August, and the PS.104 schoolyard was empty. A good thing. Gave me a chance to develop my pitching arm. And avoid trouble. As a white kid in the South Bronx in 1967, trouble had a way of finding me.
I was bouncing a Spaldine rubber ball off the side of the school building. Behind me, I heard a basketball bouncing at the other end of the school yard. I turned around and saw a tall, lanky kid, older than me for sure.
I didn’t know anything about basketball, but I knew he was practicing. The drill went like this: jump and shoot, dribble away from the hoop, jump and shoot, rebound and finish with a lay-up.
He yelled over, “So, whaddya’ think?”
Was this kid talking to me? A 12-year-old white kid? There was no one else around so I yelled back, “About what?”
“Playin’ basketball”
“I never played basketball in my life.”
“No problem, I’ll teach you.”
The next four Sundays, me and Anthony met at the schoolyard. He taught me how to dribble and shoot plus some cool plays like the Baseline Jumper, the Alley-Oop, and the No-Look Pass to the foul line.
After a month, Anthony said, “We’re ready.”
“For what?”
“The hustle.”
This is how the hustle worked. We’d go to parks, schoolyards, wherever there was a court. Anthony went up to a couple guys hanging around the court and talked us up. He’d gesture over to me; the guys would snicker and eagerly cough up a few coins and lay the bet.
The hustle brought in real money, but it ended six months later in January when my family was forced to move to another neighborhood in the Bronx. In March Anthony called to say, “Looks like I’m moving too, back to Delaware. Ma’s asking about you. The kids miss you. She wants you to come for dinner. Then we’re gonna do the hustle, one last time, you and me my brother.”
It was a warm Thursday afternoon in early April when I walked the fifteen blocks to Anthony’s. Standing outside the apartment door, I could smell the pork chops. I knew there would be collards and sweet potatoes waiting for me inside.
I always liked going to Anthony’s. I felt safe there with his family: Ma, the two dads, a little brother, two little sisters and the baby. And sometimes me. I stayed there many nights, sometimes for weeks, sleeping on pillows and blankets on the floor in the kids’ room. I slept better on that floor than at my apartment. In the morning, before I left for school, Ma would remind me, “Steve when things get too rough at your place, you are always welcome here. Anytime. You understand me?”
After dinner, me and Anthony headed to the court a few blocks away at the Sedgewick Projects. Anthony found two guys who, after they took one look at me, eagerly placed a bet. Game on. Our plays were nothing short of perfection. We had them down 10 to 2, our point.
I was taking the ball out at the foul line for the win. The transistor radio hanging off the chain link fence was playing “My Girl” by the Temptations.
The song suddenly stopped. The announcer interrupted: “The Reverend Martin Luther King was shot and killed today, by a white man.”
As usual, I was the only white kid on the court.
The other guys stopped. The court grew eerily silent. Shock and grief on their faces turned to rage. Anthony slowly walked toward me, took the ball out of my hand and laid it down on the cement. He hooked his elbow into mine and hustled me off the court.
When we reached the overpass of the Cross Bronx Expressway, we heard the chant: “Whitey killed the King, whitey killed the King.” Anthony started to sprint. He looked back at me screaming, “Hurry up Steve, hurry up.” His face was wet with tears.
We made it back to Anthony’s, barging through the apartment door, panting, trying to catch our breath. The family was in the living room, all seven of them watching the news on a small black- and-white TV. Startled, they turned around and rushed towards us, hugging us, crying. A family embrace. We stood in a circle, quietly holding each other. Anthony announced, “Ma, we’re gonna keep Steve here for a while, til it’s safe on the street for him to go home.”
One of the dads eased himself out of the circle and went over to the open apartment door. He shut the door and, one at a time, turned each of the three locks, click, click, click.