Sean Beaudoin - Welcome Thieves

“HEY BRO,” STEVE SAYS, walking out of the shop and leaning against the Nova. He holds out his hand to slap five. Washington and Poltroni and Xavier stand behind me, hands in pockets, silent with the usual awe.

“We’ll take an eighth,” I say.

Steve flashes his badass squint.

“That all? None of you superstars got jobs?”

Poltroni lets out a greedy laugh, until he realizes he’s the only one.

Steve pulls a Ziploc from his bib. “Well, don’t smoke it all at once.”

I give him two twenties. “Well, don’t spend it all on one dude.”

The guys stare at me in alarm, then back at my brother. Who looks like he’s about to stuff me into a grease barrel and roll it out into the bay.

“Drive careful,” he says, slow-jumpsuits back to work.

“What the mmm-hmmph that about?” Washington asks.

Xavier assesses the baggie with his thumbs, “ Nice .”

Poltroni eyeballs it, holding it up to the light, “ Nice.”

“Can we go now?” I ask.

ON FRIDAY WE’RE down a dozen at halftime. Winslow Homer Tech has a guy six-eleven and plays a tight zone. I’ve missed my first three shots. Makarov has his usual twenty-eight, but their big man is scoring over Washington at will.

In the locker room Coach is pissed, tears us a new ass.

“PLAY!”

We all nod.

“HARDER!”

In the hallway a scout leans against the wall wearing a forties newsman hat and expensive sneakers.

“Hey, kid,” he says, waves me over. I figure he wants to ask about Makarov, but instead he goes, “You’re a good little player. You thinking about college?”

“I guess.”

“You heard of Southern Community?”

“No.”

“Yeah, well, we’re a small program.” He opens a snack cake and drops the wrapper on the floor. “Downstate. I think maybe we could use a smart player like you.”

“For real?”

“Depends how bad you want it.”

Up until that second it didn’t seem possible, so I never bothered to want it at all.

“We talking scholarship?”

He clicks his stopwatch. On. Off. On. He licks his fingers. “Nah. You pay your own way first year, see what happens. You stick, maybe we have something to talk about over the summer.”

“And if I don’t stick?”

He shrugs, tongue dark with Ring Ding. “Worse comes to worse, you got a year’s worth of Algebra II under your belt.”

I could bus a million ribs and still not swing tuition.

“You’ll think of a way,” he says, reading my mind. “Smart kid like you.”

When I get back to the bench, Washington pulls me aside, “What that mmm-hmmpher want?”

“Guy thinks I got skills.”

Washington laughs. “No, really. What he want?”

MAKAROV GOES NUTS in the third quarter, dropping bombs from the wing, floating toward the rim, lefty, righty, backpedal, fade away. He’s unbelievable. The crowd’s in a frenzy, stomping feet, punching air. It’s like being inside a snare drum. Makarov steals the ball, goes between the legs. Makarov takes a pass, sinks a rainbow jumper. Makarov beats his man, two-handed facial.

The crowd starts a chant, “WHY POUT? WE’VE GOT GROUT!”

And then, “BOLTS! BOLTS! BOLTS! BOLTS! BOLTS!”

And then, “MA-KA-ROV! GETS-US-OFF!”

They go ahead, we go ahead. With four minutes left, Washington fouls out. We’re forced to put Xavier and a scrub on their big man. It’s like handing out free points. I make them pay with a runner in the lane. Their guy rams one down Xavier’s throat. Neither team can land the big punch.

“SCORE!” Coach yells.

There’s thirty seconds left and we’re down one. The crowd’s too hoarse to scream anymore, switches to a strange low-rumble moan. I dribble right, dribble left, holding for the last shot.

“HOLD FOR THE LAST SHOT!” Coach yells.

When Makarov finally breaks open, I’ll toss over the ball and watch him throw it in. Everyone in the place knows that’s the script. Even the Winslow Homer guys seem resigned. The freckly kid guarding me confirms it with his sad eyes.

Ten seconds.

Six.

I spin around Freckle, top of the key. Makarov comes off Xavier’s screen, wide open.

Four seconds.

I’m about to execute a perfect chest-pass when I spot Steve in the front row. The bleachers are packed, a thousand people standing as one. But Steve’s not standing. He’s leaning back, like a king. His face is pinched and greedy. His hair dangles and his boots gleam and there is no place, no box or hole or drawer in the world big enough to hide the fact that he’s staring at Makarov’s ass.

SO NOW WE’RE 16 — 1 and everybody’s pissed. Coach makes me do extra push-ups and Washington takes off after school, not asking do I want a ride. I have to hitchhike to Ribeye Rob’s, half an hour late.

“You’re late,” says the manager, pointing to his rated-for-300-meters dive watch. His tie pin is shaped like a diamond spatula.

“I know,” I say. “Sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t bus tables. Go police your section.”

I put on my apron and hit the floor. At least a dozen tables need setups. The salad bar could use a refill of everything but sprouts. There’s a waterless party of eight and a slick of spilled prawns by the register.

It takes about an hour, but I’m almost caught up when some old guy leans over his steak, “Way to go.”

“Excuse me?”

“A thirty footer? You?”

So, yeah, I didn’t pass the ball.

What I did instead was launch a thirty- two footer. Man, it felt good. High arc, perfect follow through. Spinning so slow I could see the air hole every time around.

Coach screamed, “NO!”

The crowd screamed, “NO!”

Even Makarov shelved the grin, his face blank, astonished. The entire gym inhaled as the ball nubbed back iron and spun around the rim, then let out a collective wuff as it rolled off and fell to the floor.

AT MIDNIGHT I toss trash into the Dumpster and empty rib bones into the grinder and scrape grease off my loafers with a paring knife. Georgie the cook is smoking a cigarette on the loading dock, all tattoos and grill burns, a big silver cross hanging around his neck. Georgie played some high school ball himself. I know that because three times a shift he says, Y’know, I played some high school ball myself.

“You effed up, dude.”

“You think?”

“Dude from thirty feet!” he says, in excited-announcer voice, “Dude decides he’s Allen effin Iverson!”

I pull up a milk crate and we puff together for a while. The lot is slightly melted and smells like dirty ketchup. You can hear crickets and birds and other things trying to live in the tall grass between the median. You can hear truck brakes whining and AM radios and the long satisfying whoosh of cars careening off the exit. It’s the opposite of Comedy Hour. There is no tunnel, no reveal. From darkness into more darkness.

“Don’t sweat it, dude,” Georgie says, and twists his cigarette, saving the short for later.

“Ready to punch out?” I ask.

He nods, points to a line of ants carrying rib fat through a crack in the wall.

“Now that’s teamwork.”

SO WE WIN our next two games, nothing special, ahead by 20 and the scrubs in at halftime. The ship rights itself. Coach starts letting me off with only a hundred push-ups and Washington’s giving me rides again, but something feels different. Like going through the motions. Like going through the motions backward.

Steve stops coming to games, won’t answer his phone.

Dad hasn’t come out of his room for a week.

Even Makarov isn’t smiling anymore. He’s missing easy shots, half-assing sprints, icing fake injuries.

I’m almost not surprised when he doesn’t show for Monday practice.