs to pa.r.s.e this out. This could be important. Hes all buzzing. Then an image of Carla. Scribbling at the counter. A journal? Like a f.u.c.king after-school special, he laughs to himself. Thats what it was like. Joke Dex would have loved. Just write down your feelings, Lucy, and things will be OK . . .

Jimmy is surprised Carlas number is in the phone book for some reason. Arent they new to town?

A man answers. "Ferguson residence."

Jimmy pulls himself to it. This isnt natural. b.u.t.terflies on speed chipping away all manner of vital things on his insides. "Hi, may I speak to Carla, please?"

"Whos calling?"

"Its, well." Jimmy knows no one would want their daughter talking to him. His nickname is suddenly Kamikaze, after all, destruction. He says the first thing that comes into his head. "Its about Jesus?"

A let out. A sigh. That was a good move. "Im a preacher, son, maybe I can help."

"Its just, see. Carla was talking to me about it . . . I was kind of hoping we could talk more."

"Who is this?" He asks again. Softer now.

"Im embarra.s.sed. Maybe I should go."

"No, hold on."

Scuffling, murmured words. Voices back and forth. A pause. Then clicking, sc.r.a.ping. "h.e.l.lo?" Its Carla.

"Hi."

"Hi." Long draw-out on the i. She isnt sure who he is.

"Its Jimmy." He sits up. "Jimmy Kirkus? I saw you in Peter Pan."

More noises of the phone being brushed against something. A closing door. "Hi. Did you call me about Jesus?"

"Im not scared of 6A."

"What?"

"You asked me, if I was scared? Im not."

"But youre like, not on the team."

"Still." Hes got the phone cord up around his feet so that he almost trips when he walks over to his window. Rain-again-and condensation on the gla.s.s. He draws a smiley face into the window fog. "You were writing? At the counter? What was that, like a journal?"