Tompkins Square Park had two sets of basketball courts. Full-court games were played close to Avenue B. Half-court was in the asphalt baseball field on Avenue A. Players were 50% neighborhood and 50% from the rest of the city. The quality of the competition was not up to West 4th Street or 125th Street standards, but a total stranger could walk onto the court and claim 'next' without a beef.
My apartment was on East 10th Street. Three pairs of dead sneakers hung on the streetlights at the intersection. I played ball at least five times a week. My offense was an embarrassment. Only my defense kept me in the games.
"Stop the big guy." My teammates called me 'the Brick'.
No one had more fouls than me. My clumsy hands deflected drives to the basket. My squat body blocked the path to the rim. Players swore at me and I'd apologized setting picks for my teammates. Carmelo shot 3 pointers and drove to the basket behind my blocks. Duke needed no help. 6-2 the light-skinned black was a pit bull under the boards. Both of them came from the 'Rock' on 11th Street.
This tenement was the source of most of the crack in the neighborhood. Carmelo was a look-out. Duke slung 'rock' from the second floor. He prided himself in never selling any 'blue crack' or Drano. Their customers respected Duke for this and lined up in front of his door day and night. No one is supposed to use their product. Carmelo and Duke smoked 'blunts'. Crack was whack, but Duke had plenty of pressure on him.
Duke had two girlfriends with kids. The cops were after his ass and so the other dealers on the block between B and C were gunning for him. They were starving with Duke in the trade. None of that mattered on the court. Tompkins Square Park was a truce zone. No guns. No knives. No fights.
It couldn't last forever and one afternoon in August 1991, Duke, Carmelo, and I had the run of the court. Carmelo's shooting was unstoppable, I grabbed the rebounds, and Duke tapped the ball into the hoop from the paint. We beat a squad from Harlem. 15-6. I had three points. We were invincible.
"Who's next." Duke spun with a smile on his face.
"We got it." The speaker was 6-1. A scar ran down his cheek. Biz lived across the street from the 'rock'. His gang was at war with Duke's posse.
"This just b-ball, right?" Carmelo dribbled the ball looking at the two other challengers. They were Biz's boys.
"Just basketball." Biz hadn't taken his eyes off Duke.
"Our out." I waved for the ball at the top of the key. Soon as it touched my hands, I passed back to Duke under the basket.
"One nothing." To Duke this was more than a game.
"That's the way we're gonna play?" Biz and his team settled into defense.
"That's the way." Duke tossed the ball out to me. "Check."
Every basket from that point on was a battle. My opponent outweighed me by 20 pounds and had a few inches height advantage. If he had just shot the ball we would have been losing fast, but he wanted to stuff the ball in the hole.
"No one stuffs on my boy." Duke declared from the baseline.
"I'm gonna." My opponent knocked me off the ball and started for the rim.
I grabbed his jersey and declared, "Foul."
"You can't call fouls for me." He was in my face.
"Sorry." I backed away. "Your ball."
Biz and Duke were sumo-wrestling for position. Biz backed up, dribbling the ball.
"Man, you like butting into me so much, why don't we make a date?"
It sounded like a joke, but wasn't a joke. Biz dropped the ball to take a swing. Duke blocked the sweeping right with his left forearm and laced a stone-hard fist into Biz's face. His rival went down with a busted nose and Duke grabbed a bottle from the trash. He smashed it on the fallen player's head. The jagged end was now a deadly weapon. Biz's boys were standing with hands at their side. This wasn't their fight.
I grabbed Duke's arm. Carmelo grabbed the other. Duke didn't need to kill nobody. Everyone in the park was watching the fight. Many knew the story. The ending was all that had to be written.
"Don't stop me." Duke shook us off and stood over Biz. "Throw down on me and this is what you get."
"Fuck you, Duke." Biz was hurt, but still too proud to know when to keep his mouth shut.
"Not over?" Duke kicked him in the ribs. He had a reputation to uphold. "I'm getting my gun, Biz."
Duke stormed off the court and Biz disappeared into the park. A little war started over this fight. Duke laid low in the neighborhood and the police closed down the 'Rock' for business. Everyone was happy about its closing, except for the crackheads and Duke's comp. Carmelo played ball every day. He was out of work. Whenever anyone asked about Duke, he would say, "Dunno."
Carmelo and I balled with other players. None of them were Duke.
A year later I'm in the Bronx, checking out KFCs for the parent company. On Jerome Avenue I spotted Duke walking across the street and called out his name.
He checked the sidewalks with his heels lifted to run, until he saw my face.
"What you doing up here?" He asked with a little girl in tow.
"Working KFC." I handed him five of the chicken bags from the back of our late-model sedan.
"For a second I thought you were the cops."
"The ride is a little square." A Ford Taurus. At least it wasn't a Crown Victoria. "Why you never come around the park no more?"
"My ghosts have brothers." He touched his girl's hair. "I was a little crazy back then. Probably a little crazy now. But I got me a real job now too. You see Carmelo. You tell 'em that. But don't tell no one else."
"No, I won't. You know people still talk about you."
"The Duke of Rock." He smiled like it was a dream. "No one be seein him again. Not down there. Keep on fouling them big men."
He stepped away and vanished into the crowd of early evening shoppers. Carmelo was glad to hear he was alive. Everyone thought he was dead and we both agreed it was better that way. Dear Duke RIP.
No comments:
Post a Comment