Wrong side of the court, p.11
Wrong Side of the Court, page 11
I’m winded. I need to increase my stamina. I see Coach making some notes. My stomach churns. He’s going to cut me, I know it.
I want to just pack up and leave, but I decide to stick it out.
We finish running the scrimmage game and Coach gathers us in a huddle.
“All right, I think I’ve seen all that I need to see,” he says, continuing to make notes on his clipboard, then looking up. “Boys, Northern hasn’t won a championship in eight years. I think this might be our time. No one wins games on fancy step-backs or crossovers. Games are won with fierce determination. That’s what I’ll be looking for when I make the cuts and post the list on Thursday.”
Gulp. Was Coach looking at me when he said those things about fancy this or that? Jeez. He’s the one who wanted me to try out in the first place. I shake my head. I should’ve never given it a shot.
* * *
…
I catch up with Arif and Nermin afterwards. They’re waiting for me outside the gym.
“So, how’d you do?” says Nermin, giving me a punch on the arm. She doesn’t know her own strength. It actually hurts, or I’m just really sore from practice.
I shrug. “I think he’s going to cut me.”
Arif puts his arm around me as I slump over. “Bro, c’mon, do you even know how sweet that jump shot of yours is?” he says. “Like, I get a hard-on watching you shoot.”
TMI. “Dude, that makes me never want to shoot a basketball ever again.”
“Whatever, I’d put my money on you,” he says, giving me a slap on the back.
“So, Arif was telling me there’s a girl you got your eyes on,” says Nermin, clutching the straps of her backpack. “Is it true?”
I can’t lie. Nermin has the ability to see right through me. I shrug. “It’s nothing, really. I don’t think it’s going to go anywhere.”
“Dude, c’mon. Do you really want to end up with Nusrat?” says Arif. I can’t tell if he’s joking or being serious.
“Not Nusrat again,” I say through my teeth. “I’ve already had a rough morning. Can we ease off that?”
“But tell me the truth,” he says, not backing off, and getting right up in my face. “Are you worried about your mom finding out? Cuz, bro, we’re all in that same boat.”
“A little, I guess,” I say, shrugging. “Jamila’s already dating and my mom wants me to be the good kid. The one who actually listens to her.”
“Yeah, but what do you want?” says Nermin.
I stop and stare at the floor. To be honest, no one has ever asked me that. What do I want?
I think for a second. I want to spend all my time playing basketball. I want a girlfriend like any normal fifteen-year-old. I want to be able to say no to some preordained cousin marriage. But mostly, I just want to move out of Regent Park.
“Earth to Fawad,” she says, again pretending to have a walkie-talkie in her hand. “Where do you just disappear off to?”
“Sorry, no one’s ever asked me that. What I want, I mean,” I say, feeling a little teary-eyed. I’m sad, but we’re in the middle of the hallway and I need to keep my shit together.
Nermin senses it and changes the subject. “Show me her photo, at least?”
I take out my phone and pull up Ashley’s Insta profile. Nermin gets close to get a better angle before grabbing the phone out of my hand.
“She’s hot,” says Nermin, scrolling through her feed.
“Yeah, I know,” I say.
“My boy’s got good taste,” says Arif, winking at me.
She hands me my phone back. “So, like, why haven’t you made a move?”
“Because she’s too hot.”
Nermin smacks her forehead. “Boys. Fawad, just ask her out. What’s the worst that could happen?”
I imagine Ashley laughing maniacally right after I ask. I can see her forehead growing horns, dark-red clouds swirling behind her, and a trident in her right hand.
Then she pierces my chest with the trident and roasts me on a huge tribal fire. She takes my well-cooked heart out, gives it a good look, and throws it to the wolves.
“You don’t understand,” I say.
Kate walks up to us and says, “Hey, guys.”
Nermin isn’t overly fond of her, from what I can tell. At least by the way she barely waves and avoids looking in Kate’s direction. I manage to get out a “Hey Kate,” with a bit of a fake smile. I go back to showing Nermin Ashley’s Insta.
Meanwhile, Arif starts play-wrestling with Kate with her back against a locker. It doesn’t take long before the two of them start making out. You’d think they’d have a little more self-control.
Adam, Paul, and some other jocks from the football team are walking by us. Adam does a double-take and walks over to Arif, tapping him on the shoulder.
“Hey, dipshit, that’s my sister,” he says.
Of course she is. Why wouldn’t Kate be related to the biggest douchebag in the school?
Arif turns to face him with a sly smile on his face. “Small world,” he says.
“Adam, seriously, I’m not in kindergarten,” says Kate, coming out from behind Arif.
Adam’s face tightens. “You stay out of this,” he says.
He shoves Arif against the lockers; Arif lunges right back at him. They’re at each other’s throats. Their bodies lock, and both of them try to free up an arm to take the first swing.
“C’mon, man, don’t be that guy,” says Paul, pulling Adam away and holding him back.
Adam struggles but finally frees himself from Paul’s grip. He straightens out his bomber jacket. “Just remember, he isn’t always going to be around to save your ass.”
“Fine by me,” says Arif, his chest out and shoulders back.
As Paul, Adam, and the other dudes walk away, I watch Arif regain his composure and pretend like nothing happened.
“We’ll see you guys around,” says Arif, grabbing Kate’s hand and walking off.
“So Arif’s going to get his ass kicked,” says Nermin, crossing her arms as we watch them round the corner.
“Yup. Pretty much.”
* * *
…
It’s Thursday morning and Mr. Singh is supposed to post the list outside his office today. I don’t want to get out of bed. I think I’m going to call in sick. Maybe get Arif to check for me and text me the bad news. It’s 7:30 a.m. when my door swings open and standing there is Jamila.
“Hey, loser, Mom’s asking why you haven’t gotten up yet,” she says.
I don’t respond. Instead, I pull the covers over my face, hoping she’ll go away. Of course, she doesn’t. She rips the duvet off my bed. I cling to a corner.
“Leave me alone. I’m sick.”
“Aww, poor baby, what’s wrong?”
Her sarcasm kills me. Why can’t we ever talk to each other like normal people?
“I told you, I’m sick,” I yell.
She lets go of the duvet and sits on the side of the bed. “No, seriously, what’s up?”
I don’t want to tell her, but I also don’t want to keep it bottled up inside. It takes a few seconds before I finally say, “I think I got cut from the basketball team.”
She looks at me like I’m a moron. “So what’s the big deal?”
I sit up and grab the basketball from the floor. It’s far more comforting than having this conversation. “I really wanted to make it,” I say, hugging the ball and slouching over it.
She scoots closer. “There’s always next year. You know that. Besides, it’s just basketball.”
I hate those three words. “It’s not just basketball. That’s like me telling you not to worry about your portfolio for getting into that animation program. That it’s just art.”
Her hand ruffles my hair. “Hey, sorry. Didn’t know it meant that much to you, that’s all. In that case, you’re going to make it. I just know it.”
I feel a little reassured. I want a hug but I can’t remember the last time we hugged. Definitely before Dad passed away.
She nudges me on the shoulder. “C’mon, Mom’s made stuffed aloo keema parathas. Your favorite.”
I lie back down. “Tell her I’m not hungry.”
“All right, spill the beans. You not wanting to eat aloo keema parathas is weird. That’s like Dad not eating a whole pot of biryani by himself, then asking if there’s more for the kids.”
I smile but my lips are stapled together. Biryani was definitely Dad’s favorite. Mom had to hide plates for us just so he wouldn’t eat it all.
I scoot back up into a sitting position and the two of us are just looking at each other.
She breaks out in a laugh. “It’s a girl, isn’t it?”
I nod and blurt out, “I just don’t know what to say to her.”
“At this point, start with anything.”
I giggle nervously. “What if she doesn’t respond?”
“That’s kind of a response too. Here, let me have a look. What does she look like?”
I show her Ashley’s Insta on my phone.
“Oh, she’s cute,” she says, taking one look. “But you’re a looker too. Have you checked the mirror lately? Puberty is doing you some good.”
I’m stunned by the compliment. Can’t remember the last time I heard one from her.
“Just say something funny,” she says, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Then once you have her laughing, ask her out. The worst thing that can happen is she says no. But at least you won’t be sitting here wondering.”
Damn. Sage wisdom.
She gives me a hard smack on the back. “All right, get up now. Mom’s not going to let you skip school over basketball or a girl.”
“Gotta go to law school,” we say in unison, mimicking Mom, and crack up laughing.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Anytime. Well, that’s a lie. Sometimes. Whenever I’m in the mood. Holler.”
“Wait,” I say, just as she’s about to get up.
“What now?”
“This whole Nusrat thing,” I say. “Mom’s not serious, is she?”
“Even if she is, what does it matter?” she says. “You know no one can force you to make that decision.”
“Thanks, Jamila,” I say. Something inside me really needed to hear that.
“Now hurry and get up,” she says.
I nod, jump out of bed, rush to the washroom, and quickly shower and get dressed. Mom’s already left for work by the time I’m chowing down on the parathas. They’re still so good cold.
To be honest, I’m not enticed by weed, cigarettes, or even booze. I’m straight-up addicted to these bad boys. Nom nom.
* * *
…
I make it to school a few minutes late to first period. I’m 110 percent sure I didn’t make the team. I still go to the gym and check the list posted on the board outside Mr. Singh’s office anyway.
The usual suspects are there: Luke Feldman, Scott Feldman, Andrew McQuillen, Spencer Denvers, Isiah Abebe. A few names later, I see Fawad Chaudhry. Wait, that’s me.
Oh my God. Oh my God. I made the team. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh.
The halls are empty. I’m pumping my fist like I’ve won some Olympic medal or some shit. I can’t wait to tell Arif. I can’t wait to tell Nermin. And I know Yousuf’s going to be over the moon for me. Oh man. I can’t wait…to warm the bench. But who cares? At least I made the team. I just gotta level up my game. That’s right: I got a secret plan hatching in my head right now. Poor little Andrew McQuillen won’t know what’s coming for him. Fawad Chaudhry is going to show him what he’s made of.
I’m doing a crossover with a make-believe ball. Then I do a spin move. I attempt a jump shot aiming at the garbage can and I hear nothing but swish. I’ve got my arms in the air the way Curry does when he’s loving the energy from the crowd.
Then I realize that the halls aren’t as empty as I thought they were. Fuck.
Ashley, of all people? Agh. I’m so embarrassed. I want to go back home, crawl back into bed, and never come out again.
My face feels hot and my hands start sweating. I see she sees me. I see her too, and I wave. She walks toward me. Where the hell is Arif when you need him? I’m going down.
“Hey, what was all that about?” she says, binder clutched in front of her chest.
“Uh, I, uh…made the team.”
“Ohhhhhhh,” she says. I wish time would freeze, so I could watch her lips make that ohhh sound forever. “Congrats!”
“Thanks,” I say as I rub the back of my head like I got lice or some shit. I should stop that ASAP. I straighten up, trying to get my limbs to cooperate, but I’m like jelly.
“Wanna walk me to class?”
“Uh, sure.” Then, out of nowhere, I blurt out, “You should come out to a game. I mean, I won’t be starting. If you like basketball, that is. I know not everyone does. Like, my mom doesn’t like it at all.”
Did I forget how to form sentences? What am I blabbering on about? Why am I not dead yet? Can someone hear me up there? Hello? Dad?
Ashley’s blushing. She flicks her hair back. “Sure, I’d be up for that. I’m on the volleyball team. We’re already mid-season. My mom doesn’t like it either, but my dad’s a huge sports buff, so yeah. If you want to come to a game. Thought I’d just mention it.”
She’s actually blushing? And did she just say what I think she said?
I think I’m nodding my head way too many times.
“Uh, yeah, I’d love to. I’ll be in the bleachers next game.”
“This is me,” she says, pointing at the classroom door we’re standing outside. “See ya.”
I wave as she opens the door, turns around, smiles, and closes the door behind her. I press my forehead to the wall beside her classroom. I made the ball team and Ashley wants to see me play and she invited me out to a game. I mean, it’s not a date, but it’s something. I’m not dreaming, but I pinch myself just to make sure.
11
If I am going to have a shot at getting playing time or proving myself to Mr. Singh, I am going to need a secret weapon—and mine is Coach Jerome.
Hailing from Regent Park, originally an immigrant from Jamaica, he got himself an NCAA scholarship to a Division II school as a small forward. He was poised to enter the NBA draft when he got hurt trying to dunk over a seven-foot dude.
Luckily, he finished his undergrad degree. With his hoop dreams slashed, he moved back to Toronto, got his teaching degree, and has been teaching elementary classes at Lord Dufferin and coaching basketball ever since.
Kids in his class still don’t believe him when he tells them that he’s from Regent. I know I didn’t. First day of class, he got up there and said, “Welcome, everyone. My name’s Jerome. Some of you may want to call me Mr. Williams, but friends don’t call friends by their last names or use titles like Mr. or Miss. I grew up right here in this very neighborhood…”
Gasps. Then laughter. One kid said, “No, you didn’t…you’re a teacher.”
Jerome also helps kids he thinks have a shot at the big league with some private coaching. It’s a competitive market with all these training camps and whatnot, so he’s always been hell-bent on trying to level the playing field.
I head to the fancy-ass new community center in Regent after school. Crazy how I don’t get that same I’m-going-to-get-the-shit-beaten-out-of-me feeling walking down there now that the new condos are up.
When I enter the center, I spot Alicia at the front desk. We’re cool. Like, one time she closed the gym a few minutes late because I really wanted to practice my jump shot. I don’t think she’d do that for a lot of other kids.
“Hey, Alicia, is Mr. Williams…I mean, is Jerome in?”
“You know it. He’d sleep here if he could,” she says. “He’s in the gym with Kingsley.”
I rush in. Kingsley’s got a weighted vest on. He’s running up and down the court with sweat pouring out of him. He’s shirtless, and underneath the vest his muscles are literally bulging in and out. Straight-up beast mode.
My eyes zoom in on his new sneakers, the KD 11 iDs. They’re pretty sweet. Then I see Jerome sitting on the bench with a whistle around his neck. He’s yelling at Kingsley to pick up the pace. I’m getting dizzy just watching him maneuver around the pylons set up on the court.
“Well, well, look at who we got here,” says Jerome, getting up from the bench. He blows his whistle and tells Kingsley to take a breather. He meets me halfway with a big smile on his face.
Kingsley reaches the other end of the court and crashes. He hits the pads on the walls with his back and slides down into a sitting position, savoring the break and leaving a huge sweat patch behind him.
Jerome puts his right hand on my shoulder, and man, is it heavy. He gives it a squeeze and shakes me like he can’t believe I’m standing in front of him.
“Hey, Jerome,” I say, waving at him. “I got some good news. Guess who made the school team?”
“C’mon, I knew you were going to make the team. You starting?”
“Uh, not exactly.”
“That’s a yes or no type of question, Fawad. You know better than that.”
“Okay, in that case, no. I got beat out by this white kid,” I say. “Think he went to some fancy ball camp over the summer or some shit.”
“Some fancy ball camp, eh? Also, how many times do I have to tell you not to judge people by the color of their skin? You’re doing it to them, they’re doing it to you. What’s Mahatma Gandhi say?”
“ ‘An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.’ ” It’s hard not to be a quotes encyclopedia after taking a class with him. “You’re right.”
“I think you’ve got almost everything, but you’re missing one key ingredient.”
