Shooter

Shooter

I woke with a splitting pain in my head, shivering from the cold. I could see the orange glow as the sun set through the trees. I saw T-bone feeding some fresh sticks into a barrel that was smoking in anticipation of the cold night ahead. I got up and walked over.

I nodded as I extended my hands to warm them. T-bone just sneered.

“You shouldn’t be here.” He said staring into the fire.

“Where should I be then?”

He had no answer and returned to breaking his sticks.

An older man I did not know joined us.

“Who’s the kid?” he asked T-bone, jerking a thumb at me.

“Nobody.” T-bone answered.

“I’m Greg, Greg Tummel,” I said extending my hand.

“No last names,” T-bone muttered without taking his eyes off the flames, “No names. No one here cares.”

T-bone was the only one here I even had a name for yet. I had been sleeping under the interstate for a week. I was still the new guy.

A month ago I had a cot and three meals a day. Of course that was inside the Middleton state penitentiary. I was beginning to think life on the outside was not all it was cracked up to be.

When I was released they gave me nearly a thousand dollars. It was for my work on the inside. That kept me in a motel for a while. I had found a liquor store and then a dealer. After three weeks of freedom I was broke and on the street.

The old man looked at me and tilted his head to the side.

“Tummel, yea, I remember you. You’re Greg Tummell, you used to play shooting guard for central high didn’t you?”

I smiled at the thought that someone would still remember me.

“Boy you had one hell of an outside shot. I remember you putt’n em up for three.”

“Three. . . Three. . . Three,” the old man said moving his hands like he was shooting a basketball.

He laughed with a deep throaty sound and shook his head at me.

“He he he, you sure ain’t king of the school no more, are ya boy?”

I stuck my hands in my pockets and stared at the fire. It wasn’t fun to remember anymore.

“Hey,” he said sticking his hand out, “Ain’t none of us who we used to be.”

I reluctantly took his hand and shook it.

“They call me Dirt. Bone here says it’s on account of me being older than dirt. You don’t remember me at all do ya?”

I looked him over carefully. He was old, but not ancient. He was a big man, taller than me and I stand 6’4”. He was bigger too, wide in the shoulder but even wider around the gut.

“No sir, sorry.” I said hoping that showing respect was the right way to go here. You had to learn quick who to respect and who not to. I figured Dirt was someone to respect.

“I used to work there, at Central high. You probably never noticed me sweeping up when you were a young turk.”

I looked again but saw nothing familiar.

“Sorry man.”

“It’s no big deal kid, nobody else did either. Hey you remember that Central-Northside game when you were a senior?”

I remembered. I just stuck my hands in my pockets and stared back at the fire while Dirt told the story.

“It was the second round of the state playoff tournament. The winner went to the quarter finals. We had played Northside twice that year split with them 1 and 1.”

Several other guys had now joined T-bone and were listening.

“It was back and forth for the first half, but towards the end Northside had opened up a lead. With less than a minute to go they were up by six.” Dirt was really getting in to it now moving his hands with every pass and shot as he told the story.

“We had the ball. Tummel here takes it across half court. They pass it around the box and then back to Tummell at the top of the key. BAMM! Three pointer.”

Northside brings the ball down court, down to about 30 seconds and they rush the lane. Back outside they put one up and we get the rebound. Tummel here drives the lane but dumps it off to that other kid, who was that other guard?”

“Jones, . . . the white kid” I offered.

“Right, Jones puts it up from about the line, an easy two and we had us a one point game with about 15 to go.” Dirt was rubbing his hands together now with a gleam of excitement in his eye as he went on.

“Northside brings it in, we press. About mid court this kid from Northside, he tosses this lobbing pass clear across the court. Tummel here grabs the ball in mid air. There is about 5 seconds left and he drives to the basket. There is just one Northside kid to beat and Tummel goes right over the top of him and slams the ball in with a two hand dunk right at buzzer. Man I tell you, it was something, the crowd goes wild, everyone is throwing stuff. You remember that kid?”

I kept quiet. The story was over and the crowd eventually wandered back to wherever they were before. Once it was just the three of us again I finally spoke up.

“You left out the end old man,” I said, no longer caring if Dirt was someone who deserved respect.

“Yea I know,” he said.

T-bone looked at me as I spit in the fire.

“Charging,” I finally explained. “Basket didn’t count, Northside ball.”

I looked in the fire again, lost in my own memories.

“Yea,” Dirt said with a smile as he remembered for himself, “But boy, let me tell you, that was one hell of a dunk!”

Word Count: 997