Free Never Play Another Man's Game by Mike Knowles Page B

sidelines and watched as D.B. waited for his turn. The ball in his giant hands looked like a tennis ball compared to the one the senior beside him was clutching in his veined paws.
The jack was almost a hundred feet away from where the two men stood. The old man tossed his bocce ball underhand and it skipped over the frozen ground and landed within feet of the jack. The old man’s ball was white and it was closest to the marker, leaving D.B.’s two black balls behind it and therefore worthless.
    â€œGood toss, Herb. Good toss,” D.B. said.
    â€œThanks, D.B.” Herb clapped the big man on the shoulder and slowly walked his bent body over to his friends on the bench. The old man was completely at ease with the giant biker.
    â€œWell, folks, Herb is inside, so I guess it’s my turn to make him cry.”
    â€œDream on,” Herb yelled from his seat.
    â€œOld man, I must be asleep because —” D.B. lobbed the ball high, using a completely different style than the old man. Instead of bouncing down the court, D.B.’s ball crashed down on top of the old man’s ball. Herb’s ball skittered sideways like it had been struck by the gods above. D.B.’s ball rolled some, but it stayed within three feet of the jack. “Because I just sent you outside.”
    Herb got up and called D.B. a thug. The biker laughed and I smiled. I had seen him break bones for less. D.B. marked three points for the round and the men started another. The big biker saw me when he went to collect his balls and I raised my cup. He waved and sent the balls back to the line. The game went on for another twenty minutes. Herb racked up a good number of points and D.B. managed to win only by two. The November morning air was cold and it was only the tea and watch cap that kept me from shivering. I had no idea how D.B. could play in just a T-shirt. Once the game was over, D.B. saw the three men off. It was a hell of a sight watching the biker gently help one of the old men into the back seat of the light blue Grand Marquis they all came in. I walked onto the court feeling the air blowing against my face. I caught sight of a single snowflake and watched as it flew out of sight. I opened D.B.’s case and picked up one of the balls the biker had used. The polished black ball weighed around two pounds. I thought about the high arcing shots the biker had thrown, and the ease with which he did it, and figured there was no way in hell I could match his distance or accuracy.
    The white jack left D.B.’s hand, landed at the end of the court, and rolled to a stop. “Take the first shot,” D.B. said.
    â€œI haven’t played in years. Not since the last time you beat me.”
    â€œIt was a shutout, if I recall.”
    D.B. was right about the score. I remembered it because it was a huge loss and the last time I played. The fact that D.B. remembered the score, considering the countless games he must have played since, made me smile. It was easy to look at D.B. and write him off as a meathead. But he was no idiot; D.B. had one of the sharpest minds I had ever come across. It was probably why he had turned down Ruby.
    â€œHeard you skipped town,” he said.
    â€œI did. Had some problems with the Italians and the Russians.”
    â€œPussies,” D.B. said. He was one of the few people who could say that about the mobs without a hint of bullshit. D.B. wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything, not even a war with those ruthless gangsters. I doubted he would have run if he had been in my place. He would have fought, and probably died, but he would have surely taken more of the other side with him. The only time I had ever seen D.B. lose a fight was when he took on Steve. The little bartender climbed up D.B.’s body like it was a redwood and chopped him down. The story was legendary for those who saw it because it was never spoken of again. No one wanted to be the one who gossiped about D.B.