Otto Penzler - Murder At the Foul Line

As a high school senior, at seventeen, I was already six-six. My knees were coiled springs and injuries were catastrophes that happened to somebody else, somebody smaller and weaker. I was never tired in the last quarter. No, fatigue was what I felt after the party that followed the game, at six o’clock in the morning, with my equally spent girlfriend lying beside me.

I experience all of that again. Just as if I hadn’t thrown it away in a moment of rage. My body is sweat-slick. Sweat drips from my headband into my eyes. I’m completely alive in my flesh now. Flesh is the only reality I have. I measure time in the thump of the ball on the floor. I’m unstoppable.

The moron comes back at the start of the second quarter. By that time, the refs are letting us play again. Meanwhile, the moron backs off when he should be aggressive, then complains bitterly when I hand-check him in the post. I’m being triple-teamed now, the minute I touch the ball, and I’m passing out to Road Miller, who’s draining fifteen-foot jumpers, one after the other.

It’s all over by the middle of the third quarter. We’re up by twenty-two points and the crowd is on its feet, chanting Bub-BA, Bub-BA, Bub-BA . Warden Brook can barely contain himself. He’s dancing around, smacking his fist into his palm. Coach Poole is standing with both arms in the air. He’s shouting instructions, calling a play, but I can’t hear him as I sprint up the court. It doesn’t matter anyway, because Tiny steals the ball and we’re off and running. I’m the trailer on the play with Road coming up fast on the right. Tiny fakes a pass to Road, fakes a layup, then flips the ball over his left shoulder. I receive the pass at the head of the key, take a step to the foul line, then elevate. From a distance, I hear myself scream and I hear the screaming of the fans, a great roar only a half-step removed from utter madness. Then I’m coming down, slamming the ball through the hoop, slamming the palms of my hands into the rim. The backboard jerks forward, then back, then finally shatters, burying me in a sparkling wave of broken glass.

God , I love this game.

OTTO PENZLER owns the Mysterious Bookshop in New York City and founded the Mysterious Press and Otto Penzler Books. He has written and edited several books, including the Edgar ®Award-winning Encyclopedia of Mystery and Detection and the anthologies Murder Is My Racquet and Dangerous Women . He is also the series editor of the annual Best American Mystery Stories of the Year .