When We Were Young, Page 3

Sheila’s child.

  Now Benny…that was a different matter altogether. She had very little use for him, especially after he tried to hit on her repeatedly. It was obvious that his numerous attempts to seduce her were more about getting back at Sheila and me than any real feelings toward Annette. The one physical altercation Benny and I had happened one night when I chanced upon them in the parking lot at The Hutch Community Center. He’d been very close to forcing himself on her. After that, she barely acknowledged his presence. But she never, ever turned her back on Sheila, and she adored her children, including Mitchell, my son with Sheila.

  Those who had the perception of Annette as this weak-willed, mousy little pushover didn’t really know her. After her mother’s death, she’d basically raised her three younger siblings, even while she somehow remained an A student. And many a night she walked her alcoholic father home and put him to bed. I know, because more times than not, I helped her do it. Annette was a very strong woman, extremely secure in herself. Even secure in the knowledge that I loved her deeply and would never leave her, for Sheila or any other woman. Proof of her inner strength was demonstrated when, after 22 years of marriage, she divorced me, took the kids, and moved out. After obtaining her Master’s Degree in Urban Public Health, she went to work for the County of Los Angeles, and became a beacon of light and inspiration for everybody who came in contact with her.

  Man, am I ever going to be free of my thoughts, my memories?

  I’d been walking the streets almost aimlessly since leaving Francis’s house. Really, there was no need for me to plan or think; I knew the route to my destination quite well. In fact, I knew this entire area like I knew the back of my hand. It was, and since I was 15 had been, my stompin’ grounds. On 31st Street, where I was, I didn’t need to look up at the signs, nor pay attention to the houses. From Santa Fe Avenue, going east toward the freeway, all the streets were named in alphabetical order, from A to G. So, coming from where I was raised and currently lived, on 31st Street, that order was reversed. It went Gale, Fashion, Easy, Delta, Caspian, Baltic, Adriatic, and then Santa Fe.

  I had just passed Easy and was in the middle of the block approaching Delta, when an almost larger-than-life image of my older brother and childhood hero, Mitchell, flashed before my eyes. The apparition was life-like, and so profound that it knocked me off balance, breaking my stride. I stopped, blinked my eyes once, twice, three times before reassurance that it was only my imagination playing tricks on me surged through my being.

  Guilt, shame…when will it end?

  Knowing that I had no answer for the question, I mustered up my strength, put my feet into gear, and moved on. I crossed Delta and began making my way toward Caspian Street. After I’d walked a bit more than half a block, two things caught my attention at pretty much the same time. First, I noticed that the sun was out and the temperature had risen quite a lot. I was actually warm. Then, the sound of voices raised in excitement penetrated my ears. Again I staggered to a halt and began to scan the area. The source and nature of the noise I identified at once — the main outside basketball court at Silverado Park, where there was a game going on. Without any conscious thought on my part, my feet angled toward the park, drawn, as always, to the hoop court. But even a man with an overload of sadness, grief, and a heavy heart is not made of iron, nor is he immune to life’s realities. About halfway across the street I was reminded of that — and how!

  “Hey muthafucka, watch where ya going, God damn it. Are ya drunk or somethin?” I heard the man in the bright-red Ford F-250 pick-up yell at me, even before the sound of him braking and burning rubber, and screeching to avoid running me down, actually registered in my brain. After hearing both of these things, I came to a halt and stood stark still. And that’s when fear set in and I became alarmed as the acrid smell of burnt rubber wafted up into my nostrils. Suddenly, I really got scared.

  “Hey man, I’m in a hurry. Will ya just git outta da middle of the damned street, please? Are you okay there, brotherman, or what?” he asked, compassion and empathy becoming more apparent with each word.

  “Y-ye-yeah, yeah man, I’m all right. Scuze me, please,” I mumbled then quickstepped to the park side of 31st Street. The man immediately threw his truck into gear, we locked eyes, and he shook his head, probably in wonderment as he drove past me. I shook myself vigorously, trying to clear my head and calm my nerves. “Man, gots’ta be more careful,” I uttered to myself.

  Ching!

  Man, I’m really tripping. Maybe I should just head back to the house, do this shit later.

  Ching! That sound rang again. This was a sound that I was more than familiar with. It was the sweet sound of the chain basketball nets swishing as a jump shot found its mark. I not only knew the sound, but somewhere in the deep recesses of my being, that sound triggered the release of some type of endorphins. Happy ones.

  Ching!

  Ahh yes, all net, umph!

  Drawn by a power greater than myself, I homed in on the park. There were already too many spectators squeezed into the 100x45-foot caged-in area, which housed the rubber-matted, regulation basketball court, for me to gain entry. So, I did the next best thing. I hobbled all the way past the court to the hedges nearby, went around, and doubled back. I was now on the other side of the enclosed court, up against the fence, completely alone, a spectator of one. Added to that, I was close enough to actually see the sweat as it began popping out on the foreheads of a couple of players.

  That little secret passage had been there for many years and only those who spent a lot of time at Silverado Park even knew of its existence. Most people thought the hedges only stood as sentinels to the downstairs multipurpose area under the auditorium. Few knew that if you simply kept going beyond the concrete walkway to the beaten path and angled left, you’d end up back near the beginning of the hedges, which were visible from courtside. But I knew, as did all of us kids from Wardlow Road to Willow Street and beyond, from Santa Fe to the freeway, and even beyond that.

  When we were young, in winter or summer, all year round, Silverado Park was the place to be; a second home of sorts. We played all sports, representing the Silverado Blazers against all the other parks in the renowned Long Beach City Sports League Federation. Our adversaries were guys from Cherry Park, 19th Street Playground, and the East Side Rec Center, just to name a few. But growing up during my era, our main opponents were located further south on Santa Fe, at Admiral Kid Park. We always played them hardest, and they us.

  Once ensconced in my front-row spectator spot, I could see that one team of five had already lost and was walking toward the other end to settle up and/or wait for another run. When we played these games, lots of money changed hands, and I smiled inwardly because nothing much had changed. Those five — no, no, make it six — they all wore blue t-shirts, jerseys, or cut-off sweatshirts, so it was obvious that the five dudes in the gray shirts had beaten them and were waiting for a team of seven warming up on the far court to get ready. Those guys were all sporting red jerseys. There was a team decked out in yellow standing on the sidelines, and farther down I spotted five dudes sporting that very familiar black jersey with the one gray flash of lightning. My brother Mitch and Benny Calhoun had dubbed it “The Blazer Flash.” It was gratifying to see that it had stuck for all of these years.

  Okay, here we go, game time.

  The center jump was the first indication that this would be a game marked by the unexpected, filled with surprises. When the two teams lined up at center court, I was certain that the big center for the victorious gray team had an overwhelming advantage over the guy jumping for the red team. Not very hard to do when the latter guy topped out at some 6’3” at most. He looked biracial, a combination of Asian and black by all appearances.

  In contrast, the big brother for team gray was a monster. At 6’8” or even 6’9”, with a Charles Barkley backside, he would easily have fit in as an NFL offensive lineman, ’cause the dude had to weigh in at 320 pounds, o
r maybe more — a real brute.

  Right away the surprises began. The dude jumping for the red team got off the ground so fast that many, including the one official calling the game, were certain that he’d stolen the tip. But on the second toss, he easily controlled the rock, tapping it to one of his teammates. Something else that became obvious to me was the relative difference in ages, as well as sizes of the two squads. All seven of the red-shirted players were in their mid-to-late 30s, while the bigger guys in gray were all much younger, maybe by an average of nine to 10 years. Oh, what a move!

  The dude on the red team who’d run down the center tap drove the lane directly toward two gray-clad opposition players. They were standing inside the key with hands raised high in the air blocking the goal. One being about 6’4” and the other even taller, they presented a virtual wall, one that looked impenetrable. Well, this dude from team red caught up with the tap, drove, and with no hesitation took flight about two feet past the free-throw line and flew directly at the human wall blocking him from the rim. I think it was the timing and audacity that made the move so devastating. But at the moment of impact — or should I say, the moment of