Free Playing Without the Ball by Rich Wallace

right?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Really?”
    I nod.
    “I gotta go,” she says, and she kisses my cheek. “Don’t wait up, Dad. I love ya.”
    I watch her go, then I look at the bar. One guy has his headdown, dead or asleep. Another is just staring into his drink. There are four other regulars on the stools, smoking cigarettes, nursing beers. The band is playing “Brown Sugar,” and there’s a couple at the pinball machine, laughing and pounding the buttons.
    The kitchen’s closed. I’ve had enough. I go upstairs, take off my shoes, and lie down.
    Things are not going well. I want to sleep.
    But I can’t.
    Things suck.
    And tomorrow morning I have to go to church.

Various Protestants
    I have a tie, I have a jacket, I have decent shoes. I think I can get away with jeans, black ones anyway. The Methodist Church is over on Church Street, of course, about three blocks down from the back end of Shorty’s. I walk over at quarter to 11.
    I go up the wide cement steps. A man and a woman are at the doorway, shaking hands with everybody who arrives. The woman hands me a program and gives me a big, toothy grin. “Welcome,” she says. “Glad you could come.”
    I stare at her briefly, wondering if I should know her. I don’t. So I nod and walk into the church.
    There’s low organ music playing from somewhere up near the front. I see Alan in the center aisle with a small old lady on his arm. He’s wearing a tweedy gray jacket and black pants (not jeans). He helps the lady into one of the pew seats and walks toward the back again. He sees me and comes over.
    “Morning, Jay,” he says.
    “Hey.”
    “Follow me,” he says, kind of sweeping his arm toward the aisle.
    I walk behind him, then he stops about halfway up. He looks at me.
    “What?” I say.
    “You can sit here.”
    “Okay.” I slide in a few feet. He starts back down the aisle.
    “Where you going?” I say.
    “I’m an usher,” he whispers.
    “Oh. I’ll save you a seat.”
    He smiles. “I’ll be in the back. I’ll see you after.”
    The place starts to fill up. I find myself between a banker with silver hair and another frail old lady who keeps her coat on. I look around a lot during the service. I share a hymnal with the lady during “Holy, Holy, Holy,” holding it open in front of her as she leans into my arm. She gives me a warm smile when the song is over.
    I don’t have any experience with the church routine, but I know some of the songs and the Lord’s Prayer. When they pass the plates around I know enough to put in a dollar.
    I shake hands with the minister on the way out the door. When I reach the steps, Alan is waiting for me. He puts up a fist and opens his mouth wide in one of those silent yells.
    “You made it,” he says.
    I loosen my tie. “It was painless.”
    “Be at practice?”
    “Why do you think I was here?”
    “Fair enough. So we’ll see you tonight.”
    “Yeah, you will.” And I head back to Shorty’s.

    I show up at the Y early to shoot, but there’s another team practicing. So I take a ball, sit on the bottom row of the bleachers, and bounce the ball between my feet.
    Alan shows up at quarter to 6. The team I’ve been watching is pretty bad. Nobody can shoot, and most of them can’t run much either. The eight of them are mostly medium height and kind of fat.
    “Who are these guys?” I ask Alan.
    He squints at the floor. “Lutherans and a couple of Baptists. Neither could field a full team so they lumped them together.”
    “Kind of heavy,” I say.
    He looks around, then leans over to me. “The tit team,” he whispers.
    We both laugh. “I guess the competition won’t be much in this league,” I say.
    “Don’t be too sure,” he says. “There are some good players. Especially on the Catholic teams.”
    “They got more than one?”
    “Yeah. Two Catholic teams, us, these guys on the floor, the First Presbyterians, and New Covenant.”
    “Who we got?”
    “You, me, maybe Anthony. Peter Croce. Two