Free Home Court by Amar'e Stoudemire

players take tons of threes from there because it’s a shorter shot and a straight, squared-up look. And that means that we all practice from there all the time, too, heaving it up and trying to do what they do. Even his dribbling changed a little. You know how it does that when someone’s about to take a shot? It was going to be one jump shot from the corner. I didn’t think I could get up and contest it with his length, and there was a good chance it would go in.
    But that’s right where the big crack in the court was. It was the one I stumbled over in our last game. That’s the whole reason I remembered it. Maybe if Carlos had tripped over it then, he would’ve remembered it, too. But he hadn’t, so he had to learn that lesson now. With his eyes already radar-locked, sizing up the rim, he had no idea it was coming.
    â€œLook out, man,” I heard Yeti yell behind me, but it was too late.
    The edge of Carlos’s sneaker clipped the raised edge of the cracked blacktop.
    â€œWhat the —?” he blurted.
    I didn’t answer, just reached in and grabbed the ball as he tumbled sideways toward the fence. I turned fast, and for this weird moment, there were four sets of eyes staring right at me. Yeti and Ledge were facing forward, waiting to rebound in case Carlos missed. And Mike and Deuce were facing me, wanting to be ready for whatever it was I was planning. Now they knew what it was. They stepped in front of their guys, and I had clear sailing to the hoop.
    One dribble, two dribbles, pull up, pop! If the rim still had any net left on it, it would’ve swished. Now it was 6–5. We were still down by one, but we got the ball back.
    â€œYou got lucky with this broke-down court,” said Carlos.
    â€œAnd you got played,” I said.
    He gave me an ice-cold look. One of their empty bottles was wedged against the fence. He bent down and picked it up, then tossed it over the fence and out onto the grass. “Better call your dad,” he said.

    We stared hard at each other. He wanted to get under my skin, and that line definitely got him there. I knew I could expect some tough D this time around. I also knew that same trick wouldn’t work again. As it turned out, Deuce had one of his own.
    â€œWe need to tie this,” he said as Junior huddled us up for the next possession. “Let’s fake ’em out.”
    â€œHow?” said Mike.
    I was happy to let those two talk it out with Junior while I leaned over with my hands on my knees and got some oxygen back in my lungs.
    â€œPretend you’re hurt,” Deuce whispered to Mike.
    â€œI am hurt!” said Mike, pointing toward his elbow-bashed lower back.
    â€œRight,” said Deuce. “Then this should be easy for you!”
    â€œOh, I get it,” I said, raising my head up. “Like playing possum.”
    The light came on in Mike’s eyes. He got it, too. “I’m really hurting, guys,” he said. And this time, he said it loud enough for the other team to “overhear” it.
    The next play happened fast.
    Ledge checked the ball in to Deuce.
    Deuce passed the ball to me, and Carlos was on top of me in a second. There was about an inch between us, and he was slapping away at the ball, shouting in my ear, and generally being a pain in the neck. I moved the ball up the court slowly, shielding Carlos off with my body as best I could.
    I was getting closer to Mike and Yeti. But once Yeti saw how Mike was holding his back and almost doubled over, he started shading over to double-team me. Now I had even less space!
    Of course, I didn’t need much to loop a short pass over Yeti. Mike dropped the act and burst into the open. It caught everyone by surprise, not just the other team, but the crowd, too. No one had been surprised to see Mike hurting after absorbing all of those elbows, but they were all surprised now. Surprised and, in Yeti’s case, out of position.
    Mike