Tyler Buckspan Read online

  The kid faked left, then moved to his right, dribbling furiously. He bent his knees and raised the ball, preparing to jump shoot, it appeared. But when he sprang into the air, he flicked the ball to me instead. Unguarded, I took two steps toward the goal and laid up the ball, an easy two pointer.

  The guys in the tryout lines cheered, while the seniors in the bleachers shouted insults at Scheevers.

  Over the next two hours, the process repeated itself, over and over. Ebersole rotated his six seniors on the court. I remained paired with the auburn-haired kid, and we quickly found ourselves a rhythm, working the ball in carefully, passing it back and forth, drawing out one defender, then blowing past him and challenging the other senior defending the goal. My partner wasn't as quick as me, but his jump shot was lethal and his rebounding was aggressive. He didn't seem the least bit intimidated by seniors larger than him. Of course, we didn't score every time we got the ball, but we won more matchups than we lost.

  On our final possession, with all four of us crowding the goal, I executed a reverse layup. It bounced off the backboard and bobbled about inside the goal's rim before dropping through the net -- not a perfect maneuver, but it worked.

  I felt bad for some of the kids trying out. Many were not good ball handlers, others were simply too slow. But a few were indisputably varsity material, and everyone, I think, sensed this. A guy named Mark Maggert, a pass receiver on our school's football team, looked as comfortable on the court as he would have been in his living room. He ran circles around the seniors, made every layup he attempted. And he wasn't a ball hog. He'd set up shots for his partner to make, even when he had a clear shot himself.

  Clever. He's showing Ebersole he's a team player.

  Another guy I knew from English class, Charles Sweeney, could jump like nobody's business. He'd spring into the air and arc the ball toward the goal, his wrist flopping forward, index finger pointing at his target. Though I guessed he was five-ten at most, he often out-rebounded guys taller than him, including Hartmann. Sweeney dribbled like the ball was part of his body; he never even looked at it while maneuvering about the court, moving left, then right. His intentions were completely unpredictable.

  After an hour, the seniors switched to offense, and the guys trying out played defense.

  "Get those arms up," Ebersole hollered at two kids trying to guard much larger seniors. "Hustle, hustle, hustle, goddamnit."

  Afterward, while the seniors went to the locker room, the rest of us sat in the bleachers, our T-shirts sticking to our backs, sweat beading on our upper lips, while Ebersole and Mike Monroe stood before us. Ebersole scratched his chest and looked us over like we were steaks in a butcher shop's display case.

  "I know what you're all wondering," he said. "When will Coach decide who makes the cut and who doesn't?" Ebersole looked down at his sneakers; he kicked hardwood with a toe. Then he raised his chin.

  "I'm a man who makes his decisions carefully, but quickly. I don't pussyfoot around. I can tell you right now, some of you guys had no business coming here; you're too green and you haven't practiced nearly enough. But I suppose there are six of you who stand some chance of learning the art of this game."

  Ebersole pointed to the gymnasium doors. "Thursday after school, I'll post the team roster on the bulletin board, right out there. I'm warning you: if you're name is on the list, you may live to regret it. You'll work harder for me than you've ever worked in your life. Every waking hour of your day, when you're not doing schoolwork, you'll think about basketball. At night you'll dream about basketball. Any slacking, any loss of concentration, and I'll yank you from the team; it's a promise."

  Ebersole pointed a finger, right at me. His gaze bore into mine.

  "If you're not prepared to give me one hundred percent, now's your chance to leave."

  I lowered my chin and stared at the sweat-soaked number on the back of a boy seated in front of me. I felt entirely unnerved by Ebersole's attentions. All I could think was, Am I good enough?

  Afterward, in the school parking lot, a scratchy voice cried to me.

  "Hey, wait up." The voice belonged to the auburn-haired kid, my two-on-two partner. He also carried a gym bag. He approached with a lazy stride, while brushing his bangs from his face. When he drew near, I noticed his hazel eyes. Freckles peppered his cheeks and his oversized nose as well; the freckles looked like confetti.

  He said, "How do you think we did?"

  I shrugged. "Better than most, I think."

  After shifting his bag to his left hand, he extended his right. "I'm Jacob Rachinoff."

  Rachinoff? What kind of a name is that?

  We shook. His hand felt warm and moist, and his grip was firm.

  I told him my name. Then I said, "I've never seen you at school before."

  He nodded. "That's 'cause we've just moved here from Skokie. My dad bought a pharmacy business, here in Deland."

  I said I'd never heard of Skokie. "Where is it?"

  "Up north, near Chicago."

  When Jacob said "Chicago," he pronounced it "Shi-caw-gah."

  "That your car?" he asked, pointing at the Chevy.

  I nodded; I told Jacob it was a gift from my older brother.

  "Lucky you," he said while his gaze drifted over the Chevy's shiny surfaces. "I'm on foot."

  I jerked a thumb. "Hop in, and I'll give you a ride"

  On the way to Jacob's house, we stopped at a fast food place to purchase sodas and fries. Then we sat at an outdoor, concrete table, yakking away. Beyond the curb, early evening traffic roared past. We talked about the tryout session, about Ebersole, and our classes at school. Jacob was an animated guy; his big hands were always on the move, pointing here and there, slapping the tabletop, or twirling at the wrists. He talked about Skokie and how its population was largely Jewish.

  "I attended Fasman Yeshiva High," he said. "It's for boys only, strictly Orthodox."

  I told Jacob I'd never met a Jew before, not that I knew of.

  "I'm not surprised. The closest temple's in Orlando -- an hour's drive for my family every Saturday. I think we might be the only Jews in Volusia County."

  I told Jacob I liked his style on the court. "Where'd you learn?"

  "From a neighbor in Skokie, Si Grossmann, the first Jew ever to play for Illinois State. He kept a backboard on a post at the edge of his driveway. One day, I watched him practice and he tossed me the ball. He said, 'Jacob, you're a tall boy, with long arms and big hands; you're built for this sport.' He'd practice with me most every afternoon. Then, on Sundays, he'd organize pickup games in the neighborhood."

  I told Jacob about Devin, then about Blon at the Sinclair station and how he'd taught me the reverse layup.

  Jacob waggled his eyebrows.

  "I saw that one. Will you teach me one day?"

  I said sure.

  While we talked, I studied Jacob's features. The more I looked at his nose, the more I liked its large size and unusual shape: the bump at the bridge and the way it curved downward, ever so slightly toward the tip. His lips were crimson and full, his eyelashes auburn. When he smiled, his teeth gleamed; they were big and straight, as white as piano keys. He kept jerking his head to toss his bangs out of his eyes, and I found this habit appealing. His Adam's apple was huge; it bobbed whenever he swallowed soda.

  How would it feel to kiss Jacob? To rub the side of my nose against his and feel his breath warm my upper lip?

  Jacob's house looked like most in Deland: wood frame with a pitched roof, a screened front porch, a picket fence, and a brick walkway leading to the front steps. Banks of azaleas, as big as station wagons, flanked each side of the house. A live oak shaded the front yard. The oak's trunk was so thick two men couldn't wrap their arms around it.

  "Want to come in?" Jacob asked when we pulled to the curb.

  "I can't, I'd be late for dinner. My Grandma..."

  Jacob raised his eyebrows. "Some other time, then?"

  On my way to Cassadaga, I kept thinking abou
t Jacob and how much I'd enjoyed his presence. Since Eric's departure, I hadn't considered touching another boy, partly because losing Eric had been too painful; I didn't want to get hurt again. And I was still shook up by the episode at the movie theater with Peter Bohannon. If Peter had sensed my queer tendencies, it was possible others could as well. If this happened, I'd be ostracized at school; I might even get beat up.

  Of course, I still touched myself in bed at night; I needed some form of sexual release. But the idea of getting intimate with another guy I had written off. It wouldn't lead to anything good, would it? I was better off alone, wasn't I?

  Now, at home, I parked the Chevy in Grandma's driveway. The sun had set, and the hem of the western sky glowed tangerine and gold. Crickets chirped in the trees, while a swarm of fireflies sparkled above my grandma's lawn. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked.

  I sat behind the steering wheel, staring through the windshield and into the depths of Grandma's cave-like garage. I thought about Jacob and how much I liked his facial features. Inside my head, I heard his laughter. Between my legs, I felt a stirring.

  Careful, Tyler.

  C-a-r-e-f-u-l…

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Moments after Thursday's dismissal bell rang, a gaggle of boys, including myself and Jacob, gathered outside the gymnasium's double doors, all of us sucking our cheeks and shifting our weight from one leg to the other, our eyes on the bulletin board. At the moment, it bore nothing but the week's cafeteria menu and a flyer announcing an upcoming school dance.

  A few guys conversed, but most remained silent, just staring and blinking.

  My armpits felt moist, and I couldn't stop biting my lips. I'd waited so long for this moment. I'd always felt like an outsider at school. I wasn't popular; I didn't know how to choose my clothes or get a good haircut. I couldn't dance worth a crap, and my conversational skills weren't the best. In short, I was a loser.

  Making the team would boost my prestige; I'd be part of an elite group. Basketball games at our school were a big deal. Everyone went to them: students, faculty, staff, and townspeople. If I made the team, each time I'd walk onto the court in my uniform, hundreds of pairs of eyes would gaze at me. Every time I'd sink a shot, the crowd would roar. The cheerleaders would cry my name, and even Ebersole would come to respect me. I would--

  Someone hissed.

  "Here comes Coach," another guy whispered.

  Heart pounding, I jerked my gaze toward the gymnasium doors.

  Ebersole approached, crossing the hardwood court, a single sheet of paper in his paw, a blank expression on his face. He didn't even acknowledge our presence; he acted like we were invisible. Stepping to the bulletin board, his back to us, he yanked two thumbtacks from the cork. He mounted the list. Then he turned to the group and searched faces, including mine.

  "For those of you who've made the cut, tomorrow morning's practice starts at six-thirty. Be on time."

  He turned on his heel and strode into the gym, arms swinging, while our group rushed to the bulletin board. Every guy held his breath; each of us scanned the typewritten roster. My heart leapt into my throat. The names were listed in alphabetical order, and mine would have been first if I'd made the team, but...

  My name wasn't there.

  My jaw slacked, and, for a few moments, I couldn't even breathe. I felt as though the floor beneath me had disappeared and I was sinking into quicksand. I hadn't made the cut? Why?

  Jacob's name was on the list, as was Mark Maggert's. Maggert swung a fist through the air. "I'm in," he cried.

  All about me, boys hung their heads. They turned their backs to the bulletin board, and then shuffled off.

  Charles Sweeney crowed; he jumped up and down, his face bright crimson, while Maggert slapped his back.

  How I envied them, and how dismal I felt at the moment. My feet seemed heavy as concrete blocks; I couldn't seem to move them. I just stood there, staring at the list and blinking, not believing what had happened. What kind of an idiot was Ebersole? Was he blind or something? I'd outperformed at least two guys who'd made the team, I felt certain. Or had I? Maybe I wasn't as good as I'd thought. Maybe--

  "Tyler?"

  I looked at Jacob.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "It's not fair."

  I fought the urge to cry. My voice shook when I told Jacob, "Congratulations."

  He followed me to my car, and then we climbed inside, me behind the wheel, Jacob in the passenger seat. We sat there, staring through the windshield at kids leaving school. They carried books under their arms; they laughed and chattered away, oblivious to my misery and shame.

  This is what it feels like to be a failure. I'll never be a winner in life, will I?

  After starting the Chevy's engine, I shifted gears and drove us from the parking lot. Neither Jacob nor I said a word, until we reached his house. After he hopped out with his books, Jacob closed the passenger door. Then he leaned his forearms on the sill and looked in at me.

  "You're a good player, Ty. Maybe next year you'll, you know..."

  I nodded, staring at the dashboard.

  "I'll see you tomorrow," I told Jacob.

  ***

  For two weeks after Ebersole cut me, I walked about school like a sleepwalker. I barely spoke to kids I knew, and found it hard to concentrate on my studies. The days dragged over me like leaden blankets, while classroom clocks seemed to move in slow motion.

  At home, I lost interest in food. I moped about the house. I spent hours in my room, lying on my bed and staring at the ceiling, my mind a vacuum. I told myself I would never touch a basketball again -- not ever. Already, I had deflated both balls I owned, and I'd stowed them in a locker in Grandma's garage.

  My only solace was the swimming spring. Several times, I went there with a blanket and towel. I'd get naked and bathe. Then I'd lie in the afternoon sunshine, feeling its warmth on my skin, while cicadas sang their shrill tunes. I'd think about Devin and Jesse, and the day I'd seen them make love at this spot. How long ago it seemed. I often wondered where Devin was now and what he was doing with his life. At this point, I was glad he wasn't living in Cassadaga. What disappointment he'd have felt, had he seen me fail at the sport he'd spent so much time teaching me.

  The only person I communicated with was Jacob. Because he had practice twice a day -- before and after school -- I rarely saw him in person, unless we'd pass in the hallways at Deland High. But every evening, around eight, he'd call and tell me how things were going with Ebersole and the team.

  "He's a sadist," Jacob said of Ebersole. "He works us 'til we collapse; then he works us some more. You should try running wind sprints at six-thirty in the morning. Half the time, I lose my breakfast."

  Jacob reported on each player's strengths and weaknesses. I listened with perverse interest, especially when a guy who'd bested me at tryouts did something foolish and earned a tongue-lashing from Ebersole.

  "Coach is always threatening to cut someone from the squad, even the seniors. He had Maggert crying the other day; you should've heard Ebersole chew him out: 'You're as worthless as a cat turd, Maggert, a disgrace to this team. Why don't you do us all a favor and quit? Join the marching band; play clarinet or piccolo.'"

  In my mind's eye, I pictured the scene: Ebersole red-faced and barking while tears rolled down Mark Maggert's cheeks, and the other players cowered.

  Who knows? Maybe it's a blessing I got cut.

  On a Friday night, when Jacob called, he said, "I can't play ball on the Sabbath; it's taboo. But why don't you come over Sunday? There's a public court near my house. My mom will fix us lunch, and then we'll play one-on-one."

  "Thanks," I said, "but not this weekend."

  I couldn't bear the thought of stepping onto a court, even with Jacob. My basketball days, I'd decided, were behind me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The first week of November, a cold front swept across northeast Florida. The temperature dropped into the low forties. On Monday morning, I wore a jac
ket when I left the house. My breath steamed in the frigid air when I turned the key in the Chevy's ignition. Switching on the heater, I shivered; I rubbed my hands together while waiting for warm air to flow from the dashboard vents. The brightness of the sun and the sky's brilliance made me squint, so I reached for a pair of sunglasses I kept in the glove box.

  At school, when I pulled into the student parking lot, an ambulance was parked near the gymnasium, its rear door ajar. I crinkled my forehead in curiosity. What was going on?

  It didn't take me long to find out.

  "Scheevers broke his leg," Jacob told me when I saw him in a hallway later. "He fought for a rebound, against Hartmann and Sweeney. All three guys fell, and Scheevers was at the bottom of the pile." Jacob winced and shook his head. "The bone broke clear through his skin, a really disgusting sight."

  In third period English class, a student assistant from the office appeared with a blue slip addressed to me, the handwriting on it clumsy: Buckspan, see me after dismissal. Ebersole.

  Hours later, I entered the gymnasium. Ten guys, Jacob among them, played shirts and skins; they hustled up and down the court, their sneakers squeaking on the hardwood. Ebersole stood at the court's edge, barking instructions. Mike Monroe sat in the bleachers, using a hand pump to inflate balls. The lenses of his eyeglasses reflected light from the gym's overhead lamps.

  When Ebersole saw me, he jerked a thumb toward his office. In moments, we were alone behind a closed door, me standing, Ebersole seated at his desk, his big hands joined behind his head.

  The cramped room was windowless, lit by fluorescent ceiling fixtures. A bookshelf held a multitude of trophies, some tarnished with age. A myriad of plaques and certificates -- the latter ones displayed in cheap metal frames -- decorated the room's cinder block walls, along with black–and-white photos of Ebersole posing with his uniformed teams. His desktop was littered with notebooks, writing pads, and dog-eared sports magazines.

  Ebersole's gaze bore into me.

  "I suppose you've heard about Scheevers?"