Free Rucker Park Setup by Paul Volponi Page B

can’t control the rock, and loses it out-of-bounds.
    He slaps his hands together hard, and I can feel the sting.
    â€œMy bad!” he says, pointing at himself. “My bad!”
    Mitchell and Greene are all over him for blowing an easy layup.
    â€œThat was a gift!” screams Mitchell. “You’re either the kind of player who can win a championship or you’re not!”
    â€œNo heart!” growls Greene. “He’s hollow inside, like the Tin Man!”
    And deep down, I know all of that should be for me.
    The guy I’m guarding cuts across the court at full speed, and I’m right on his tail. I look up and see a shoulder from one of Fat Anthony’s goons. But I can’t slow down, and I plow straight into it, face-first.
    I feel my jaw and neck snap back. My feet are off the floor, and a jolt shoots down my spine. My eyes go back inside my head, and for a second, there’s nothing but bright light.
    When my eyes start to focus again, J.R.’s standing right in front of me, wearing our high-school jersey. He’s breathing hard, and the sweat’s rolling down his brown face.
    J.R. puts out a hand to pull me up off the court. I try to reach for it, but my arms are too heavy to lift.
    I don’t care if J.R. knows it all already. I have to tell him everything I did, and how I never meant for him to get hurt. I try to explain. But my mouth won’t move.
    J.R. bends all the way down to lift me up. That’s when the feeling starts to run through my body again, and everything is all needles and pins.
    Then my eyes start to focus for real.
    It’s Stove standing over me, not J.R.
    â€œMackey, are you all right?” asks Stove, tugging me to my feet. “Mackey?”
    I turn around, looking everywhere for J.R. I know he’s not really here. He’s dead and buried. Still I look in every shadow and corner of Rucker Park for him just the same.
    â€œDo you hear me, Mackey?” asks Stove, with his hands around my shoulders.
    I back up out of his grip, taking a few shaky steps. And I don’t know if the pain inside me is from the hit I took, or because I can’t stand myself anymore.
    Mitchell’s there, too.
    â€œI’m stayin’ in the game, Coach!” I say.
    He’s flipped over me getting dropped like that.
    â€œThat’s not a foul! It’s a felony!” cracks Mitchell.
    â€œYou’re right!” says Stove, who signals Anthony’s goon for a flagrant foul, and throws him out of the game.
    The crowd boos the shit out of that guy as he walks off the court. But when he gets back to the bench, Anthony gives him a pound, like he did his job perfect.
    I walk to the foul line for two free throws, and Fat Anthony’s eyes stab mine.
    That bastard had his boy knock me flat. I guess that was supposed to be some kind of reminder. But Anthony doesn’t own me, and he better remember that.
    I set my feet at the edge of the foul line, and Stove sends me the ball. Then I take a deep breath and look back to where I saw J.R. Only that part of the court is empty.
    The foul line’s called the charity stripe because nobody guards you or waves a hand in your face. It’s like they’re giving those points away, so you’re supposed to make every one.
    Kids can knock down free throws in practice all day long. But in a game, it’s a different story. Never mind the crowd or the pressure; sprinting up and down the court can zap your legs good. Then you get tired and don’t follow through on the shot.
    â€œThere are plenty of excuses for missing free throws,” Stove always told J.R. and me. “But that’s all they are—excuses. Big-time players make those shots, no matter what.”
    So every time Stove saw us walking out of the park exhausted, he’d challenge J.R. and me to make two straight free throws before we left.
    â€œI can’t figure out if your pops is tryin’ to make us