Free Ball Don't Lie by Matt de la Pena

told him:
I love you, Sticky.
    She hugged him tight.
    Sticky didn’t cry when her old Volkswagen van pulled out of the driveway and into the street. The old Mexican director’s hand on his shoulder. The cold wind on the back of his neck.
Is this when you’re supposed to cry?
he wondered as the van moved slowly down the long, busy road and mixed with other taillights.
Is this when you’re supposed to feel sad
and cry?
Because his eyes were as dry as a Santa Ana.
    Francine died three months later in a hospital just outside Manhattan. Sticky found out when he overheard some counselors whispering in the office.
    When he heard it for a second time later that week, a big sit-down kinda conversation with the old Mexican director, he acted like he didn’t know.

Jimmy Comes Running
    out the office when he hears all the racket.
Everyb-b-b-b-body g-g-g-get out!
he says, and points at the door.
    Nobody notices.
    He moves up to the core of the pack, invisible. Takes quick strained breaths.
    Jimmy is: eyes the size of golf balls in thick Coke-bottle glasses, overgrown crop that starts a thumb’s width from his bushy eyebrows, old beat-up flea-bitten sweatshirt zipped up to the throat: ARMY FOOTBALL. He yanks the rock from Trey’s grasp and stomps his foot on the ground, yells:
I s-s-s-s-said, everyb-b-b-b-body out!
    Ballers stop dead and turn to check him this time.
    Jimmy’s already shut Lincoln Rec down twice this summer. Stood by the soda machine with his arms crossed while everybody grabbed their stuff and filed out slow. First time after Big Mac blasted some first-timer in the mouth and wouldn’t stop kicking after he hit the ground. Guy’s teeth went through his bottom lip. Blood all over the low post area. The second time when Old-man Perkins pulled a gun and dudes hit the ground, ducked behind bleachers. But Jimmy’s bluffed on a handful of other occasions. When arguments build up like volcanoes and everybody blows at once. A chorus of over-the-top cursing and street ball threatening.
    We ain’t done nuthin,
New York yells.
    Nah,
Rob says.
I ain’t movin one step
.
    G-g-g-g-get out!
Jimmy says again, swinging an arm through the air and almost knocking off his glasses. He straightens himself out, adds:
N-N-N-N-NOW!
    Aah, come on, Jimmy,
Dallas says.
    It don’t gotta be like all that,
Johnson says.
    Old-man Perkins jumps off the bleachers and throws somebody’s towel onto the court.
I ain’t even played one
game yet
.
    Dante walks up cool as a cat and puts a hand on Jimmy’s shoulder.
Just a simple misunderstanding, Jimmy,
he says.
We
about to shoot for it right now, as a matter of fact
. He looks in Jimmy’s magnified eyes and smiles white teeth.
    Jimmy takes a deep breath to slow himself down. He looks back at Dante and shakes his head.
You kn-kn-kn-kn-know th-th-this ain’t r-right, D-D-D
.
    I know it, Jimmy. I know it. The question is: What are we
gonna do about it now?
    All the c-c-c-c-cursin and h-h-h-h-h-h-hollerin
. Jimmy squints his eyes and scrunches up his face to get all the words out.
    You know how brothers be actin sometimes,
Dante tells him.
    Jimmy puts a hand on a hip and looks around at all the guys’ faces. Shakes his head, disgusted.
B-b-b-but th-th-they’s
imp-p-p-portant off-ff-ff-ff-ff-ffices next door,
he says, and points at the east wall.
    I know it, Jimmy. I know about all that
. Dante reaches in slowly, takes the ball from Jimmy’s hands and bounces it a couple times off the hardwood. He palms the ball with his left hand and fingers his beard with the right.
But we about
to settle all this jazz right now.
    Dante spins around and yells out:
Hey, yo, Rob!
    What?
Rob yells back, sitting at half-court with his legs sticking straight out, weight on the palms of his hands behind him.
    You made a call, shoot for it
. Dante rolls the ball to Rob. Rob gets up slow, dribbles a few times and struts to the top of the key.
Messed up I gotta shoot,
he mumbles under his breath.
White boy tries to