Way to Hustle

(continued)

By Wes Prussing

Thirty minutes later it’s over. We dominate. We slaughter them. Mark hits for fifteen. I manage one basket and a couple of rebounds. I’m ecstatic. No one sneers when I offer a high-five. They call me by my name: Leslie or just Les. Not ‘ass-wipe’ or ‘dip-shit’’ — two of the more benign labels reserved for those who never get picked. I‘m pumped. I’m psyched. I want to go another game, but already some of the guys are leaving, heading home for supper.

I spot Mark near the foul line, popping off shots that drop flawlessly through the hoop.

When he stops to retrieve the balls I say, “Hey, good game.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Way to hustle.”

“Thanks. I thought those guys might make a run for it toward the end.”

He shrugs. “Ya gotta let ’em stay in the game. Keeps things interesting.”

I nod, unsure if I should agree or not. “Well… I better take off. After 6 the bus only runs every hour.”

Peeling off his sweatshirt, he says in a muffled voice, “You live by that new pizza place, don’t you? Right off Springfield?”

“Yeah, on Conduit.” I stop in my tracks. “The corner house with the big porch?”

“Whatever.” He stuffs the sweat-soaked shirt into a gym bag and pulls on a clean white T-shirt. “Look, my sister’s picking me up in a couple of minutes. You want a lift?”

“Sure. That’d be great.”

He doesn’t say anything else, just flops down with his back against the fence. He stretches out one leg and probes his right kneecap. It appears swollen, and he pokes it with his index finger, examining it like an archeologist might study a fossil.

I stay on the court, dribble around and don’t say anything. Why tempt fate?

“Here’s our ride,” he says, rising to his feet.

He tosses his ball and bag into the back and crams into the front seat. I push his stuff over and hop into the back. Before I can get comfortable, he reaches down, grabs a lever and gives a quick push. His seat slams against my shin. I groan and slide over a bit.

His sister turns and puts a hand on my knee, which is jammed up against the center console.

“Oh my God. Are you hurt?”

“It’s okay. My leg’s just cramping a little. I’m fine.”

She looks at me and smiles. Her eyes are a warm, watery blue, and her are lips are full and cinnamon-colored. The lipstick is just right; it goes well with her lightly freckled cheeks, which are tinted with the pink and yellow hues that filter through the front windshield and soften everything around us. She pats my knee. “I’m Joan, Mark’s sister.”

“Hey Joan. Leslie.” My voice sounds too high. I drop it down an octave. “Mark’s friend.” I brace for a rebuke. We’re not really friends. Before today I doubt he even knew my name.

Mark either isn’t listening or lets it slide. Tonelessly,he says, “I told him we could drop him off on the way home. He lives near that new pizza place, on Concord.”

“Conduit.”

“Yeah, Conduit.”

“Of course we can,” Joan says, beaming.

“You can let me off right where you get off the parkway,” I tell her. “That way you feed right back on without getting stuck in the traffic.”