“What old times? When did we ever play pickup at Venice?”
“Well, I did a few times, anyway.”
The thing about sports was that I listened to them, I knew the language, I could talk about them fluently, from baseball to bodybuilding. But the stars were never Magic Johnson or Kirk Gibson, the stars were always Vin Scully and Chick Hearn, the beautiful storytelling voices. I deplored basketball, begrudged it, actually, for being, like everything in the athletic realm, so far removed from my skill sets. Yet, Doug’s plan sounded agreeable to me, if only because it would allow me to demonstrate my prosperity and financial independence. And besides, I had a case of napkins and three gallons of sweet relish from the commissary in the back of the RX-7 that Joe and Eugene would be needing for the lunch rush.
Ross called in sick at the shoe store. He met us at the apartment. Knocking once, he walked through the door with his black gym bag and was immediately tackled by Doug. They crashed to the floor like a couple of elephants, and wrestled around madly, scrambling for leverage, upending the coffee table, huffing and grunting and trailing strings of saliva in their wake.
They were evenly matched. Surprisingly, Ross had a slight size advantage in terms of muscle mass, but Doug was more agile.
In the end, it was Ross who gasped “Uncle.”
Doug lent him a hand up, and they both brushed themselves off. It was all rather gentlemanly in its way. No one farted, or called each other “ass-clown” or “knuckle-dragger.”
“You got me when my weight was up high.”
“Yeah,” said Doug. “But it wasn’t really fair. I caught you napping. Plus I had you pinned in a defensive posture up against the couch. I think you might have had me, otherwise.”
“Yeah, maybe,” said Ross, untangling his long wavy hair.
Doug looked him up and down. “Dad said you were training again, but I wasn’t expecting this. What are you benching?”
“Two ninety.”
“Ten reps?”
“Sometimes twelve.”
“Wow, not bad.”
“What about you?”
“About the same. But never twelve reps, usually eight to ten. And I usually need a spot near the end.”
After a little catch-up—talk of jet engines and women’s shoes and more iron pumping—we outfitted ourselves for Venice. Doug wore some military cargo shorts, an olive drab T-shirt, and lace-up boots. Ross wore a Slayer shirt cut into a muscle tee and some neoprene shorts worthy of . . . well, Doug. A dearth of athletic wear left me in Levi’s, Docs, and a white T-shirt.
The three of us squeezed into the RX-7. Doug, upon his own insistence, wound up crammed in back with the napkins and the relish, his chin wedged firmly between his knees. But unlike the Doug of even the most recent past, he was not whining about it. Ross kept asking him if he had enough leg room. Doug kept saying he was okay, but thanks for asking. Maybe it’s true that we grow more cautious with age, but we also grow more considerate.
I’m proud to say that the Thrill Mobile was roaring like a tiger that morning. I’d just had her lubed, plugged, and timed. Even Doug was moved to comment, and being a jet-engine mechanic for the United States Air Force, he ought to know.
“Rings sound tight,” he said. “I’m starving.”
The hatch was open and Eugene was prepping onions when we got there with the napkins and the relish. I always tingled with the pride of a father when I approached Hot Dog Heaven. Just as I had hoped, Doug was impressed by my heavenly domain.
“Great location,” he said, casting a vague look around. “But somehow I don’t see you selling hot dogs your whole life. Let’s eat.”
The twins each devoured a cold foot-long while I tended to some unfinished business with Eugene—namely, trying in vain to resolve the ongoing debate about lemonade.
“I can get concentrate for next to nothing at the commissary,” I insisted.
“Lemons cost nothing, too. I get almost two cases from tree behind complex. You give fresh for same price.”
“I’m telling you, there’s the labor to consider.”
He waved it off. “Bah! Cheaper not always better. Most times, yes, I admit. But not for freshness. You not worry about squeezing lemon. I squeeze lemon.”
The pride that Eugene must have tingled with made me sad for the rest of us.
They were running full court five on five on the near court. A father and toddler were taking up one of the back courts, rolling a Nerf football around in wobbly circles. Back in the far corner, three black guys were playing twenty-one.
They didn’t seem to notice our approach, but after a while, the fat one pulled a rebound, wheeled around to clear it, and happened to notice two muscle-bound behemoths and a little dweeb in dress shoes standing on the sideline. He nodded at us.
“You guys up for some threes?” said Doug.
“That’s cool,” said the tallest guy. He was wearing a Payton jersey.
“Mind if we shoot around a little first?”
“Go for it,” said the fat one, delivering Doug a firm chest pass.
Doug dribbled twice and threw up a knuckleball that left the chain net ringing for a few seconds after it hit the rim. The ball careened off the rim right to me.
Here began phase one of the awkward dance. The sizing-up phase, in which Will the Thrill distinguished himself as a complete athletic poser—though not without a certain sprightly grace—hoisting a pair of scissor-legged air balls, and a confused layup attempt. The big dude tried to dunk my put-back, missed, and hung on the rim long enough for me to scurry out from under him like a hamster.
To my surprise, Ross had a pretty decent stroke. But he navigated the court like that big red Kool-Aid pitcher who crashes through walls. At one point, he went for his own rebound and came over the back of the short guy with the big shorts.
“Chill, homey. We just shootin’ around. Damn.”
After a few minutes, the fat guy suggested we shoot for teams.
“Eleven by ones. Winners after three.”
The fat guy passed the ball to Ross. “Shoot for outs.”
Ross missed.
The other guys jumped off to an early three–nothing lead before Ross lumbered into the lane with a hippity-hop dribble and nailed an awkward running jumper to put us on the board.
They called the tall guy “Big Smooth,” but it was his rotund teammate, the obligatory “Tiny,” who accounted for all three of their early points. Tiny was light on his toes for a guy the size of a hippopotamus. His footwork was precise. And he was a monster in the low post. Even Ross, of the 290 bench press, was no match for Tiny down low. Once Doug was pressed into double-teaming him, Tiny would kick the rock out to Big Smooth on the perimeter. Pretty soon they had a six–one lead.
I was assigned to the little guy who jabbered a lot and by all rights should’ve been wearing the Payton jersey. He was quick, and invariably eluded my coverage, but he couldn’t finish for squat.
Doug grabbed an offensive board at six–one and muscled it back up over Big Smooth for six–two.
The little guy clunked a wide-open jumper on their next possession. Ross cleared the rebound to me, and by some divine intervention, I slung one from the hip like Bob Cousy and sunk it from the top of the key.
“Pfff. Happy birthday,” said the little guy, tossing me the rock.
“Thanks, but my birthday’s in September.”
Just after I checked the ball, Doug rolled off a Ross pick, and I hit him in the lane for an easy layup, which brought us to within two. We high-fived, midcircle.
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about,” said Doug. “That’s some chemistry.”
“That’s some ugly,” said the little guy.
“Four–six,” I said, checking it in.
Ross missed a jumper, but Doug hauled in the board and cleared it to me in th
e corner, where I was essentially hiding.
“That’s you!” he yelled.
“Shoot!” said Ross, muscling for position on Tiny.
I let one fly from the hip again. It hit the corner of the backboard but ricocheted right to Doug, who banked it in over Big Smooth, for five–six.
“Pfff. Nice pass,” said the little guy.
This time Ross rolled off a Doug pick on the baseline, and a crisp feed from Will the Thrill completed the patented Miller pick-and-roll. All of a sudden we were tied—a fact that was not lost on the other guys, who began to bicker amongst themselves.
“C’mon, Tiny, you gotta stuff that weak shit!”
“That’s your man, Smooth! I got Captain America to deal with!”
Ross checked it to Tiny, and with a quick first step rumbled right past him into the lane for a scoop shot that bounced around the rim and fell in. Seven–six Millers.
“Shit,” said the little guy. “This ain’t happening.”
I’m almost embarrassed to admit it, but all of that sweating, ass-slapping, high-fiving camaraderie felt damn good to me. I felt connected, as though I were speaking Saint Bernard at long last. I felt like a Miller. I felt like an American. I was engaging the world with my appetite for victory, body first, charging through the buffet of life like my brethren, with my chin stuck out, grabbing fistfuls of meat. We were outmatched to the man; they were quicker, more adept in almost every way, better shooters, better passers, better ball handlers, but we were connected, we were Millers. As corny as it sounds, I wished Big Bill were there to see us, or Lulu, or my mother. I wished they were all there to see it.
“Let’s see what you got, Poindexter,” the little guy said, facing me off at the in line.
I looked him up and down, all four foot six of him, waiting to produce the definitive comeback to Poindexter. I couldn’t bench press 290, I couldn’t eat four game hens in a single sitting—technically, I couldn’t even play basketball. But I could spin comebacks.
“Whatchutalkinabout?” I said.
The little guy let his guard down. “Say what?”
I drove right past him into the open lane, and I’m telling you, I was grace incarnate. The ball was cooperating; it felt tiny in my clutches. There was nothing between me and the basket. I could already see the ball nestling into the net, already hear the chain singing, already feel the sting of Doug’s high five in my fingers when I lifted off like Air Jordan from the top of the key. Eight–six Millers, I could already see it in lights.
Suddenly, a shadow descended. The earth rocked. The sky opened up, and I saw stars. I heard a voice from above, and even in my disoriented state, I was pretty sure it wasn’t the voice of God.
“Not in my house,” the voice said.
Apparently they tied it at sevens. I heard the chain ringing.
“You good to go?” Tiny wanted to know.
“Yeah,” I said.
He offered me a fat hand up.
“Shake it off,” said Doug.
I was face-to-face at the in line with the little guy again.
“Okay, Ricky Schroder,” he said. “This is lights-out time.”
He threw a crossover, and I bit. Ross and Doug collapsed on him in the paint, but he managed to kick the ball out to Tiny on the baseline. Tiny rose like a brick shithouse on butterfly wings and nestled the ball home. Eight–seven them.
My bell was still ringing. I shook off the cobwebs and faced up with the little guy again. I still felt in my bones that we had them.
“You ready to throw the towel in yet, Donnie Wahlberg?”
I smiled.
Nine times out of ten, victory happens quietly, just like defeat. More often than not, momentum shifts in some unremarkable way. It’s not always a turnover, a fumble, a botched coverage. Sometimes it’s just a little face-up jumper from fifteen feet, without so much as a hand in the face, like the one the little guy hit while I was trying to think of a clever comeback for Donnie Wahlberg.
“My bad,” I said.
“Pick it up,” said Ross.
I had every intention of picking it up. In fact, I was right in his face this time, like a mirror image, toe-to-toe, twitch for twitch, head fake for head fake. He couldn’t see the light of day to pass or dribble.
Then he threw that damn crossover again and I bit, and he flew by me like a bat out of hell and dished it to Big Smooth for a layup, and all of a sudden it was game time.
“My bad,” I said.
“Pick it up,” said Ross.
Ross intercepted the inbound pass, and cleared it to Doug for an open J.
Nothing but net.
Eight–ten, and we had the rock.
“Win by two?” said Doug.
“That’s right,” said Smooth.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself there, General Schwarzkopf,” said the little guy.
“Is that a mosquito I hear?” said Ross.
We were in our element. We still had a chance.
I’m not usually competitive. This wasn’t personal. But somehow there was a lot riding on this game. Not pride exactly, not redemption, none of the usual spoils of victory. Something strange and unexpected was at stake in this pickup game—forgiveness, maybe, or acceptance.
For a split second, the world was my idea. It was as though I willed Doug to cut across the baseline and into the open lane, where my pass was already waiting for him.
High fives all around.
“Ten–nine,” I said.
“Nine–ten,” said the little guy.
Don’t ever assume the conformity of the future with the past. But if you see the same window open twice, there’s no reason you shouldn’t go through it again. Doug broke baseline and met my pass in almost the identical spot.
Tens.
If the window opens three times, you might want to rethink things. I should have. Big Smooth closed the lane and picked off my inbound pass. Without breaking stride, he cleared it, swung around, and fired a bullet to Tiny in the low post. Ten–eleven.
“Point,” said the little guy.
Just about everything short of a natural catastrophe comes down to a decision if you unravel it to the source. In a perfect world, you weigh the odds, consider the scenarios, try and figure the probabilities, and make an informed choice. Like whether or not to slacken up on the perimeter and guard against the penetration by a guy who’s way quicker than you, has a wicked crossover, and is one for seven from the field. Sometimes the right decisions are the wrong ones. I gave him the open look from twenty feet.
The minute he let it go, I knew he nailed it. The chain sang like the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.
“Don’t nobody call Daryl’s bluff,” said the little guy. “Daryl sting you like a scorpion.”
But the loss didn’t really sting after all. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. The stakes weren’t as high as I thought. Despite the spoils of victory, maybe sometimes we gain more by losing. If you believe that, then I’ve got news for you: You’re an even bigger loser than me.
“Good game,” said Tiny.
We shook hands all around, even the little guy and me.
“Good game,” he said.
“Good game.”
Then the Millers took our ball and went home. Well, almost home. We went to Sizzler.
Plenty of Room in Heaven
Let me tell you about the $6.99 all-you-can-eat buffet, the one they were running at the Sizzler on Highland in June of 1991. For sheer breadth and gastronomic complexity, it was no match for The Captain’s Table, but it was tough to beat the Hollywood Sizzler for atmosphere: the platinum-blonde hookers and blue-haired waitresses, the toothless crazies. These are the things I think of when I think of Hollywood. Not Brad Pitt. Not Army Archerd. Not Mann’s Chinese Theater. I think of a guy in a filthy coat stuffing a lamb chop
in his pocket, some sixty-year-old hooker with six-inch heels hoisting her ancient fun bags up in the reflection of the window, some guy with a bad rug and a checkered coat and a broken sewing machine by his feet. In short, when I think of Hollywood, I think of the Sizzler on Highland.
But even the Hollywood Sizzler had never seen anything the likes of my twin brothers lumbering in after a hard-fought battle. Had the management seen them coming, I’m certain they would have shut their doors and run for the hills, or at the very least, slapped an asterisk after “all-you-can-eat” and called the legal team.
The host looked uneasy right from the start when he learned we wouldn’t be needing menus. He didn’t pay me any notice, but he sized up the twins over his shoulder as he escorted us to the booth, and he looked nervous. As we were rounding up our trays and platters, I saw him whispering earnestly with a few of the kitchen staff. His brow was deeply furrowed. He kept checking his watch. He must have been trained to profile for such things. Maybe he was mulling over protocol for buffet disasters.
The twins hit like the atom bomb. They decimated the buffet. Sirloin tips and T-bone and skirt steak and jumbo shrimp, and baked potatoes and coleslaw, and three different kinds of corn. Big fat doughy rolls, and little skinny short ribs, farfalle with grilled zucchini, and meatballs the size of casaba melons. The twins were a two-headed hydra eating everything in their path. The beleaguered busboy couldn’t keep up. The cook staff was frantic. Somebody called the manager at home. By the time the second round was over, there was only smoldering rubble—a smattering of grease, a lone shriveled baked potato. There was a brief gurgling interlude, during which the harried cook staff ran about madly restocking the steam tables and bread bar.
“My ass opens like a trapdoor every time I eat here,” Ross said. “It’s like there’s a bypass right past my intesti—”
“Okay, I get it,” I said. “Go.”
Ross lumbered off toward the bathroom, patting his six-pack.
“So, basically,” I said to Doug. “It’s not that I don’t have opportunities, I just haven’t really met anyone.”
“Do you get laid at all?”
“Some,” I lied.