Everything That Dunks Must Converge by Bryan Harvey

7/28/2019 Everything That Dunks Must Converge by Bryan Harvey

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Everything that dunksmust converge

by Bryan Harvey

Deck ght Press, 2011


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Acknowledgements:

I would like to thank my dad who put a hoop up in the driveway, all mycoaches who made me run windsprints, the players for being them-selves, and the sports writers who taught me that an athlete israrely, if ever, just an athlete. -- Bryan Harvey

Credits: Mike Pullum for the cover artMike Langston for the photos

Rights go to bryan harvey & deck ght presswww.deck ghtpress.tumblr.com

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs3.0 Unported License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://cre-ativecommons.org/ licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 171Second Street, Suite300, San Francisco, California, 94105, USA.

Visit:www.deck ghtpress.tumblr.comwww.lawnchairboys.blogspot.comthefastertimes.com/basketball


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Table ofContents

Isiah Thomas, The unrepetant.

Dwight Howard, The Dog Walker.

Rajon Rondo, The Astronaut.

Blake Grif n, The Magician.

Hakeem, The Butcher.

Bill and Kareem, The Chess Game.

Danny Granger, The Hustler.

Amare Stoudemire, The Cab Driver.


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Isiah ThomasThe Unrepetant.

This is not the place for the weak-minded guy, regardless of your talent.

--Isiah Thomas


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The stars lined up like notes in a funeral hymn as the shroud of night

sagged over everything, for even it knew the depths to which one of its fa- vorite sons had fallen, and you could see him through the yellow square of his window, sitting at a desk, writing a letter, his lips peeled back like cur-tains to reveal the electric icker of his smile. His hand moved deliberately,like some great boulder rested on top of the ball point pen, and droplets of sweat beaded up on his forehead, like he was a stick of nitroglycerin, andstill he smiled, to stop now would be an admission of defeat.

Dear Stephon,

I remember when we rst met. I gave you my name--Isiah--and you

responded,Call me Isiah, thinking I was named after some great American protagonist, that I was some lone survivor of a whale at-tack. Im not. I wasnt. My names not Ishmael. Im not even innocent.

I wanted to build something, and I would have done anything to do it.Maybe I did do anything. Its true that I buried Allan Houston up tohis knees in concrete and tossed him in a river. The water swallowedhis screams. I still wake up with nightmares from the night whenPatrick Ewings blood ran out of his throat like sweat. There were somany bodies: Penny Hardaway, Vin Baker, Antonio McDyess, youngTrevor Ariza, Malik Rose, a tattooed Matt Barnes, Steve Francis, Eddy Currys heart, Jared Jeffries, Renaldo Balkman. . . there are so many names, Stephon.


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The night we killed Jamal Crawford I ordered it done because hissmile looked like mine. Im not sure when I became so vain. Zach

Randolph squeeled like a pig as he bled out. David Lee wasnt evengiven a chance to speak. I have trouble sleeping at night--its like the whole city is poking me. I can feel their ngers stabbing me like ice.

Do you still want your ashes scattered on these New York streets? Isometimes feel like mine already are. It snowed the other day, andI swear it felt like my own esh was falling out of the sky. Little kidsstuck out their tongues and caught my mistakes on them. They didnteven seem to care, too young to know what I even did to them. Its theold ones, the fathers and the grandparents, that become dif cult toface, to ever win over again.

Spike Lee came to see me the other day. Do you remember him? Healways wore glasses. I think theyre magical, because the whole con- versation I thought he was staring right at my heart--I could feel itshaking in my chest. He told me he dreamed of a day when WillisReed would become young again and come walking out of a dark tun-nel like some freight train and ran me over. He told me I ran this city like some African dictator, like Mugabe, who starved the peasantry and raped the women. He told me he was ashamed, that my actions washed this city in dirty oil. I told him he didnt understand that I dideverything out of love, that I am love.

Do you ever feel lonely, Stephon? I do. Now that my moneys running


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out--I dont have shit. I had to pawn my rings. Im down to one suit.Most of my friends are gone. Jimmy Dolan only calls sometimes, andI think Donnies put a bounty on my head. Theyre coming for me,

and I dont know what to do. I dont even know why Im writing thisto you. You were always such a horrible friend.

Sincerely,

Isiah Thomas

After signing his name, Isiah put the pen down and folded the letter intothirds, before sliding it into an envelope. Then he emptied out the contentsof his wallet: a drivers license; a few business cards, with bent edges; some

string; and a grimy twenty dollar bill. He stood up and walked over to the bed, where he lifted the mattress and pulled out a roll of cash. He took therubber band off of it and started counting the amount on the desk. He hadtwo thousand, plus the twenty from his wallet. Two thousand and twenty dollars. He owed twenty thousand, and he had owed it for quite some time.Donnie Walsh was not going to wait forever; at some point, he would come

for blood and Isiah knew he didnt have any friends left to defend him or to borrow from. He was a dead man.

He looked around the room, but there was nothing left to pawn. The walls were bare. The bed and the desk were the only furniture left, and the few dishes that he owned were dirty and stacked in the sink. He paced back andforth, his heels clicking on the wood oorboards where a Chinese rug used


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to be. He went to the sink and lifted a fork out of it. Flakes of food werecrusted to it, and he could see his re ection smiling back at him in the sil- ver metal. He wanted to know why he couldnt stop smiling, even as men

were probably driving across the city now--at this very moment--just to killhim. He hated his smile. It had always made him such a charmer, but heknew now, in the bottom of his heart, the only person left for him to charm was the devil. He was going to Hell. A man cant be responsible for so much blood and not go to Hell, at least thats what Isiah had learned in Catholicschool.

He returned to the desk, and divided the money into two piles, one smallerthan the other. He put the small one containing one hundred dollars in his wallet, and left the other stack in the middle of the desk, over a water stain.On a notepad, he wrote: Heres about two thousand. I hope this buys mesome time. I know you need more. He then went to the telephone andcalled a cab.

Yeah, just have a driver pick me up on the Bridge, he instructed, and anaccented voice answered back, frustrated with the request.

I know its a weird request, but just do it. And I want to be driven as farsouth as your cabs are allowed to go. The accent argued that this wouldnt be very far, but Isiah responded, I dont care how far it is. However far isfar enough. He slammed the phone down on the desk and collected him-self.

When he turned around, a man, in a black wide-brimmed hat and alligatorshoes, was sitting in his chair, heavy as a rabbi.


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You think you can run, Isiah? asked the stranger. Where can you go that we cant nd you? Where can you go that we havent already been? Were

everywhere in this city. In fact, most people dont think we ever left.

Who are you? asked Isiah, his voice shaking with fright.

Cmon, man, you know who I am, said the man from under his black hat, while leaning the chair back on two legs. Cause theres no one else I could be. Im too cool to be anybody else.

A chill came over Isiah, and he lashed out at the chair with his foot, hurtlingit across the wood oor. When it came to rest against the wall, the man had vanished. Isiah froze, and then sprinted out of the apartment; whispers of familiar voices lling his head. And as Isiah rushed out of the slums lobby and into the street, he thought he saw a black hat glide over the concrete, but he convinced himself it was only a cat and started sprinting towards theBrooklyn Bridge.

The cold night air jolted Isiahs burgeoning paranoia into full throttle. In

the re ections of shop windows and the windshields of cars, he saw his pastshatter like stained glass. His idea of who he was--his reality--was break-ing. As he ran by a liquor store, he thought he saw a pale mustached mandressed in green hurl a heavy brick at him, and he dove onto the hard sidewalk to avoid the brick striking his skull, causing his knees to bleed onto histattered pants. In an oil slick rainbow, he imagined a purple and gold seamonster rising up from the curb to swallow him and he tripped, striking his jaw on the concrete. He got up again and ran on, limping and staggering,


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huf ng and puf ng. A red car almost hit him at an intersection, and at rst,Isiah believed it was a man in a red suit ying by him, on the road to Godknows where. Isiah faltered on, continuing to stumble and stagger, until he

came to the bridge.

The world was full of ghosts and hallucinations that only he could see. Helooked around him. Other people were smiling and holding hands. A wom-an was feeding dog biscuits to her dog, letting it lick her hands and wag itstail. A kid rode by on his bike, trying to make it home, back to his parents

safely, and Isiah stood with ripped clothes and a busted jaw, knees bleed-ing, his brain screaming at his lips to frown for once in his crazy, messedup life. He couldnt see the world how they did. Life was not normal; it wasupside down. He was a somebody, who had somehow done nobody things.He gathered himself and stepped out onto the bridge, with the sky pressingon his shoulders.

Isiah, man, I cant let you pass, the man from his apartment was now standing in his way. You know that, dont you? That you cant just leave.

Isiah looked at the ground and the mans alligator shoes, then back up at

the man and his wide-brimmed hat. Im leaving this behind me. Im morethan this city. I did great things in Detroit and Indiana. Im the best at whatI do.

Youre shit at what you do, and you know it.

Youre not even real! yelled Isiah. Im passing through.


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Youre not doin shit, said the hat.

Get out of my way! Isiah stepped forward, and the man took off his hat,

revealing an afro and thick sideburns. Isiah hesitated, and the man threw his hat at him. Isiah expected it to pass right through him, but it hit hischest and landed in his hands. He could feel its very real dimensions inhis bare hands. Isiah dropped the hat and sprinted towards the side of the bridge, where he climbed up onto the railing and balanced himself.

Are you sure thats what you want to do? asked the man on the bridge.Die here and this city will never let you go in peace. Never.

Who else will have me? Isiah was looking over his shoulder, away fromthe river.

No one. Youre--

The voice was overcome by the sound of a cars engine and a honking horn.Isiah twisted his neck back towards the bridge to see it better. The man inthe hat evaporated in the white of the cars headlights, and while shuf ing

his feet on the cold metal rail, Isiah slipped. And as he plummeted towardsthe dark, slippery ribbon of the Hudson, he heard nothing but the screech-ing of rubber tires and the crash of metal running into a stone barrier that wouldnt budge. And then he felt nothing but the icy water as it engulfed hisheartbeat and froze his veins. When they shed out his body and took it tothe morgue, he was still smiling.


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DwightHowardThe Dog

Walker.


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To the Saturday morning coffee sipper, who happened to peek overthe horizon of his or her newspaper, Dwight Howards body roselike a great wooden mast, and the leashes that ran out from his

hands resembled the knots and grids of a ships riggings, as he sailedthrough the crosswalk.

He was in full command of his eet. He was the captain of his ship,leading the dogs from one sidewalk to another, making the wholeordeal appear as orderly and artistic as a canine version of Abbey Road.

As Dwight and his omegas reached the double yellow line, a bright redcar with ames emblazoned on the side sped through the intersection,ignoring the red light, demonstrating a complete disregard for basictraf c laws, sending the dogs into wild disarray.

Barks ew out of their throats like ying sh opping awkwardly in

the air. They leapt like waves into the sides of Dwights legs, rocking


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his lifeboat-sized quadriceps, as if they were in choppy waters. Theirhowling eyes darted from side to side, lost at sea and surrounded by jagged ns circling in the current. The dogs ran this way andthat. Lines tangled, and Dwight found himself tied down in theroad; Andromeda waiting for the Kraken to breach. He needed more balance, better footwork, quicker re exes, a third arm, but he didnthave any of those things that a captain needs. The ships wheel spun

out of control, and he feared all was lost.

As the light turned green, Dwight scuttled over the curb like a wounded crab, his dogs clinging to him like the frail legs of acrustacean, their fur speckled in oily dirt. He wondered if he could

get them back to their owners, scrubbed clean and not barking.He began to undo the maze of leashes and noticed the grimy stainthat now sat in the middle of his Bill Cosby sweater. Walking dogs was supposed to be easy, even fun. A ruined holiday sweater andgrooming costs for a dozen dogs were not Dwights idea of fun. Infact, these things gave him stress. He looked down the road andshook an angry st at the red car that brought him such pain, whoselicense plate read CHSN-ONE, only, to the people around him,Dwights st appeared comical, and they laughed from behind their

newspapers, sipping coffee, critiquing things they have never done.


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Rajon RondoThe Astronaut.


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The night before he was scheduled to go to the moon Rajon Rondo dreamedhe was sharpening knives outside a carnival tent. After he nished shaping

each blade, he would polish it with a blue and white basketball jersey, as adream catcher swayed over his head like a nylon net underneath an orangerim.

Blades of grass bent over in submission to the wind that whistled through

the fairgrounds like the sharp shrill of sprints inside a gymnasium, reducingthemselves in height to the call of an unseen coach. Rondo did not bend. Hedid not even hear the whistle. He did not lay down before it, or go sprintingtowards the horizon to stay in front of it, but icked the knife he was polishinginto the ground, where it stood de antly, against the wind, like a steel blade

of grass, or a rocket returning from space, like a spear into the oceans womb.Everything for Rondo was about the sea. He was probably the rst astronaut who planned on braving the dangers of outer space in order to fall into theoceans open arms.

Some people might nd it strange that a young man about to venture outinto the brink of human experience would spend the night before--his eyes


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twitching rapidly underneath their lids--dreaming of knives and oceans.Some might nd it strange he even slept at all, knowing the next morning a bad wire here or the wrong spark there could transmute his pilots chair inside

the shuttle into a kindling throne on top of a funeral pyre, but there was aperfectly good explanation for how Rondos mind sharpened its unconsciousthoughts. It wanted to kill the past that it heard in critical whispers of whatRondo could and could not do. Rondo could not think of the past withoutfeeling a wave of sorrow crash over his head like he was nothing, and he was

now determined to prove every voice that echoed in his memory wrong by stabbing it with a smile and a list of his accomplishments, that would sooninclude piloting a spacecraft to the moon.

When Rondo was young, one of his elementary school teachers showed

his class a lm strip made up of Jacques Cousteaus deep sea photography.Most of the images were bright and colorful; barrier reefs exploding likeunderwater reworks. The teacher asked the class to write a story about oneof the pictures, so Rondo started brainstorming, because, as all elementary students learn, ideas are born out of thunder and lightning crashing inside

ones head.

The clouds in Rondos head opened up a country, like Atlantis, that wassubmerged underwater but wasnt supposed to be. According to Rondosimaginary storm, this city was supposed to be up in the sky for all to see, so

the people gathered up all the reworks they could nd and strapped them tothe buildings and then they sat on the rooftops and lit the fuses with sparks


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from the click of a crabs claw, blasting the city towards the surface, intothe light. The reefs and underwater plants are whats left of those blast off explosions that Rondo believed painted the ocean oor.

When Rondo got his story back from his teacher, he read the followingquestion, in red ink:

How can a spark happen underwater?

Rondo was crushed, but only two tears rolled down his cheek, leaving anocean of salt water to submerge the city of his heart that lay drowning behindhis eyelids.

When morning came, Rondo opened his eyes and found himself lying inthe middle of his bedroom oor, and the dream catcher that usually hungabove the headboard was in pieces on the hardwood. In his hand was a knife;strands of rainbow yarn clinging to it like eyelashes.

The last few months had been like this for Rondo: days full of what felt likelast second preparations and restless nights wrestling with secret doubts.Rondo knew the respective resumes of the rest of his space shuttles crew,and he knew his. He knew his was shorter, more mysterious, and lled withless detail. Captain Kevin Garnett and Lieutenant Paul Pierce reminded himof it everyday: Youngin you better not fuck this up. Weve waited our whole


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lives for the moon, so you better not fuck this up. We dont care if you were born yesterday. You better pilot that ship like it was on roller skates.

Rondo understood the pressure he was under--it was these guys last chanceat Neil Armstrong-like glory--but he cringed at the subtle jabs that took aimat his youth and inexperience. He was good enough, maybe better than goodenough, and he just needed a chance to prove it. Plus, he hadnt been skatingin well over a year, at least not since being assigned as the shuttles pilot. He

was focused and taking the job seriously. He was logging more hours in thesimulator than any of them, leaving the highly secure con nes of the trainingfacility under the eyes of night shift janitors and empty parking lots. He waspreparing himself for the ultimate success.

Rondo could feel his phone vibrating from the night stand. He put the knifedown and read the text message he had just received from KG: Get yourscrotum out of its pjs. Its go time, Kid.

Rondo went to the bathroom: pissed, scrubbed his face, and brushed his

teeth. Then he put on a pair of dress pants, a button down shirt, and a pair of shoes. He felt like a kid getting ready for Sunday School. He wanted to look mature, impressive even. He turned sideways in the mirror, Theyre right, Iam skinny as hell.

As the crews doctors and scientists ran last second tests, the dressingarea was silent. KG was getting his blood pressure taken; Rondo had often


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wondered if this man, who was carved like an Easter Island statue, even hada heartbeat or if his chest was a ticking time bomb. Pierce was gritting histeeth as his temperature was being taken. He looked like he was fuming,

and Rondo wondered if the thermometer might explode. When the doctorpronounced that Pierces temperature was a cool ninety- ve degrees, the veteran astronaut began pounding his chest with his st. The lead doctor,Rivers, came over to him and put a hand on his rocky knuckles, Calm down,Paul. Calm down.

Calm down? This is supposed to be exciting. Do you know how many peoplehave failed to do this? If you cant get amped about this, then what can youget excited about?

Rondo agreed, but he wasnt sure if he had Pierces con dence. He could feelhimself sweating. The space suit was incredibly hot.

Wipe your forehead, man, Ray handed him a handkerchief. You cant letthese guys see you sweating. Were all nervous, but you cant let us see it.

Mask it. Bark, yell, pound your chest, but dont look weak. You understand?

Yeah.

Were gonna intimidate the moon into submission. Thats how this works.

Rondo wiped his brow and tucked the handkerchief into his space suit. When


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he looked down at his ngertips, he could see threads of the dream catcherclinging to his ngerprints that spiraled inward like tiny galaxies. Who washe kidding? He was ready.

Alright, gentlemen, Im getting the word from Mr. Ainge that its time. Outthis door is the jeep that will take you to the launching pad. Good luck. God bless. And peace be with you. Dr. Rivers nodded to them, and Rondo felt themans hand, even through the space suit, slap him on the back.

The door to the outside opened, and Rondos eyes basked in a sea of light.Hed never seen anything like this.


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Blake Grif nThe Magician.


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Little Willy Simmons had never seen an earthquake, but what else wouldone feel and look like? The wooden boards of the stage didnt just creak un-der the weight of the performance--they rattled and split--as the great hulk-ing mass of Blake Grif n, the Magni cent, strained against the chains that

held him curled to the stage like an armadillo.

His hair, although slicked back with pomade, was beginning to look gray and golden as the wind frosted it with dust from the California desert,and while his muscles bucked against the metal links that bound him, his breathing remained calm, even measured. Little Willy distinctly remem-

bered years later, whenever he told the story, to always point out the mea-sured breathing of Blake Grif n, the Great Emancipator.

Ever the showman, Grif n jerked and strained and grunted in order for theaudience to see beyond a doubt that these chains were real and they werelocked. In fact, Grif ns assistant, who he called the Baron, had thrownaway the key for good measure.

A board that was level with Little Willys eyes began to vibrate, slow at rst,then quicker and louder, like a drumroll. Then Blake Grif n, the DancingBear, silenced it with his bare foot and the whole crowd followed suit.

Baron! I do believe these people paid good money, the mound of chained


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muscled bellowed.

Indeed they did, Sir, agreed the performers assistant, through a beardand mustache groomed in custom with the days fashions. Indeed they did.

Well, then, Baron, we should give them a real show, and leave any doubt behind that they have not gotten what they paid for. He looked towards theBaron.

That is indeed a ne idea, Mr. Grif n, and Baron snapped to his feet andgave the pretense of hard thinking.

Hurry, Baron! They will not wait forever.

Indeed they will not, sir! Indeed they will not!

The Baron kicked over a barrel, sending it rolling to the edge of the stage.He cartwheeled after it, springing straight up into the air, and then restedhis limber leg on top of it, his shiny leather boot just a few feet above Little Willys head. In fact, Little Willy could look up and see the bottom of themans sole peeking over the curve of the oak barrel, and from there, Little Willy made out the dark silhouette of the magicians assistant, for the sun was now setting behind the stage, as he called out with oil on his voice,Bring out the water tank!

The curtains at the back of the stage were drawn back, and a huge tank of water was rolled out on a large atbed cart. The boards of the stage moaned


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and creaked, as if Atlas carried the world on their backs. Then a makeshiftset of stairs was brought out, and Blake Grif n, the Spectacle, mountedthem one by one, forced by the chains to hop, like a tiny jack rabbit, up eachstep before reaching the top, where he stopped and turned to the crowd.

Blake Grif n, the Appreciative, bowed slowly and then lifted his head, Youhave been a most wondrous audience, and then he threw his weight sideways and plunged into the tank with the smallest of splashes.

Little Willy stood with his jaw dropped. In later years, when he would re-count this tale to anyone and everyone, he would always include the de-tail of having to brush the dirt and grime off the bottom of his chin, as he watched a trail of tiny bubbles escape Blake Grif ns nostrils. In fact, Little Willy would use this anecdote to deliver the discovery of his rst facial hair.Seeing Blake Grif n, the Prized Catch, helped make Little Willy into a man.

The crowd gasped and awed. Women were torn apart with the decision of whether to hold tightly to the arms of their husbands or to shield the eyes of their trembling children. Some couldnt decide and held a hand over theirown eyes, peeking through their ngers, and faint voices everywhere criedout, Surely we wont let him drown! Wont one of you men try and savehim. Some men even walked up to the stage and acted as if they were goingto mount a rescue, but the Baron stared them off it.

Ladies and gentlemen, Blake Grif n, the Great Hero that he is, will not let you and your children witness the horrors of a human being drowning--he

will escape for the good of the human race! He will triumph over his chains,and we will be the better for it, he gave a rehearsed glance over at the tank

b f i hi b k h di l l li hi l f h d


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before turning his back on the audience completely, revealing his left handholding his right, with two of its ngers crossed, like a small child mak-ing promises it cant keep. Then he turned back around and gulped before whispering, I hope.

Little Willy blinked and wiggled his feet in the dirt. In later tellings, he would leave out his doubt and make himself out to be a true believer inBlake Grif n, the Miracle Worker.

Meanwhile, Blake Grif n, the Trapped, ipped and spun and twirled insidethe tank, like some handsome dolphin, and one by one, the chains fell to the bottom of the tank. Blake Grif n was free, and as he pushed himself out of his glass cage, with his arms like knotted sledge hammers, the sun cast himin a golden light before the eyes of his audience; and they were blind to thekey that slipped silently out of his mouth and sank to the bottom of the sea;a gold doubloon lost amongst the chains.

When Little Willy recited the story just moments later to his mom and dad,every chain link that lay rusting in the water tank was described as twistedand broken by Blake Grif n, the Converter.


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HakeemThe Butcher.


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Hakeem was up early. He was always up early. This country was new to him, and it was as if he needed to beat the sun rise in order to catchup with all those individuals who came across the continent beforehim, who were born here, and whose ancestors fertilized the soil like

countless buffalo.

Hakeem had never seen a buffalo in real life, and to him, the magical beast of the plain meant very little. However, he had seen a bison onthe black and white television set, that stood on the small wooden

table the other side of the cash register, with its aluminum rabbit earsreaching for the ceiling.

The beast stared awkwardly through the screen Hakeem thought,looking as though it wanted to stampede out of the past, throughthe glass, and into the present. Hakeem remembered looking intoits obsydian eyes and saying, even though he knew it couldnt hearhim, You do not want to come through here. If you do, I will have tokill you. Its not personal, but its what I do. You come through thatglass, and I will be quick to slaughter you just like the rest.

And with that he dropped a meat cleaver through a heft of raw beef,

bl d i lik id h H k b h


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blood running like a tide across the counter. Hakeem was a butcher.

The walls of his shop were comprised of red clay brick, and the oor

was a concrete slab, at enough to dribble a basketball on. A counter with a glass window cut the shop in half. On one side was the table with the television and a set of small chairs. On the other side was aseries of stainless steel counters, a rack of knives and blades hangingabove each one--catching the light--and there was also a metal doorthat led back to the freezer and a rust colored drain in the middleof the work area that allowed Hakeem to hose the area down of any blood and grease every day after work.

Hakeem was well aware that some people viewed his shop as archaic,that some people grew faint at the sight of all that blood and gore justinches away from their own esh and faces, that they saw him less asa modern day miracle worker, who put food on the table, and more asa necessary evil, leftover from a bygone age of long dead hunters andgatherers. Hakeem recognized that in a world of microwaves andcomputers his reliance on cold steel made him a relic, leftover from

the days when gladiators would stab and mutilate lions inside theColosseum, but he also knew that his skills with cold steel made himdeadly, which allowed Hakeem to laugh at these squeamish men and women, for he found them to be delusional and weak and lost--lost ina world without a past.

They believed in ships that sailed without anchors or without even

th d f t lik b tt i glidi g th i d B t H k


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the need of water, like butter ies gliding on the wind. But Hakeem,feeling the weight of his own bones and how his own soul could notshake free of them, did not believe in such things, so he tossed stones

of doubt into their paper sails.

Hakeems laughter fell like an avalanche on such foolish people, andsuch was the case with the lady who came into his shop one day andtold him, I just moved down here from Chicago, and I had a very ne butcher there, and I can say with the utmost certainty, sir, that he would not allow his customers to see so much blood on his hands andsweat on his brow. Youre standing hip to hip with these cows, andits just not kosher.

Hakeem laughed and said, I can assure you, mam, that this is kosher.I have killed no pigs, only the nest of the herd and birds of a feather,and the blood that so dissatis es you I wash away with hard work,and with that Hakeem tossed a raw slab of beef at her feet, which senther running and screaming through the front door that was alwayspropped open for people such as herself to make their exit, having

failed to understand that not seeing the slaughter of the beast was like watching a person sleep and knowing only the colors of their eyelidsand not their dreams, that behind every fold of skin is a God wrestlingdeath.

Kenny, bring me three chickens from the yard, Hakeem bellowed athis employee who ran the cash register.

Sure thing Hakeem said Kenny as he jetted out the door


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Sure thing, Hakeem, said Kenny, as he jetted out the door.

What do you need three chickens for, Hakeem? asked Clyde, who

sat balding at the wooden table with the television set.

You will see, grinned Hakeem.

Kenny came in through the front door with three chickens. Therst was tucked under his arm, its feathers soaked in sweat. Thesecond was fully aware of all the sharp blades that lled the room andshivered hysterically under Kennys other arm. The third squawkedercely and apped its wings as it struggled to get loose of Kennyshands that held tight to its two legs.

Give me the scared one, that shakes, rst. Hakeem reached out hisarms and took the bird from underneath Kennys arm and snapped itsneck.

Poor King David! He deserved better than that, Hakeem, spoke

Clyde.

Why do you think I killed him rst? I was merely giving him back his courage.

Then Hakeem took the chicken that sweated underneath Kennysother arm, placing one hand under its beak and the other close to its

body before violently wrenching the life out of it The weird thing that


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body before violently wrenching the life out of it. The weird thing that both Clyde and Kenny would later discuss was that when Hakeem broke a chicken it never ran about the room. When he killed it, he

killed it dead, and the bird never got back up, or even twitched, all thenerve endings in its little feathered body rendered numb by the defttouch of Hakeems hands.

Well, Ill be. Look at Mr. ONeal. Seein them other two get they necks broke has hushed him right up, observed Clyde, and it wastrue: the chicken that had come in squawking now sat quietly observing as Hakeem plucked the feathers off the other two birds one by one.

His time will come, too, Clyde, but rst, he must learn patience.Hakeem never gave the birds names. To him, they were all examplesof cowardice and evil that must be plucked from the world. He mustshow people through the slaughter of these birds and these cowsthat no matter how tall a man is, or how he lives life, a day before the butchers knife will come.

Hakeem looked up and saw two boys peering in through the shops window. He smiled, lifted his crimson hands, and waved for them tocome in.

Welcome, Timmy and Kobe, I have a very special job for you today. You see that bird--it is yours to do with as you wish. He pointed at

Mr ONeal pouting like a white buffalo on the counter next to the


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Mr. O Neal pouting, like a white buffalo, on the counter next to the bare bodies of the other chickens.

The two boys looked sheepishly at each other and then at Hakeem before saying, But weve never killed anything before.

You will learn.


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Bill and KareemChess Prodigies.


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Bill Walton sat straight up in his chair, stretched out his arm, andmoved his pawn from E2 to E4. He knew the center of the board was where the blood would be spilled, and he wanted to do the spilling. He wanted to be in control.

He let his hand linger on the head of the pawn, tweaked it like the nippleof some bare chested Hindu goddess and then used the same hand topush a button on the timer, handing possession of the game over to hisadversary, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, a man Bill had wanted to defeat eversince preschool, when Kareems elaborate block tower, that lookedlike the Taj Mahal, with the ABCs splattered on its spires, garneredhim the attention of the prettiest girl in class. When she planted a kisson Kareems cheek, Bills measly block tower collapsed inward out of

jealousy. This defeat was later followed by a Pinewood Derby debaclein which Bills car, while in the lead, witnessed its own front wheel spinaway from the body of the car and his vehicle to victory sputtered andipped right off the track. Needless to say, Kareem racked up severalother victories as the two boys rocketed through puberty and intoadulthood.

There was the time Kareem broke Bills collarbone in backyard football,


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y ,and the night when he stole Bills prom date and subsequently lost his virginity to her. Bill wouldnt lose his virginity until college as a result,

and now the two locked eyes again--or at least Bill tried to lock eyes with Kareem--but Kareems eyes slid back to the board like grains of sand, dismissing his opponent, like an hour glass does with momentsof no signi cance.

Kareems handshake prior to the match beginning had the sameeffect; it was cold and limp, giving off the impression that Bills hand wasnt worth shaking. Bill sat across from Kareem wondering how this spectacled rival could manage to use even a weak handshake as

a means of intimidation. For the shiness of Kareems skin did notmake Bill feel stronger but had left him with the impression that he was much too eager for this encounter between the two one time chessprodigies, that the match was much more important to him than it wasto Kareem, and that in such a discrete testimony he had already given

away some tactical advantage.

And now Kareem wouldnt even look him in the eye. The timer tickedaway and all Bill could do was stare into the light re ected off of Kareems bald head, as if the man were as heavenly and ckle as themoon.

Bill glared into his counterparts black skull, trying to concentrate his


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g p y gpupils into a laser beam that might leave a mark on this cold creatureof the deep and his cool lunar surface skin.

Kareem moved his pawn from D7 to D5 and clicked the timer. Then helooked over at the stands and yawned.

While Bill thought about his next move, he also thought about the lasttime he had encountered Kareem.

It was on a tennis court, in late August. The two were younger thenand the sun was bright and swollen overhead, and the two teenagers

could feel the weight of its heat on the back of their necks. Kareem wasserving. He tossed the neon yellow of the ball up into the air and swunghis racket up and through it like a man y shing in some mountainstream. It was poetry, and the ball came over the net fast and furious.

Bill returned it with a grunting forehand that Kareem splashed back over the net with a ick of his wrist. Bill ran to the ball. He could feel theconcrete shattering his shins, and he sweated out a backhand. Kareemmoved like a ballerina to the ball and returned it again. Bill poundedafter the ball and jerked a forehand back over the net. Bill could really feel the heat of the August sun; it was pounding in his chest.


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Kareem effortlessly sent the ball back over the net.


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Bill huffed after it, but he could feel his knee being shredded like strings

popping on a tennis racket. He was cut loose from his foundation.He swung at the ball, hitting it dead into the net. His racket clatteredagainst the concrete and clanged against the fence. He lay on his back,the heat of the court burning him through his white shirt and whiteshorts. Blood ran from his leg, but he knew this was more than a cut.He knew he would never play tennis again.

Your turn, Mr. Walton.

Bill looked at the chess board. It was not at all how he rememberedit. How long had he been playing tennis in his mind? His pawns werestrewn out across the board in disarray, and he had failed to give hisrooks and bishops outlets of attack. His whole strategy had been aboutgetting them across the board as quickly as possible, to have them

swoop in like birds of prey for the easy kill, but now they were boggeddown on his side of the board, entangled in a defense of his defenselessking, unable to run, unable to jump, helpless.

Your turn, Mr. Walton.

The timer ticked away, louder and louder, like a cacophony of feet


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pounding the oorboards of gym bleachers. Bill couldnt think. Whereshould he go? What should he do? This was not the plan. No, this was not

planned at all. He moved his rook laterally, not at all how he preferredto move the piece, but the only move he felt comfortable making. Heclicked the timer back over to Kareem. He was still in the game. Not all was lost. He was sweating, and his heartbeat was racing. But that justmeant he was into the game again.

Kareem slid his bishop diagonally across the board. Check.

He said it so calmly. The calmness infuriated Bill. Bill moved a pawn

into the path of the bishop. Kareem glided his rook into position.

Check again.

Check again! Who the hell says it that snidely?!? Bill didnt know what

to do. What should he do? He would move his queen. Wait, no, that would still leave him in check. He would have to move the king. Hemoved the king.

His heart burned in its cage.

Kareem casually moved a pawn. Bill grinned. The light was breaking


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through the clouds. This was his moment, and he would seize it. Hetook the pawn with his queen.

Check. Thats right. The spectacled giant in front of him was on theropes. The throne was his.

Check mate.

Kareem took Bills queen with nothing more than a pawn. A pawn thatprobably rose no higher than her royal majestys knee cap. A pawn.

Check mate!

Bill now felt like the timer itself was ticking inside his chest. He roseup to stand. He could feel the ache of all those hard years on the tenniscourts in his legs. He lurched forward, catching himself on the table.

The pieces shook. He raised his hand, Can I get a glass of water? Andthen he toppled over, landing on the table and then rolling over andfalling to the oor, scattered around his body were the ruins of a royalcourt: knights and bishops and rooks and pawns. Inside his chest, itfelt like a knee was bucking against his ribs, and all he could see wasthe August sun setting behind the bald peak of Kareems skull.

Danny Granger


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Danny GrangerThe Hustler.


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Danny always swore he could hear God whisper to him through the wood of a pool cue, or maybe it was money, or maybe the feelingof fresh bills in ones pocket is the same as being touched with thespirit, speaking in tongues and a choir full of angels. Whatever it was,Danny liked it, felt in tune with it, and went from pool hall to pool hallin search of it, cocky as hell.

And today was no different.

Danny strutted into Larrys Pool Hall, wearing a crisp white dressshirt and a gray suit: he knew he was going to be somebodys raincloud. He was going to roll in, get taken for a few, raise the stakes,and then crack those balls like thunder. That was the plan. That wasthe creed. That was Dannys image of God, and he made it happen, bobbing his head like a rooster the whole time that he grinned and whistled his way into peoples pockets.

Danny eyed the tables, displaying his smile like pearls in a jewelry display. He saw one in the back right corner not being used, right

next to a skinny old dude with ears like butter y wings.


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He turned to the man behind the counter and said, Ill take that cue

behind you and that back table, and slapped a bill on the green felt of the counter. And you can keep the change, big fella.

The man behind the counter had to have been over seven feet tallaliteral giantand as Danny approached the back table he thoughtabout the size of Big Roys hands and how they could break a man hissize. Then he chalked the stick and shook his head, Nah, tonightsmy night. I can feel it, bent over, and sent the cue ball hurtlingtowards the Big Bang. Crack! The balls split apart like atoms.

Tonights my night. This time he said it louder, hoping the words would land like pollen in the ears of the man at the table next to him,and they did.

Are you askin for a game, boy? Cause Ill give you one, the mansaid.

I aint askin. Im pleadin.

Alright then. The names Mr. Miller, but you can call me

Reggie. Whatll it be?


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Danny felt like a sherman who didnt even have to bait his

hook. Wanna go fty a game for starters?

Fifty a game? Your shoes and suit aint even worth that much. Clothlooks thin as the paper I use to wipe my ass.

Danny laughed. I dont have to worry about it. I dont plan on doingmuch losin.

Fifty it is then cause I know Im good for it.

Danny played well the rst game, but he left two or three balls on thetable. Then he lost a couple more, getting worse each game. By thistime, the hall was emptying out, and he decided to raise the stakesand ash a little lightning.

If Im gonna get to where Im goin, maybe we ought to make it ahundred a game. I dont have time to win my money back at fty a break. Whattya say? Danny said.

Id say youre a fool. Youve been losin and you aint changed a

thing, so youre either gonna keep losin. . . or you been playin me fora fool Reggie stared Danny right in the eyes like a bull watching a


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a fool. Reggie stared Danny right in the eyes, like a bull watching amatador, or an actor mocking his director. So which is it?

Danny thought about backing out or at least keeping the stakes thesame, but there was no one here and money to be had, like kernels of corn sitting in a barn yardhe had to pick them up.

Make it a hundred. Danny lost two more games before he startedto sink balls into pockets like he was putting the planets in orbit, andthen he started to talk. Whew! I aint playin like no boy now. WhenI leave yall gonna be callin me man, maybe even daddy. I aint ever

been this lucky.

Yeah, youre on a real hot streak. Reggie said. The weather hasde nitely changed for you my son.

Oh, its sunshine alright. Nothin but sunshine and green elds of money.

Danny bent over to eye up the next shot. All he had to do was sink theeight ball, and hed win enough to walk out of Larrys with a decentamount of cabbage tucked in his pockets, just one more game. He

eyed up the eight ball and struck the cue ball dead in its center andwatched it collide with the eight ball like a bullet through glass The


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watched it collide with the eight ball like a bullet through glass. Theeight ball landed in the corner pocket and then rolled through the

metal maze of the tables rib cage.

Danny threw down his stick and slapped the table, unable to see thatReggie was motioning for Big Roy and Tyler to come and pay thetable a visit. Danny turned to face Reggie, Well, I guess I should begoin. He reached out his hand for money.

I guess this is yours. Reggie handed him the money and walkedaway, exiting out the back door.

Oh, dont be sad, man. Its just a game. Just a game and somemoney. Danny laughed and then turned to walk out the front, but hefound himself face to face with a wall of muscle, comprised of a sevenfoot black giant and a stocky, white mule of a man.

The one named Tyler spoke up, You should have kept losing.

Danny reached for the pool stick, but they were too quick. Tyler jerked it off the table and whacked it on the side of Dannys head,causing him to stumble. One of them grabbed the back of his head

and his shoulder and manhandled him onto the table. He then lookedup into Tylers bulging eye balls as the man pressed down on his


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up into Tyler s bulging eye balls as the man pressed down on histhroat with a pool stick, causing Danny to whisper and hiss, Take the

money. . . just take it. . . and I wont ever come back.

Oh, we know you aint comin back, not after tonight.Big Roy pried open Dannys jaws and pushed the egg white cue ball, chalked in faint blue veins, into his mouth.

His cheeks felt like they were ripping at their seams, and Danny could feel the pool ball grind against his teeth as Big Roy wrenchedit towards his throat, and out of desperation he prepared to swallow,

hoping to God not to choke on it, while his legs ailed a path into thegreen lawn of the table.

Amare Stoudemire


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Amar e StoudemireThe Cab Driver.


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Amare stood on the Brooklyn Bridge, suspended over one of Americasgreat rivers by the stone and concrete and steel cables that once helped oneof Americas greatest cities cross into modernity. His yellow taxi was pulledup against the curb, smoking like a meteorite or a capsule from Kryp-ton, the vapors rising from the yellow dented hood like steam off a desertlake. Are such scenes possible? They must be, for this is what the scene was. Are such scenes laden with irony? They must be, for here was a man,used to being hailed down by pedestrians, now standing on the side of theroad with his own arm extended, waiting to be rescued. Life does this tous: bouncing us back and forth, like a ping pong ball, between the stationsof being what is needed and what does the needing, maybe there isnt evena distinction, like how Superman needed a planet where capes werent infashion in order to make his special.

Amare didnt wear a cape; he came to work everyday in a green button upthat made him look like a war veteran, which is exactly how he felt. Amarehadnt always been a cab driver. He was raised in the desert--thirsty,abused, and chosen--and the scriptural readings that now adorned his skin were taught to him by his mentor, Steve Nash. He took the readings toheart. He was Black Jesus. He was a source of physical strength and spiri-tual knowledge. He was a candidate. He was a Tzaddik Ha-Dor. He was

also fractured, incomplete, and in need of direction. A job as a cab drivergave him exactly what he needed. From the airport to the hotel, to down-


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town, and out to the suburbs, driving people where they wanted to go em-powered him. The old promise was shining through, even if it could only beseen from the backseat of a New York taxi.

Moses never came out of the desert. Elijah lit it on re and then rode achariot into the sky. Jesus walked across the sand with the Devil as hisguide. Amare may have done all three. When passengers would ask himabout his past, he would answer simply, Oh, Im older than I look. Ive hadmy share of agony, and Ive seen my share of miracles. And if they askednicely, he would tell them the story of how he was crippled and learnedto y again, or how he jumped from Arizona to San Antonio and lled thedepleted Rio Grande with his very own tears, from having leapt so highthat the face of God was revealed to him and how he had deemed himself unworthy to see it. But such stories always depressed Amare, and he grew quiet thinking of the locust eater, Steve Nash, he had left behind. His moveto New York surely left his cult status and carefree ways to rot on desertoor, like the rib cage of an overworked mule. He had lit the horizon onre, shooting reworks from out his ngertips, and he had danced withthe Devil, if one is to believe that Satan can take human form and walk theearth as a Robert Horry or a Bruce Bowen. But the problem for Amare was that the Devil won, and his move to New York did not feel like an as-cent of angels but a retreat into cozier con nes. He was no longer on thefrontier, winning over the heathens with a urry of fetishes. No, he was

retreating back into the East and the holy walls of Americas crowded OldJerusalem. He was no longer remaking the world in his image, but plead-


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ing with it to accept him as part of its traditional tapestry, which is why henow found himself broken down on the Brooklyn Bridge, in the middle of the night, having answered a call to pick up other immigrants on the road of life, only to nd no one in need of a ride, leaving this prophet with an in-credibly empty back seat. Like Clark Kent without a story to follow, Amare was questioning his purpose.

A cab driver is not much different than a personal savior. You wave himdown, and he takes you from here to there. The only difference is that asavior takes you somewhere that is not of your choosing, a place that by its very nature rede nes you, while a cab driver simply takes you where youtell him to go. Amare was no longer a savior, but he was a cab driver. He would go where he was told, except for a night when his tool of the trade was broken down and landlocked, having smashed into a stone wall after watching a man leap to his death. Its humbling to go from savior to taxidriver. But its humiliating to go from taxi driver to hitch hiker because noone will answer your companys phone, stranding you on a bridge with thehelpless romantics and suicide walkers, who both count the citys lights likestars in the night sky, differing only on whether they see the light as a world being born or one that has already died.

On the ground, at his feet, Amare saw a black hat, and bent down to pick itup. He stared at it for a second and then placed it on his head. It t and he

stared into the bottomless black pit that now churned underneath his feet,owing out to an even deeper ocean, but in the dark, he failed to see the


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body of the man who brought him here.


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Bryan Harvey is a high school AP English and Creative Writingteacher and is a James Madison University graduate. He writesfor the sports and humor website The Lawn Chair Boys and forThe Faster Times. Some of his poetry has appeared in The Cold Mountain Review .


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Documents

Everything That Dunks Must Converge by Bryan Harvey