Wrong side of the court, p.12
Wrong Side of the Court, page 12
“I know, I’m scrawny. But I got a plan for that. Starting tomorrow, I’m going to have four eggs instead of the regular two. Mom already knows. We even bought extra groceries.”
“No,” he says, smacking his forehead. “I’m talking about this right here.”
He taps the left side of my chest with his index finger.
“Pecs? But I’ve been doing push-ups, Coach. Honest.”
“Heart, Fawad. When you came here this past summer wanting to play on my squad, you were already making the same excuses.”
“I was?”
“Not tall enough. Not strong enough. Probably thinking you weren’t Black enough. Now, not rich enough or white enough to go to some fancy camp. You were training with me all summer. You think I worked you guys any less? It’s the same when you were in my class—never believing in yourself. You’re going to need a little bit more heart when you get out into the real world. And you gotta stop assuming things about people. This is about more than basketball, you realize that?”
I shake my head and feel my stomach drop like a brick.
“Most importantly, you gotta learn to stop making excuses. You gotta learn to do whatever it takes to get the job done. Make sense?”
I nod. The only problem is, what if I don’t have the “whatever it takes” part? How do I get that?
“That’s kinda why I came, actually,” I say. “I was wondering if you could train me. You know, like King over there?”
“You mean Kingsley?” he says, bursting into a loud laugh that echoes throughout the gym.
Right. Kingsley, not King.
“Hey, Kingsley. Fawad here is volunteering to put himself through hell. Any words of advice for him?”
“Don’t do it, kid,” yells Kingsley, still panting and wagging his finger.
“C’mon, Jerome. I swear I’ll do whatever it takes.”
He looks me up and down. “All right, you got five minutes to get changed and get to baseline for suicides. We’ll start there. But hold up one sec…How’s Yousuf doing? I heard about his brother.”
“Oh yeah. To be honest, I don’t think he’s doing that great. He’s been in his room for the last month, paranoid, and smoking way too much weed, which probably isn’t making the paranoia any better. I threw a rock at his window and he was telling me how that had him shook. Reminded him of the bullets outside his home…”
“I think it’d be good for him to talk to someone. Has he been seeing a counselor?”
“Don’t think so. But I think that would do him some real good right about now.”
“Listen, I’ve got a friend at SickKids Centre for Community Mental Health. They’ve got free services for kids dealing with grief. He should go talk to someone there.”
“SickKids? Like the hospital?”
“Yeah, they have ads up everywhere.”
“Is it safe? Like, to talk about stuff with people there?”
“That’s what they’re there for. It’s confidential. He doesn’t have to worry about anything leaking to the police or nothing.”
“And he just talks to a counselor?”
“It’s more than talking, Fawad—it’s therapy. Losing a brother to gang violence isn’t something you can just walk away from like nothing happened. He’s angry, scared, and God knows what else. It’s important to sit with someone to work all of that out.”
“You’re right. Okay, I’ll pass that on.”
“Oh, and I had a kid in my class watching that video you posted of him. He’s good with that guitar.”
“Right? I think so too.”
“Tell you what. I’m organizing a conference for young men in a few weeks called Dream Big, where I invite some of my friends to come mentor and give talks. I’ve got a couple of slots open for performances. He should play. And you and Arif need to come out too. I got athletes, lawyers, musicians, CEOs…all brown and Black men coming in to talk.”
“He’s really shy, but if I tell him you want him to perform, I’m sure he’d be down.”
Jerome checks the time on his watch. “All right, now. Shall we?”
He blows his whistle and sets a timer on his phone. Oh shit, he meant like now now. I grab my gear out of the duffel bag, whip my shoes off, put on my shorts and sneakers, and make it just in time.
I’m beat after one suicide. On top of that, I’m starved without my usual post-school snack, but I push through it. After suicides, Jerome continues putting me through the wringer.
“Can you guard this Andrew kid?” he says, hands on his hips, sizing me up.
“Sort of,” I say, panting and bent over, clutching my knees.
“Fawad, what did I tell you about yes or no questions?”
I stand up straight and look him in the eyes. “No, my footwork is terrible.”
He whistles and motions Kingsley over. At six foot seven, he’s a bit intimidating.
“Eh yo, I know you, dude. From the championship game, right?”
He holds out his fist to dab me. I’m still trying not to let my jaw drop over the fact that he remembers me.
“So, here’s what we’re going to do now,” says Jerome, sticking the basketball in Kingsley’s hands. “Fawad here is going to play defense and try to stop you from getting a bucket. Every time you score, he’s going to give us fifteen push-ups. Got it?”
Me play defense on Kingsley? He could step over me en route to the rim. This is going to hurt.
“Sure, I can do that,” I say, shaking but trying to be nonchalant.
On our first go-round, I get low and up close to Kingsley. Got my hands up. I’m feeling my inner Kawhi take over. Call me “The Claw,” baby. I can’t wait to swipe the ball and show them what I’m made of.
I don’t even blink and Kingsley throws the ball between my legs, catches it behind me, and dunks it with ease. I didn’t know humans could move that fast or jump that high. This is going to be a long afternoon.
Jerome blows his whistle from the bench. “That’s fifteen. Hurry up.”
I’m straining at fourteen but do the last on my knees, hoping Jerome doesn’t mind.
The next possession, I ease off Kingsley so I can stay with him if he chooses to drive. He just pulls up for a jump shot. Nothing but net. Another fifteen. Fuck. My. Life.
This continues until it’s 11–0. I realize that my defense is shit.
“All right, that’s good for now,” says Jerome. “Kingsley, finish up with a hundred free throws. And you, Fawad…I want to see you in here twice a week after school. Deal?”
I’m still on the floor, unable to get up from my last set of fifteen. The best I can do is stick out my arm and do a thumbs-up.
This sends both Jerome and Kingsley into a fit of laughter. I roll to my side and start getting myself up as slowly as possible. My arms are pulsating with pain. I’m ready to pass out.
I drink, like, a whole tank of water afterwards. Once I’ve changed into my regular clothes, I drag my feet back up to North Regent. I’m starving and thinking about what Mom might be cooking.
She’d said she needed to cook the eggplant in the fridge before it went bad. The only thing is, Jamila and I, and even Dad when he was around, hate eggplant. We have a theory that she cooks it to torture us. There’s gotta be worse things, I guess. But seriously, who likes eggplant?
* * *
…
Even though I am tired as fuck, I take my ball out of my duffel bag and dribble it all the way back to my apartment building, thinking about all the homework that’s been creeping up on me. On top of that, Arif’s been begging me to walk him through a math assignment.
When my basketball is in my hands, I feel like I’m on top of the world, like there’s no amount of things I can’t juggle. Rotating it and getting a feel for the grip. Dribbling it and doing a fake in one direction only to cross over and go the other way. It feels so good. I also love shooting it to practice my follow-through, using street signs as nets.
I do that with a stop sign at the corner of Parliament and Dundas. After the ball ricochets, I catch it just in time before it hits a parked car—that’s definitely happened before.
I look at the mural on the back of my building, opposite the parking lot, as I dribble the ball on the faces of the kids painted in black-and-white. I head up the steps to use the back entrance.
My stomach is growling. Yup, I’m starved. Please, God, don’t let it be eggplant. Anything but eggplant. Maybe it’ll be minced chicken kababs.
The back door is painted green, just like the balconies, with the building number and street name on it. It’s hefty, and to the left is the keyhole to open it. The fob doesn’t work here.
I can’t see through the little glass panel on account of it being so old and scratched up. I unlock the door and pull it open, but then I stop dead in my tracks.
Sitting on the steps going to the second floor are Omar, Johnny, and Steven. A few steps higher is a girl I don’t know. They’re passing around a blunt. I see Omar’s eyes narrow in on me.
If I dash now, he won’t let me live it down. If I push through, there will be trouble for sure. I swallow my spit, straighten up my posture, and walk in as if they’re not even there.
“Ha, if it ain’t Fuckwad,” says Omar, getting up from the step and staring me down. My breath quickens and I can feel my heart palpitating. This is a bad idea. I turn to slip back out the door, but Omar dashes over and pulls it shut.
He’s only a few inches away from me now and he stinks of weed. I push against the door, but his grip is stronger. I turn to shove him back and he pins me to the door. His elbow is against my windpipe and his bloodshot eyes look at me crazily.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“I’m just headed home,” I say, struggling to breathe. “I live here.”
He loosens his hold. I gasp and try to reorient myself.
“All right,” he says. “I could be okay with that, but first, give me that ball of yours.”
Fuck him. Over my dead body. “Nah, c’mon, man. It’s not like you ain’t got one. Just let me go already.”
“Yeah, but I ain’t got that one,” he says, trying to snatch it from me. I put up a fight and hold on for as long as I can. From the corner of my eye, I catch Johnny and Steven getting up. It’s a losing battle.
“Don’t be dumb, Fuckwad,” says Johnny, getting closer.
“C’mon, be dumb. I ain’t seen shit go down in a minute,” says Steven. His eyes are glazed. He’s definitely high as a kite.
“Leave the kid alone,” says the girl.
“You stay out of this,” yells Omar.
After trying everything in my power to not give up the ball, I finally lose it—Omar snatches it out of my hands.
“I like it already,” he says, spinning it on his index finger. “Now run along before you piss your pants.”
I want to go down fighting, but something inside me tells me to swallow my pride. That it’s not worth it. Not like this.
I keep my gaze low and dash toward the door on the other side of the hall. Johnny trips me and I nearly go flying. I regain my balance and listen to them chuckle.
What about any of this is funny? You’d have to be sick in the head to find this amusing. I reach out for the door handle.
“Hey, Fuckwad,” says Omar, doing a hard dribble.
Before I can turn, he’s whipped the ball, and it hits me on the back of my head. My forehead crashes into the door. Fuck. More laughter. More taunting.
Everything is spinning and I feel my head ache. I finally grab the door handle, swing it open, and run down the hallway to my apartment, just wanting to tune them out.
I hear Omar yell “pussy” before I’m finally at my door. Still can’t cry. Mom would probably call the cops. Then they’d really never let me live it down. Hell, they’d probably do worse shit to me next time around.
I take a deep breath in, wipe a tear away, and grip my fists as tight as I can. I’m bigger than this, I tell myself. It’s the least I can do. I just gotta play it cool for the first two minutes, rush to the washroom, turn on the tap, and then I’ll be clear to cry.
I open the door. Luckily, Mom’s still in the kitchen. “Fawad, is that you?” she says.
“Yeah, Ammi. I’ve gotta go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”
I kick off my shoes, throw my duffel bag in my room, and dash to the washroom. Jamila steps out of it as I near the door.
I can’t even right now. I try not to make eye contact and wish I could disappear. Be invisible. Dead even. I’d take that.
She stares at me, places her hands on my shoulders, and says, “Fawad, what’s wrong?”
I break. I can’t be strong anymore. I cry.
Omar’s face and laugh continue to haunt me. I feel weak. Powerless. A piece of shit that just got shat on.
Jamila’s arms are around me, then she leads me to sit down. My mom rushes over, and I tell them what happened. I don’t want them to go out there or call the cops.
“Who are these boys?” Mom asks.
“Forget it, Ammi, trust me. Just leave it. It won’t help,” I say, sobbing.
“This is bullshit,” says Jamila.
My mom has a broom in her hands, waves it like a club, and is ready to give those boys a beating. It makes me crack a slight smile as I blow my nose and wipe my eyes.
I make them swear not to get involved. Then I go to my room. I crawl into bed and curl up underneath my covers. Jamila turns the light off and shuts the door.
My body is convulsing. I want to strangle Omar and rip his head off so he can never bother me again. I hate him. I hate Regent.
I hate that we’re poor and have no choice but to live here. If we didn’t live here, I wouldn’t have to worry about which entrance to go through just to come home. I hate that Dad just left us here. I hate Dad. A lot.
Fuck everything. It’s all pointless and rotten. If Abshir was around, Omar would never have had the nerve.
I want to message Arif, but I know he’d escalate it, maybe even get Nazmul involved. I’ve had enough trouble for the day.
When I wake up, I realize I still haven’t eaten anything. My stomach is in knots from hunger. I walk into the kitchen and check out what Mom made. I just go with it, because even eggplant can taste okay on days like this.
12
Omar snatching my ball replays through my mind way too many times for me to get any semblance of a good night’s sleep. I wake up feeling like my entire face is puffy. Mom and Jamila let me sleep in, so I’m running late for first period. I drag my feet out the door, remembering how I ran across the hallway yesterday with my tail between my legs. Oh well, not the first time, and if I’m being real, probably not the last time either. On top of that, the workout with Jerome makes it hard to move and not feel pain.
Fatima’s waiting at the streetcar stop when I get there. She’s wearing her usual black abaya. We both hop on the streetcar together. She goes to George Brown College for their Early Childhood Education program—wants to run her own daycare one day.
“Salaam, Fatima,” I say. The two of us manage to find seats side by side. That’s the one benefit of leaving a bit later: avoiding the early morning rush. Most students don’t even take off their backpacks, so they end up using twice the space they should. It’s nice to be able to have leg room.
“Everything okay? You look tired,” she says.
I feel like anytime someone says that you look “tired,” that’s just polite for “terrible,” but I nod and recount the episode with Omar. She’s cool—another older sis like Jamila who’s seen it all, and probably heard it all too.
“I’m sorry to hear about your ball. I know how much it must mean to you,” she says.
I try not to say too much more because I remember she’s friends with Omar’s older sister, Yasmin. Last thing I want Omar thinking is I snitched.
Jerome’s words from yesterday come to mind, and I realize if there’s anyone Yousuf might listen to about getting help, it’d be Fatima (and definitely not me).
“Has Yousuf gone back to school?”
“Not yet. Inshallah, soon. He’s been playing his guitar more. I told my parents to let him be for a little longer.”
“I was thinking…Jerome told me about how SickKids has a mental health center, and they have counselors who might be able to help Yousuf work through—what did he call it?—his grief.”
“Oh, I didn’t think about that,” she says. “Therapy is expensive. Do you know much they charge?”
“I think he said it was free.”
“Maybe it would be good to look into that for him. Might be just what he needs. You’re a good friend, Fawad. I’m really grateful that he has you and Arif.”
I blush. “I really hope he agrees to it. Can’t wait to start dragging him out for basketball again.”
Fatima laughs. “Some selfish motives, but yes. Jazakallah, I’ll do my best to get him an appointment, even if I have to go with him. This is my stop. Salaam.”
“Oh, I’m getting off too.”
We reach College subway station and we take opposite trains. All of a sudden, the day feels like it’s gotten better. Sure, I’m out a basketball, but it feels like I might be closer to getting a friend back. Fingers crossed.
Right before reaching school, I text Yousuf about Jerome praising his singing, and how he wants him to perform at the Dream Big conference. He’s always looked up to him, so it’s a good way to start seeding the idea.
* * *
…
After school, I drag Arif with me to Ashley’s volleyball game. It honestly didn’t take a lot of convincing. Girls wearing high-cut shorts, jumping around…I don’t even think I have to finish my sentence. Nermin’s got soccer practice, but we’ve got a few minutes beforehand where we’re just hanging by our lockers.
