Sunday Money by Maggie Hill

Author:Maggie Hill
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: She Writes Press

Rebound

John is supposed to get home on a cloudy, humid day after the Fourth of July weekend. I’m in the schoolyard, with one eye on our fire escape. My mother promised she’d put sneakers out there when he came home, so I’d know.

Nothing, and it’s already four. I’m dribbling the ball, protecting it from Tina, who’s trying to steal. We’re waiting for an open court. She’s still a better dribbler than I am, but she’s a hit-and-miss shooter. Plus, she’s a few inches shorter than I am. She’s all over the court, though, in a game, bursting around with the ball. I’m not so exciting. Bill Bradley’s not so exciting, either, and he averages fifteen points a game for the Knicks.

A court opens up and we pounce. Whoever throws the first ball in the basket wins. Up, easy, swish—I win.

Three girls from St. Saviour challenge us for the court. It’s me, Tina, and Diane. We’ve seen these girls a few times but never played against them. I’m about to go to Bishop, Tina’s about to go to All Saints, and Diane goes to St. Edmund. The other girls don’t know that we played for Holy Child, or that our whole life consists of playing basketball.

Diane takes the ball out, passes to me. I pass to Tina, who dribbles around the girl guarding her to fake a shot, and passes it to Diane. Diane is underneath, left side, completely free. Point.

Half-court game: I take it out, bounce vault it to Tina, who chest passes to Diane, who hands off to me as I’m coming back in from out of bounds. I dribble out two strides, draw the guard, dish it off to Diane, who is under the basket, right side, completely free. Bang.

When we’re stupid, we think our shot is the only answer. One of our exercises during official practice is to constantly pass the ball, looking for the open person. If we are without guards, have a beat to set up a shot, and are near the basket, then we’re allowed to take the shot. And it better go in. The coach always says we have to play smart. Eyes out for the open player. Hold back, measure up, break out. This game is designed to match up with how my brain works.

In twenty minutes, we kill them, 21–10. We’re not overjoyed; we’re relieved and happy to have had the practice. Then we start really practicing.

I’ve forgotten to look at the fire escape window, but I look now. John is standing on the high side of the Prospect Avenue fence, smiling at me. I start to run out of the schoolyard, but he raises his hand and indicates he’ll see me later. I don’t know what to do, so I just stand there. John starts walking up toward Prospect Park West, almost gone. He’s wearing a cutoff short-sleeve sweatshirt, tan pants, and sneakers. I look up toward the fire escape—nothing there. Even though I lost time during the game, I’m mad that she didn’t put the sneakers out there when John came home.

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