Free Rucker Park Setup by Paul Volponi

50 to 45. And I shoot Stove a look, like he’s wrong about everything.
    Our next time up court, I let somebody else handle the rock. I run the baseline from side to side, making cuts and trying to get free. I lose my defender and take the pass. Then I put up a shot that bounces high off the front of the rim. My eyes are on the ball, and I go flying in for the rebound. I want to show Stove how hungry I am to win. But this kid named Bones throws his body in front of mine, blocking me off from the ball.
    Bones is just six feet tall, and maybe a hundred and seventy-five pounds when his jersey’s soaked with sweat. But most of that is pure heart. He takes every good angle there is and sticks himself in front of anybody looking for a rebound. And once Bones gets square in front of you, it’s like trying to get past a living, breathing wall.
    Anytime I chose up sides at the park, I’d pick Bones for my squad, right after J.R. That way I wouldn’t have to play against him.
    â€œI hate when he drops his bony ass on me. It means too much to him. It’s like he’s tryin’ to stop you from rob-bin’ his house,” J.R. complained one time after a pickup game. “But that’s all Bones has got. He can’t dribble. He can’t shoot. He’s not even a real player.”
    â€œThe hell he ain’t!” said J.R.’s pops. “Maybe Bones hasn’t got half the raw talent of you or Mackey. But he’s got what counts beating in his chest. Juega con fuego —he plays with that fire in his soul. The day you can get past what he throws down, you’ll be something to deal with. And you can lift all the weights you want. You only get strong like Bones from the inside out.”
    Non-Fiction rebounds the rock. I’m tangled up with Bones, but I won’t quit. I bang up against him with all my strength. I keep trying to get past, till Bones backs off to follow the ball the other way.
    Stove’s running a few steps up ahead, chasing the play. He balled with J.R. and me lots, till we were maybe fourteen. When Stove was on our squad he was all right, playing hard to win. But when he was going up against us, Stove would do whatever it took to stop us cold.
    I remember when Stove got the transfer he was praying for and started delivering mail to our neighborhood. All summer, he’d move double-time through the morning. Everybody we knew got their mail by noon. Then Stove would ditch his cart and postman’s shirt at Acorn’s barbershop. He’d take a long lunch at the park and play pickup games in a white tee and those long gray pants with the black stripe down the side. He’d ball all the way up till four thirty, when he had to be back at the post office. And he was almost at the park as much as J.R. and me.
    â€œIt’s like your pops is one of us ,” I told J.R. back then.
    â€œNot to me,” answered J.R. “Even when we’re playing ball, he’s still my pops.”
    Once, while he was still on post-office time, Stove sprained his ankle bad on the court. But he knocked out a plan on the spot. Real fast, he sent me to Acorn’s for his shirt and cart. I ran full speed both ways. On the way back, I was hoping the cops wouldn’t stop me, thinking I mugged a mailman. Then J.R. helped his pops limp back to his route, while I pushed the cart along next to them. When we got to the right corner, Stove called in from a pay phone for somebody to come get him. That way he could explain it better to his boss, like he’d got hurt on the job.
    Now Stove’s got himself a second wind. He’s running as fast and strong as I’ve ever seen him. He’s moving around the court like nothing could spot him from finding out the truth.
    Junkyard Dog goes sky high over Bones for a rebound. Then he spins around and hits me with a pass. Up ahead, one of our kids is streaking alone to the basket. The ball’s barely in my hands, and