Rules For Becoming A Legend Part 20

Pedro smiled. Snapped his fingers. "Thats what Im talking about."

"Wanna do something?"

Pedro bit his lip. Then his face lit up. "Sure, follow me, sensei."

Jimmy and Pedro crawled into the s.p.a.ce below Pedros sagging house among the spiders and the mice. "Just wait, listen," Pedro said, snapping the lighter flame to the end of a twisted little joint. "Gonna be worth it."

They were right below Pedros older brothers room. He had his girlfriend over for a visit. They were going to get high and listen to them have s.e.x. It would be Jimmys first time smoking and he hoped there was as much alt.i.tude in it as everyone said. If he was quitting basketball, then what the h.e.l.l did he need his lungs for?

But the joint wouldnt light. And in the darkness under the house, Pedro mouthing all over that crooked little bit of lumpy paper, Jimmy felt like there were cold stones stacking in his stomach. The wait was getting to him. Here he was, about to smoke, and all he could think about was if anyone saw him now, his day would get even worse. He s.h.i.+fted side to side. Couldnt get comfortable. A spider bit his neck, he felt like they were all over him. Pedro cursed, mice squeaked, and Pedros brother was taking his sweet time sealing the deal. They heard them up there, laughing and talking. The air was getting heavy with the reek of lighter fluid. Then the image of them came to Jimmy in a flash. They were there just to hear someone f.u.c.k. Pathetic. He remembered Naomi on the bus. Her warm mouth. He climbed out of the crawl s.p.a.ce. Pedro came out after him, soggy joint stuck behind ear. They both blinked in the sun, knees dirty.

"Theyre about to do it," Pedro said. "Swear to G.o.d. You can hear the floorboards creaking and everything. Rose, shes screaming the whole time." Then he lit his lighter, held up the flame. "Plus, once I get this going . . ."

"And I bet its going to be the coolest thing ever."

Pedro blinked. "You dont have to be an a.s.shole."

"Im not going to sit around getting bit by spiders just to hear something. You ever even touched a girl, Pedro?"

Pedros face sluggishly registered hurt, and then anger. "Hey, you only got with Naomi like once cause you used to be somebody. And now. Now you a loser who cant even get off the bench."

Here it was, the chance to push back, and Jimmy sprung. "Yeah, well, f.u.c.k you, JV, you didnt even make the team."

"Cause I didnt want to, Jimmy Soft!" Pedro stepped up.

"Shut up, pendejos!" Pedros brother yelled from his room.

Jimmy took a swing, missed, and Pedro awkwardly palmed his face. Took off the thin scab above his eye. Dirty, brownish blood all over his palm. Jimmy was grabbing his s.h.i.+rt, trying to rip him to shreds. Everything, all of it, made him want to kill his best friend. Little red-eyed hyena. What had he ever done for Jimmy? Hadnt been there for him when he was stinking it up, had stopped coming to games entirely.

"Jimmy Kirkus," Mr. Berg said from the sidewalk. There the janitor stood, panting, still in his coveralls. Pedro and Jimmy let go of each other. Pedro dropped to the ground, looking for the lost joint, and Jimmy walked away. He brushed past Berg on the sidewalk, cut bleeding again. It leaked into his eye and he blinked furiously.

"Hey, you OK?" Berg called out after him, still out of breath. Old man must have been following him.

Jimmy didnt answer. What the h.e.l.l did Berg care? He should be punis.h.i.+ng his son instead of hounding him. Everyone should be doing something else besides hounding him. Blood stung his eye. The f.u.c.ks an eyebrow for if it doesnt keep the blood out? Everything was letting him down just as he was letting everyone around him down. He couldnt play ball, OK, but Pedro couldnt say the right thing, his pops couldnt stay sober, his mom couldnt be home, his grandpa couldnt be normal, and Berg couldnt mind his own business. Jimmy was the verse and the universe of the chorus in the same low-down blues song. No matter how he tried, he couldnt break the beat. He made it home and went straight into his room.

Rule 19. Let Their Imaginations Run.

Tuesday, January 22, 2008.

JIMMY KIRKUS, SIXTEEN YEARS OLD-THIRTY-SIX DAYS AFTER THE WALL.

All around town theres only one thing to talk about-the amazing Jimmy "Kamikaze" Kirkus.

You seen Kamikaze Kirkus lately? They say hes changed.

Well, blunt force to the head, thatll do it for ya. I mean have you seen the video? Not the one at Peter Pan, the other one. Of the, you know, the night it happened? I didnt mean to. It was in an e-mail. Just popped up. And brutal. If hes a little slow, then G.o.d bless him. After what that kids been through, to be a little slow in the head . . .

Ive seen him. Hes different on the court, sure. All the time sliding on the floor after every loose ball. Like hes trying to f.u.c.k it but doesnt know how, tell you what. Tough as nails, this kid.

But hes different besides that.

Hes quiet. He doesnt talk to no one but that Mexican stoner kid, and not even him much-which is good. Im not saying anything against Mexicans, but would it kill him to talk with some other kids once in a while? This is a tight community. We got to stick together. Jimmy doesnt get that. Acting like hes the only one in the world. Ignoring the good people who got him here.

It cant last. One thing about the Kirkus family: they cant handle pressure. Its that Kirkus Curse. Old man running around with a shopping cart and green helmet every time it gets tough. And then his son, Freight Train, being a boozehound and all-trying to run away from his poor, pregnant wife. The Kirkuses cant handle pressure, you ask me. Only a matter of time before Kamikaze snaps again . . .

My Matty says Kamikaze wont even sit with anyone on the team bus. He sits up front by himself. Hes always reading up there. He ignores Coach Kelly even. Its rude to ignore your coach like that. He wont say a word to the poor man. And the coach? He just takes it. Like its all OK. I just, its too much. I thought a kid from Columbia City would be raised better. What happened to manners? Either one of my boys behaved like that and Im telling you . . .

And I know theres a lot been said about Coach Kelly leaving him alone in the gym that night, but how was he supposed to know Jimmy was a nutcase? I used to drive him to games. I was out buying him shoes during the Shoeless Game. I never noticed he was crazy. Who runs himself into a brick wall? How could Coach have known . . .

They say he bled a lot. I guess Mr. Berg was up all night when it happened and he still couldnt get it all off. Scrubbed with every kind of chemical. Dont see how its possible. I say you put a little lemon and baking soda and, poof-but who listens to me?

I guess you can still see the stain, Jimmys stain, on the bricks. Every home game, I look, and sometimes I think I can see it too, but what with my eyes these days. Who can tell if what Im seeing is what Im seeing . . .

. . . a little lemon juice and baking soda, Im telling you . . .

Some dudes, swear to G.o.d, they touch those bricks before games when no ones around. I saw Brian Johnston do it. His brother too. Dont tell n.o.body I told you. Brian says it gives them luck to touch the bricks. Like some magic. Those blood-red bricks of Kamikaze Kirkus . . .

Did you hear? The kids are touching the bricks. Yes, those bricks. Before the games? I cant believe it. I mean, really. It has to stop. Its sick. Its like a cult or something. And after that security tape spreading. Its Masonistic, or whatever the word is. It has to stop, they dont know what theyre doing. I dont get it. If you ask me . . .

Well I for one could give a rats a.s.s what the kids are doing, theyre piling on the wins so fast. Bricks or devils hand-it dont matter. Oh boy the Fishermen are on a roll this year! Just try and stop us, just try.

The Kirkuss phone is ringing all the time. Strange men are seen around town, little BlackBerry earbuds glowing red, talking nonstop, eating Slim Jims from the 7-Eleven, chewing gum like it did something bad to a family member. These are the scouts, or the agents, or the college coaches all here to see this phenomenon, last name Kirkus. All trying to plant their flag in Kamikazes mind. He could be the kind of talent to transform a team, capture the wild imagination of a city, whip it into a froth.

There had been murmurs of this kid long before of course. And then murmurs of his downfall. They dont care. Or at least theyll tell Jimmy they dont. Scouting sports is a high-risk, high-reward proposition. You only have to get it right once in a while for the slot machine to light up, ring out, make the night, the season, the next four years.

For a whole season, basketball produces a certain brand of satisfaction for Jimmy Kirkus. Not the wild joy from when he made the Ninth Shot, or the Catch, or played in the Shoeless Game. Not the powerful abandon kind he felt while beating ten straight players at Peter Pan Courts in the Nine Games. It is more careful and calculated than that. Jimmy enjoys his basketball now because he knows hes doing it well, and he knows the freedom that doing it well will grant him. He leans into hard fouls, messy collisions, rough rebounds. And he wins. Convincingly. Nothing left to doubt. Even in 6A. Even against the best of the best. Jimmy Soft? No, you must be thinking of someone else. He comes home at night, mind free of the looping obsession he once had with the beautiful game: nit-picking his memory for times he could have done better, more, different. Instead, he watches TV, surfs the net, plays the Xbox his pops sprung for.

And of course, he calls Carla.

"Im writing you a poem," he says. Laughs.

"Oh, shut up." Carla doesnt know if hes joking or serious.

"Let me take you out."

"Ive heard bad things about you, Jimmy K." Since the Nine Games, Carla has moved up in rank among the group of girls she sought out for friends. She is a regular in their trips to DQ. Gossip over Blizzards, Diet c.o.kes. She likes talking with him on the phone, sure, but treats him in person, whenever they run into each other, like all of the others, cautiously and with a minimum of words, like if she spoke to him in person, the weight of her voice would be the straw that broke him. On the phone, though, theyre good.

"Oh that? No, see, everyones heard about that. Thats nothing."

"Im not talking about that." She giggles. He imagines her as she must be, cord tangled around a finger, toes pointed as she lies back on her bed. Pink. Stuffed animals. "I heard Naomi Smith used to give you"-here she drops into a whisper-"b.l.o.w. .j.o.bs on the bus."

"Oh, Jesus," Jimmy laughs. "That . . ."

Ultimately, Jimmy Kirkus hopes that finally becoming the best prep basketball player in the nation will free him from the terrible label of Potentially Great Player and deliver him into a new realm where he can be whoever the h.e.l.l he wants. Next year the Fishermen will play below, in 4A. People will asterisk any success by saying they arent going up against the best. Not this year though. Jimmys going up against a b.u.mper crop of transcendent Oregon talent-and coming out on top.

Jimmys pops and grandpops go to every home game his junior year. They never go inside the Brick House, though. Jimmy never lets them. They dont like it but they obey his wishes. Hes in the drivers seat these days. The two men sit outside in the parking lot, engine running when its too cold, while the rest of the town works itself into a tizzy inside the Brick House. They listen to the games on the radio. Keep tallies of Jimmys stats on notebook paper. Watch couples come out of the gym to steal kisses, old men to steal smokes. Sometimes they dont stop talking, other times they never start.

The Flying Finn complains. "After all I done for this kid . . . Is the one to buy the shoes and give the tips . . ." he says. "Who are we to listen to a kid anyway?"

"Just listen to the game and shut up, old man, youre banned from the Brick House anyway." This had come about long before. Something to do with a stuffed animal and pantyhose.

"I like to see them try and keep me out!"

But they are both smiling-happy that Jimmy is speaking up and happy that he is playing well. They are never allowed to make the drive to away games, so just being in the parking lot of the Brick House has juice. They can almost see the old, red gym flex with the energy from within. On especially dynamic plays, the rapturous cheers of the Fishermen Faithful can be heard all the way outside, competing with the tinny version playing over the vans speakers.

Sometimes, on his way into a game, Superintendent Berg will stop by Todds window, knock on it. Todd will roll it down, smell the exhaust, wave to frightened Mary, the old mans new wife, standing just over Bergs shoulder.

"Seems to me all the Fishermen need is Jimmy."

"Yeah, well, you never know."

After they leave the Flying Finn will use the same joke he always uses after these encounters. "Why dont you two just put the ring on and kiss the lips? You loves each other now."

"Dont be intolerant, you old goat."

What happened after Todd found out the ident.i.ty of who was behind The Missteps blog, and right around when Superintendent Berg, Princ.i.p.al McCarthy, and Coach Kelly were deciding if Jimmy should play, was he drove straight to the big, white house on the hill where Super Berg had moved after being promoted from princ.i.p.al to superintendent. Todd parked his squealing van at the bottom of the drive. He went to the back door and rapped three times. He noticed the shed door cracked open. He peeked the fancy riding mower inside. He wondered, Does Superintendent Berg mow his own gra.s.s?

The old, flabby man answered the door, but opened it no wider than the crack the security chain allowed. Through that small gap, wearing yellow-tinted John Lennon gla.s.ses for some reason, a desperate grab for youth through fas.h.i.+on Todd guessed, Super Berg spoke.

"Now Ive already called the cops, Todd, so dont do anything crazy," he said, the darkness of the big house behind him pairing with the outside daylight to create an odd glow in his eyes. "Ive only ever tried to be a father figure to you. Its more than most men would have done."

"You wrote that opinion piece back when? And now this blog too?"

Super Berg scoffed, didnt bother denying. "Todd, it was for your own good. How can you not see that? You really are egotistical."

"What do you know about Jimmy being able to play or not? Hes my boy."

Super Berg snorted. "Now, Todd, you really think Jimmy is ready to play again? Be under that pressure? His emotions are obviously too fragile. As a father, you should be thinking about this."

Todd laughed sadly. He looked at the chain keeping the door open just a crack, nothing more. He understood that this man, the father of his one-time best friend, actually thought that he could hurt him. It was beginning to seem funny, how far off this town was in their perception of him. Made him want to be violent, this expectation of violence. It was ironic, or some other college word. He coughed. Turned halfway away. Maybe he should just slam back into the f.u.c.king door. Shake the whole house, rip the security chain out, tear off the siding, and go around to each window, one by one, and punch out every pane. Of course hed been thinking about whether Jimmy was up to being on the court again. It sat perched at the top of a list of things keeping him up at night. Heres the thing, he didnt know what to do. His son wanted to play again, that was a fact, and for once he was going to listen to what his son wanted rather than do what he thought was best.

Todd turned back, hands clenching, unclenching, like his heart was his hands and they were pumping blood. "Well, even if he shouldnt play, thats for me and Jimmy to decide. Nothing to do with anyone else. Your blog brought everyone else into the conversation."

"No, Jimmy and the wall, Jimmy and the G.o.dd.a.m.n Nine Games did that. Heres whats the matter with you, Todd: When the attentions on in a good way, its just dandy, but when it comes around, you cant handle it. Look at you and James. You threw a fit when he finally took just a little bit of the spotlight."

"You think I took away from James?" Super Berg was pus.h.i.+ng it. Todds throat tightening up, but he didnt want to care. "I loved James, like a brother. Hes the only one kept me feeling like a person, you know? Hes the only one didnt treat me different." Todd took a step closer to the door. Super Berg flinched and the security chain snapped. "I couldve been drafted by the New Jersey Nets, you know? Make a million dollars. I didnt though. I was going to play ball for the University of Oregon Ducks. Bring James and Coach along." He laughs, sadly. "I didnt want to take anything from James. At least I dont think I did. I was just a kid. Remember? You didnt have to go and tell Coach Kelly on me. Could have just asked. Or told me. 'Get James the ball more so scouts can see, and I would have. I would have pa.s.sed up every shot so hed get his. Swear to G.o.d."

"Todd, I dont think this needs to be-"

Todd punched the door frame and Berg flinched again. From somewhere in the house a withered womans voice called, "Honey? Honey?"

Todd stepped back, rubbing his hand, already regretting that hed let even this little bit of violence seep out. "Im sorry, Mr. Berg, Im so sorry," he said. He turned away, walking back to his van. Hed messed this up too.

Then, a break. He heard Super Berg call out. "Todd, wait!"

Todd turned. He called up the driveway. "Ill be better to James. And you be better to Jimmy." He looked down, examining the knuckles of the fist hed just used to punch Super Bergs door frame, smiling. "You know on Jimmys birth certificate, it says James. Hes named James. I named him for my best friend. Because listen. Even though my whole basketball life ended that night, I didnt drive. I didnt crash, I didnt die, or worse yet kill someone. After losing Suzie, after knowing what thats like, I couldnt have lived with myself if Id driven that night and hurt someone. Ive been alive these years to meet my three beautiful children all because of James."

Todd got in that old van that vibrated so much while running it could burst at the seams. He knew hed gotten to Super Berg. Jimmy, his son, would be allowed to play. He peeled off.

Rule 20. When You Do Talk, Have Something to Say.

Summer, 2005.

JIMMY KIRKUS, FIFTEEN YEARS OLD-ONE YEAR AND FOUR MONTHS UNTIL THE WALL.

Being at home all day was simply unbearable. Jimmy couldnt be sure, as he hadnt talked with him since the fight with Pedro, but he was fairly certain Dex hated him. His little-big-brother acted like he didnt exist and every chance he got, he ran off with Pedro. Left a hole Jimmy was too proud to just point-blank ask about. Like You sided with him over me? Meanwhile, the Flying Finn spent June going on incessantly about calories, hydration, and training for his senior cycling circuit; his mom was always in the process of just leaving or just coming home; and his pops was increasingly becoming a drunk poltergeist banging around the house, always knocking something over in the next room, denying hed done it, shouting stupid things like "WELL SHOW THEM," an embarra.s.sment.

So Jimmy needed out. He needed to get out of the house, but away from the basketball courts. Couldnt be Jimmy Kirkus, didnt want to be Jimmy Soft. He saw a help-wanted ad in the Columbia City Standard. Phrases like "Must be able to lift forty pounds" and "Large amounts of lawn maintenance" appealed to him. He imagined himself with a bunch of guys, drinking pop after mowing fields. All of them laughing at some joke, the same joke, together, the setting summer sun alighting on their shoulders. Nudging each other with their elbows. Iconic. He applied for a job working the seasonal crew for the school district under Mr. Berg. Berg didnt even call him in for an interview. He was hired.

The reality of the work was a bit different from what hed imagined. Each morning he and a crew of middle-aged men and one college-aged guy home for the summer met Mr. Berg in a small room at the back of the high school to be a.s.signed their tasks for the day. While they waited for Berg to show up the old guys traded stories of hot girls. Who f.u.c.ked who where and how. Who saw who sucking who and when. Stuff that always started with "Hey, I probably shouldnt be saying this but," and ended with "And I was like d.a.m.n!" Jimmy started to tell his own story about Naomi once, but stopped halfway through when he noticed how quiet the room got. Wouldnt go on no matter how the men pressed. So they filled in the blanks for him and he felt disgusting. After that it was all elbows to the side and "Jimmy knows what Im saying." He was better than all these men. f.u.c.king go-nowhere townies.

Then Berg would come in and everyone stopped talking. He ticked off their tasks for the day. Weed-whacking, waxing the floors, moving furniture, replacing the high-up florescent bulbs using hydraulic lifts, and on and on. And then they were all out, split up into small teams. The crew worked so hard, Jimmy didnt have strength for much else-and thats exactly how he wanted it. Work all day just to come home and sleep.

He got home the same time each day, dirty and tired, smelling of cut gra.s.s and gasoline, and went into his bedroom to lay face down and sweat through long naps with his windows shut. Hed wake up hours later, starving, when the rest of the house was asleep or gone, and eat cold soup straight from the can in a dark kitchen. Alive just enough to be hungry. Mind for once not thinking about his disintegrating life, just pleasantly fuzzy with sleep. He enjoyed the animalness of it.

Still, no matter how hard he threw himself into work, there were some nights when he woke up for food and found himself giving in. He took his basketball, still scribbled all over with the names of his childhood idols, and walked down to Tapiola Courts to shoot under the weak light. It was surreal how he was pulled to the courts. Almost as if his body were a vehicle and he were only along for the ride. He wondered how, even when he was too tired for anything else, he could still do the dribble, dribble, shoot. He felt guilty about it and worried for some reason that he might be seen. With the wind coming in quick off the river to sweep the cement, hed s.h.i.+ver and look around. A vague fear singeing the edges. He was distrustful of Youngs River, only an outlet pa.s.s away, like at any moment it might rise up. Itd happened in the past. It would happen again. The blackness just past the edges of his peripheral vision suspect too. Sometimes he swore there was something scuttling close to the ground. A f.u.c.king sand toad. He could turn as quick as he wanted, and still see nothing.

And yet it was all worth it because on a few nights, alone, he was his old basketball self. Teeing off from all over the court, our kid Jimmy was vintage. A throwback to when everyone, including Jimmy, thought he was truly special. And it felt good. Good like his kid brother still adored him, like he still had his best friend, like roundball could still save and the haters didnt know what they were talking about. Then hed go home, sick and giddy with hope, only to fall asleep and wake back up in the world where he was still Jimmy Soft, still a basketball bust.

Then, alarm blaring, hed hump it to another day of work.

That summer, Pedro got a good weed connect from a guy he met online named Smokey Bear. He started hanging with some older kids, smoking cigarettes, chugging beer. Watch Star Wars with the rule that every time Luke whined, you had to shotgun a Miller. Drunk as a skunk before young Skywalker killed his first storm trooper. Wake up feeling sick with a need for life, spend an hour or two with his brothers box of girlie magazines in the downstairs bathroom. Finally come out for breakfast feeling weak and disgusting. Roll one up. Get high. Do up a couple more for the road, for his friends, meet with the new crew he played tagalong with. f.u.c.k Jimmy. f.u.c.k basketball. He wanted to get laid. Or get high. Mostly get laid while high.

Kids all around him had these stupid dreams. Stuff like wanting to be a music producer, a fas.h.i.+on designer, a business owner, but Pedro was the only one who knew the secret. All those people wanted those things so theyd have the money and time to chill out, relax, drink high-end scotch, and smoke tight, illegally imported cigars. He had a better idea. Hed just do it now. His dream was to have no dreams and unexpectedly, without Suns.h.i.+ne Jimmy and his ridiculous basketball hopes, he felt relaxed. Sad too, but he liked to linger on the relaxed part.