Starting Guard
Growing up, I learned early that it was a tough world and a man could be hard if he wanted to, the world rewarded it in fact. One day, in gym class I watched a much smaller boy soundly whip a bigger boy who was caught on his heels. We sat in our assigned gym spots, stricken. The teacher was only out of the gym for a minute, but it was enough time for this kid to beat him incessantly in the face and head, and then nonchalantly take his seat as if nothing had happened. And nobody said anything to the teacher about it either.
Basketball season had arrived and practice was hyped up that year. We had a new coach, a bit of a dick, but he was getting results. Night practices and girls who suddenly knew your name, there was a certain air to this time of year. You brought your gym shoes to the practice in a bag, never worn. Coach loved razzing everyone to keep them loose, which kinda tensed me up, but he grew on you a little too.
This was the year I finally had a shot at the starting position. It was going to be me against James, a good friend and ball player. James was smaller than I was, but quick and careful with the ball. He had an easy smile and we used to get pick up games at the park near his house. The rims were a little lower and we loved running games of dunk ball. Night and day we ran hoops together.
Our first scrimmage was to be against our younger rivals, the 7th graders. We walked into the gym confident but soon realized the 7th grade team was unexpectedly scrappy. They were making it more of game than we had anticipated. I wasn’t about to lose to our younger brethren, and I could tell this tall lanky kid Lucas was getting steals left and right, then beating us out in transition for easy buckets.
I finally had enough and on one breakaway, as we both screamed toward the rim. He came hard for the basket and I knew what I was going to do. With momentum going full throttle, I crashed him to the ground, playing the man more than the ball. He got up, incensed, but I was already walking off. My teammates rushed up and congratulated me. I knew I had fouled him dirty but it helped turn the game. Rattled, he missed the free throws and we went on to win after that. Close call.
We won our first 6 games of the 8th grade season and everyone was on a high. We were winning practice was fun. James and I shared a friendly rivalry, getting good minutes, and running point was simple business math. Get the ball safely up the floor, drive toward either elbow and pass to our bigs and let them go to work.
We had the best forwards and center in the city. Miguel was all beans and green chile and almost 200 pounds of it. Albie grew a beard in 8th grade, and could make mince meat of the opponent. Both played physical underneath. They were just sharks waiting for lunch. After that, the offense essentially ran itself and if your number was called, you took the shot, but mostly you let the bigs bang down low.
James and I were the best dribblers on the team. Trained to take the ball side to side, pivoting with the ball away from the defender and then working across to the other side and so make our way down the court. Never picking up the ball unless we were ready to pass. Like a well-oiled machine, we followed the plan and executed our steps.
Most teams attacked the guards because they knew about our big men. It was like pre-emptive war. Full court traps, end to end defensive harassment and hassle for the length of the court and start to finish. That was ok, though. It kept me and James sharp, on the edge, we thrived on the pressure.
Alameda was our arch rival and we were nervous in our first meeting with them. You could always count on a few rocks being thrown at the bus, and more than one ‘fuck you, puto white boys’ could be heard. This was primarily Spanish speaking territory and we were only a half Spanish speaking school.
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Their gym was always notoriously dark and the players big, physical, dirty. We didn’t make excuses and went toe to toe throughout the game. James was leading the ship and getting it down to Miguel and Albie for them to go to work. The Alameda guard drove hard and kick it out. Their big knocked it in.
James took the inbounds pass and ping ponged up the court carefully. Albie came up for the pass at the elbow, but it was too low and he fumbled it. Alamada went to their forward on the next play and he shouldered his way in for two.
“We got you puto white boys!”
Their adoring fans could be heard shouting at us in the raucous atmosphere as we made our way to the bus after the game. Coach let me know I’d be the starting guard at the next game. James would be coming off the bench. Nothing fancy he said. Just plain control is what he wanted. No spins, only pivots. Which angle to penetrate from and never pick up my dribble.
Once we started having success, coach stuck with me as starter. James wasn’t too happy about his bench role as time wore on. There was a new edge between us in practice that hadn’t been there before. When you’ve been friends first its harder to understand the coolness that follows. We sat apart from each other on the bench and only had brief terse encounters.
We kept winning and finally the championship final came around. We were 16–1 and we faced Alameda, the only opponent to defeat us, once again in the final. The game was going to be held in their dank pit of a gym and I was to be the starting guard in the championship game. It wasn’t a dream come true, it was the dream come true.
When we stepped down from the bus, the insults rolled over us like a wave.
“Puto white boys,”
“Chinga lay eye pendejos!”
It was frightening and invigorating, the intensity of the hatred we’d spawned. Their gym was packed and dark as ever. Local coaches, players, parents, girls, rando’s, you name it were there. The gym was packed to the gils and you could hear the roar when you came in from outside.
The game was tense from the moment it began. James and I alternated minutes evenly and we both brought our A games. We stayed in our roles, keeping possession being priority one. Made great passes to great scorers. We did our jobs and executed to precision. Miguel and Albie were a wrecking crew and we came out victorious. Metro champs!
The locker room was a mob scene, jubilant fans, beautiful cheerleeders like Tara Roybal knew your name and said hi to you. Coach came up and we shared a moment of excitement and glory. But right there with the glory was this queer empty feeling inside. James was nowhere to be found and I didn’t see much of James at the park after that.
