Rules For Becoming A Legend Part 9

Down along the docks, on Marine Drive, the Flying Finn pushed a shopping cart. This was deep into his first homeless period. He wore a green motorcycle helmet and Todds old, purple warm-up jacket. He had disappeared after Suzies funeral, wild with grief and the pressures of his failing restaurant. Now he was too dirty, too bearded, too ragged for most to recognize. It was a hard life he lived, but not an impossible one. Hed learned about a few warm places in town to sleep-a grate on the backside of Rivers Bakery that spewed warm, doughy air was especially nice-and he never got too hungry because it was understood that if he knocked on the back door of Fultanos Pizza hed get a medium cheese, no questions asked, and his son, Todd, would pay the bill.

Still, some days were better than others. A car full of high school kids out for lunch cruised past. They used his green helmet for target practice. All out of pennies, they threw quarters instead.

Clatter, clatter, plunk!

"You sons of dogs!" the Flying Finn shouted. "Female dogs!"

The car honked back happily.

All in all, $2.75 dropped to the street around him, and he sung as he collected the coins: "We will, we will, ROCK YOU!"

Coach Kelly was down in his health cla.s.s, thinking about what a bunch of b.u.ms he had going into next season. Diane, the sports reporter at the Columbia City Standard, was scheduled to call him in a few minutes to talk about the Fishermens chances in the upcoming season. What chances? What he wouldnt give for another player like Todd Kirkus. He would have literally, no exaggeration, given his kidney. Who needs two kidneys anyway? He went out to the hallway pop machine to buy a Pepsi before his students came. Instead of cola, out came a beer. A practical joke by some Van Eyck Pepsi deliverymen.

Ha ha, the jokes on them. It was just what Coach Kelly needed. He put in a few more coins, made sure that the next can out was Pepsi, and went back to his cla.s.sroom. He poured the beer into his empty coffee mug and then crumpled the can and buried it beneath papers in the wastebasket. He sat at his desk and sipped, waiting for the call.

Dianes first question was "We cant be too good next year, can we Coach? Tillamook and Scappoose look awful strong."

Coach Kelly blamed the beer for how he answered. "You know, before we got Freight Train Kirkus, we were terrible. One stroke of luck can turn the boat around."

The next day the newspaper ran an article with the headline Coach Kelly Waits on Next Star Player. Coach was furious.

"Thats not what I meant!" he shouted across the breakfast table.

"Then next time, be sure to say what you mean," his wife told him.

In his tiny house on Youngs River, James Berg and his wife were in exhausted reset after another fight. They hugged, weeping. He promised to find a better job, she promised to spend another week thinking about the letter shed just received. When they met in college neither of them pictured themselves living on the edge of a river, feeling always wet, getting by from paycheck to paycheck on what a custodian made. She had been an English major with dreams of going on to get her doctorate and that would never happen in Columbia City. Too small, too isolated, the cloud cover a suffocating cap, but that very afternoon a break in the gray-an acceptance letter from the University of Was.h.i.+ngtons graduate program.

"Do you mean it?" he asked.

"Yes, Ill think about it for another week," she said. "But you and David could come up to Seattle. A new start."

"I know, but David has his friends here and his grandfather and-"

"Todds here too."

Really, shed already made up her mind to go, they both knew that, but it felt good to pretend for a while that she hadnt. Not for himself but for David. A small flock of raindrops expired on their kitchen window, pushed fatally off course by a gust of wind.

"Oh, wow," she said, walking away, "its raining again, what a surprise."

David couldnt catch our kid Jimmy before the recess bell rang. After all, what sort of a legend would it be if he did? Jimmy went into cla.s.s, chest heaving joyfully, and he sat with the ball under his chair. Later, when Princ.i.p.al Berg called him into the office he said, "Bring the ball too."

The cla.s.s said, "Ooh, youre in trouble."

The teacher said, "Quiet now."

Pedro said, "Viva la revolucin."

Princ.i.p.al Berg sat Jimmy and David in his office. David was squeezing out sobs. Berg wondered again if it was a sin to hate your own grandchild. And if it was a sin, how bad? All his life hed struggled with the gap between how he knew he should feel and how he actually felt. He remembered his sons junior year, when Freight Train was still the hero, pus.h.i.+ng around opposing teams and sending shock waves into the bleachers and out into streets beyond. All of Columbia City had bobbed with it, acknowledged that, yes, this is US, this is OUR team. A feeling that had strangely been absent during and after the champions.h.i.+p game the following year when Todd was suspended for his troublesome drinking and James finally got the chance to be the hero. Why hadnt James been enough? He had found even himself missing the electric feeling of the first champions.h.i.+p season as his own son held up the trophy for the second. What kind of father did that make him?

Princ.i.p.al Berg made the boys wait, as was his usual strategy, and took a framed picture from off his desk. He turned to look out the window and down to the street below. Fog choked everything. It had rolled in shortly after the rain. From his office window it was easy to imagine the school as a s.h.i.+p and the fog the sea. The photo was of the Fishermen champions.h.i.+p team his sons junior year. He slid his thumbnail into the small crack between the gla.s.s and the wood frame, the boys watching him intently. He pulled up the gla.s.s and then the picture too. Behind it were yellowed newspaper clippings, two or three of them-letters to the editor he had written. They were thin and brittle and with one good breeze theyd be no more. He sighed and he could have sworn that he felt all of Columbia City sigh with him.

"Jimmy," Princ.i.p.al Berg said, "David tells me you stole his new basketball."

David stopped crying to watch how it would play out and Princ.i.p.al Berg took this the wrong way. Bratty little tattletale. He knew David had a hard home life with his mother and father always fighting, but why couldnt the kid have a spine?

"He threw it at my head when I wasnt looking," Jimmy said, solemn faced. "He threw it really hard," he added, softer.

"David?" Princ.i.p.al Berg asked.

With the attention turned to him so quickly, little David accidently answered with truth. "Yes, Pop-Pop, but its no fair cause-"

Princ.i.p.al Berg held up one finger to stop the red-faced Davids blubbering. Another thing that grated on him about his grandchild: the nickname Pop-Pop. Hed never chosen it, had never agreed, and yet David insisted. "So you tried to throw the basketball at Jimmys head?" He tsked under his breath. He knew David had been swindled, he just wished it had been the other way around. Jimmy was this quiet kid who seemed to only ever think about basketball-basically an idiot savant. How had he managed to trick David? Princ.i.p.al Berg could have restored justice, got Davids ball back for him, but he wanted to foster in the child a backbone. Some s.p.u.n.k. Perhaps this would make him try and get the ball back on his own, not always go running to the adults. He turned to Jimmy. "Wont you leave my grandson and me alone for a moment?"

So Jimmy left, basketball in hand.

Later, when James Berg heard the whole story, he dropped his spoon in his bowl of soup. "G.o.dd.a.m.n Kirkus," he said. He got up, intending to make a call, make things right, happy for the distraction from his suddenly wifeless household, but then paused. "Its just a ball, Davie. Well buy you a new one tomorrow. Now come on, eat your Campbells."

"No fair," said David. "I dont want another basketball. I hate basketball and I hate soup and I hate you." He ran up to his room, slammed the door.

James listened to the bang and then got up and dumped the rest of the soup down the drain. He called out for pizza that night. Pepperoni pizza might make telling David about his mother easier. The kid loved pepperoni pizza.

When Todd came home from a long s.h.i.+ft, his lip still hurting from the coffee burn, he looked in on his boys. There was Jimmy, curled around the basketball, sleeping the intense sleep of children. Wait, a basketball? Todd didnt know. He just didnt know. The house felt invaded, and somehow temporary. A wind could blow it down. The things you fear the most, and prepare for the best, are never solved or banished for good. They are in constant need of shoring up and will never be put completely to rest.

He went to bed and woke Genny Mori. Put his hands all over her. Rough, ready, somehow he persuaded her to have s.e.x. Shared this with her when he couldnt share anything else.

"Doctor," she said in her sleepiness and Todd didnt notice.

So Jimmy Kirkus had his basketball. It wouldnt leave his side for many years to come. No one could tell for sure how Jimmy knew to spin around at just the right moment before the ball hit him in the head. Kid was a natural, that was it. Had a sense. An intuition. The Force was strong in him. And on and on.

The Catch became a part of the Kirkus legend.

Rule 9. Blind Em.

Friday, December 21, 2007.

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

Jimmy leaves Peter Pan Market with the Boston Baked Beans and MoonPies for the Flying Finn crinkled in a paper bag, mind fizzy on Carla. Hes so distracted that he doesnt even consider going around the block, coming back to his grandpa the back way, avoiding those two hecklers, until hes halfway there and theyve already seen him. Turn now and h.e.l.l make it worse. The two Subway minions resume their teasing, "Howd you hit your head, huh Kamikaze?"

"This kid is in serious need of a straitjacket, right, D? The orderlies know youre out in public?"

Jimmy stops walking. Theres something crackling inside his body. A bigness he didnt know he had. "Shut up," he says.

He takes in the men. There are details he didnt notice before. Like one of them is older by a few years. And the younger one is punk for sure. Kid who normally wears black eyeliner, earrings, and leather with conical, metal studs. But he looks silly today because hes wearing the green and tan Subway uniform so the only way you can tell hes punk is from his black eye makeup and his stringy, black hair.

And suddenly Jimmy sees it. Its David Berg and the bigger guy is Ray. Ray Atto. Used to be a big shot on the team. Was a senior Jimmys freshman season. Hes gotten fatter since high school. Rounder. A certified townie. Find him down at Desdemonas the second his s.h.i.+ft ends. What an odd alliance. Just two years ago and a high school hotshot, Ray would have been shoving effeminate Goth David into lockers. Now here they were, teaming up to mock Jimmy.

"The f.u.c.k you say?" Ray says.

"Why arent you in school?" Jimmy asks David.

David shrugs. Giggles. "Work study."

"What the h.e.l.l you just say?" Ray persists.

Jimmy shakes his head. "Nothing." He keeps walking. Hes got Mr. Bergs eyes on his mind. First thing he saw coming out of the ether after banging the wall was a set of those Berg eyes. Hes surprised to see the same ones live in Davids head.

"Hey Kamikaze!" Ray shouts.

Jimmy doesnt turn around but he feels the ball hit him hard in the back of his head. Jolts his vision like the DVD skips. He halts. The contact with the basketball, the leather and air, it touches him deeply. Into his brain, down through his organs. Reaches within his sore head, finds the switch for pain, and then rips it from the wall. Forces him to take account of it. No wonder catch this time, no miracle.

"You want to play a game?" Ray taunts. "Old times sake and all that?"

Jimmy turns and picks up the ball. He can feel his energy run down through his hands and into the basketball. He spins it on a finger and warmth spreads throughout his hand, back up his arm. That newfound crackling bigness is in him again. It threatens to burst him at the seams. He cant understand this. When he was little, basketball was so easy Jimmys come to see that time as the setup for his fall. Life cant be easy, thats his new theory. But even when basketball was easy, it never felt like this. Hed always felt small, in deference to the game. Now here he is, big old spirit springing up. The game a thing to use. If its not this then itll be something else. And how strange, to feel bigger than a game that once seemed enormous. Still, hes got to play or h.e.l.l punch Ray or h.e.l.l scream like a lunatic. No, ball will be better. If it hurts, it hurts. Hes felt worse. Just put Ray in his place, thats all hes got to do. "Yeah, lets play, OK?"

"Hey look," Ray says, and walks up beside him. "Im a beat the once-upon-a-time Jimmy Kirkus." He lowers his voice, pretends its just between them. "Buckle up." For those with a life not going according to plan, a game against the once great Jimmy Kirkus-Jimmy Soft as hes been recently known-can cure all. So look how Ray elbows Jimmy in the ribs when he reaches for the ball. The air seeps out. It hurts, but Jimmy smiles for the license the pain gives him. Hes been knocked enough to do some knocking of his own. Finally.

"OK, lets play," Jimmy says again.

"Lets play, lets play!" Ray blubbers sarcastically. "That the only thing you can say since you hit your head, r.e.t.a.r.ded? Youre still Jimmy Soft." Ray thinks he knows the keys to beating Jimmy Kirkus, just like every other guy in the state. Knock him around a little and there goes his shot. Its common wisdom. Doesnt take much to rattle him.

Thing Ray doesnt know is that this isnt the same Jimmy anymore.

Of course Jimmy makes the shot to get the ball first. Kid can still shoot. Ray tents his hands before him, like all the kung fu movies hes seen on TV, and bows.

"This how they do it in your country, Kamikaze?" Giggling, like its the wittiest thing ever done, he looks back at David on the bench. "Shao Lin!" he shouts.

"Just check," Jimmy says, pa.s.ses him the ball.

Ray dribbles hard a few times, between the legs, behind the back. Skills are still there for sure. "You know, only thing good came from j.a.panese is pork fried rice."

"Thats Chinese, you d.i.c.k." Never has Jimmy wished violence on a person as much as he wishes it on Ray right now.

"Whatever, same thing. This is a favor, me playing you. I could get the Kirkus Curse rubbed off on me." Ray pa.s.ses Jimmy the ball. He had once worked at Van Eyck with his pops. Then he got fired for taking product home. Now hes stuck making sandwiches, minimum wage, at the Subway. Plastic gloves, would you like a drink with that? "Look, maybe with this head injury and all youll just sit the f.u.c.k out this season, jump back in it once were down in 4A, playing with the children. Thats more your speed. Dont have to embarra.s.s yourself."

Jimmy catches the ball and the game starts. Ray drapes himself over him, poking at the ball however he can, sc.r.a.ping with his sandwich-oiled fingernails. He rips another elbow to his gut. Jimmy absorbs the blow. Feels it push out all the air in his lungs. His head is rolling. He spits up a little. Bends over and brings the ball close to his hips. He feels the pain pulse out of his body, feels that crackling bigness inside him.

Look! Jimmys smiling to himself again. He brings the back of his head up sharply into Rays sternum. Ray grunts and steps back, surprised, Jimmy can tell. He isnt the same Freshman Jimmy who was thinner than a ghost and eager to please. Jimmy takes the s.p.a.ce opened up and drives hard for the hoop. Dunks neatly for the lead.

Ray cant help himself, says, "holy s.h.i.+t," at Kamikazes hops.

From then on, every point scored by Jimmy needs to go through Rays body. A layup past the point of his chin. A turn-around jumper with a knee-jab into his crotch. A runner with an elbow into the soft, fleshy part of Rays bicep.

Rays wheezing so hard that he steps back to call time-out and find his lungs. Soon hes doing it every time Jimmy scores. The Flying Finn comes out of the bushes with our man Jimmy up seven to zip. He finds the bag of MoonPies and Boston Baked Beans Jimmy left lying on the sidelines. Rips open the packages and chomps down greedily until theres thin, brown-red paste covering his lips and dribbling down his chin. Hes giggling and saying over and over again, Thanks, Jimmy; thanks, Jimmy; thanks.

And meanwhile, see, a strange thing is happening. The news that Carla ignited is spreading throughout town. From phone to phone it jumps. Text messages and voice mails. "Youll never guess." Kids in school are counting down the moments until the end of cla.s.s, coordinating rides, whispering routes. Adults are making sure theyre in the neighborhood so they can stop by and see. Peter Pan Courts are halfway to everywhere in Columbia City so it doesnt take long. Even before the game with Ray is half over, people are showing up. They come to see famous Kamikaze Kirkus breaking down, and instead they find some real round ball. The small lot for Peter Pan Market is completely jammed with cars. Theyre walking down to the court in small groups. Quiet, respectful still, but their chatter creates a rustling. Theyre mostly adults at first, like the mailman stopping mid-route, or gray-haired Officer Aight keeping peace and looking on from the hood of his car.

Ray holds up his hand for time, gathers himself, and in this action Jimmy remembers Ray exactly as he was in high school. The Great Ray Atto. He was all-league every year he played for the Fishermen. His face is so disguised in layers of the sweaty salami he sneaks into his fat mouth during his s.h.i.+fts at Subway that Jimmy didnt really see Ray as he used to see Ray until just now. That senior on the team when Jimmy was a freshman coming up. A used-to-be stud jealous over Jimmys flash.

"Wait," Ray says. "I got to get back to my s.h.i.+ft."

"Oh, come on, Ray," someone calls, "Let the kid finish you off."

"Finish me? I was just getting ready to-"

"Ready to what?" crows the Flying Finn, his Adams apple hard at work pus.h.i.+ng up words through that skinny neck. "Meaner basketball player Is never seen." The Flying Finns rounding into fine form, to the old shouting promoter he once was with Todd. "Kirkus blood runs hot and strong. Hot and strong. Sorry Ray Eat-Toe, you dont got chances in h.e.l.l." The Flying Finn runs around the court flapping his arms and growling though his teeth. Hopped up on MoonPies and Boston Baked Beans. Dangerous. Jimmy looks on, surprised to find hes not embarra.s.sed by the old eccentric like he used to be; this is his grandpa, this is his family. Stand up now, stand up together.

The crowd-cause now, see, theres enough people that its a legit crowd-laugh with the Flying Finn, jeer for Ray to play on, and vibe on the general energy.

Jimmy sees them all seeing him and its like a hug. An envelopment that pulls him tighter into himself, calms his flailing soul. He doesnt want to be soothed by it-f.u.c.k them-but he finds he cant help it. He hears them whispering to one another, feels that spark.

Look it here.

Whos that?

That Jimmy Kirkus?

Kid got big.

Head doesnt look as bad as they say.

Playing who? Ray Atto? No way. Just no way.

Moves pretty good, huh? Maybe h.e.l.l be ready to play this year. A real shot at 6A on the way out after all.

Look it. Look it now!

They laugh with and at Grandpa as he runs. Hes a local celebrity-the famous Flying Finn. Mouth going nonstop, one hand on the top of his green helmet and the other clutched in a fist at his side. He circles around and around the court. Big skinny dude like a blow-up man at a car lot. Air running right out the top of his head.