Racing the Rain Page 11

  “What’s going on with your friends from the dock?” he asked finally.

  “Who?”

  “Those two guys, Lucky what’s his name and that guy Bobby. And their fishing client, that judge guy.”

  “Listen, those are no friends of mine. His name is Holzapfel. He may think I’m a fan of theirs, and that’s just what I want them to think, but believe me, I don’t have anything to do with those guys and you shouldn’t either.”

  “How about the judge? He’s all right, isn’t he? He looked okay.”

  “Between you and me—and I mean it, no talking out of school—Peel’s in trouble, too. He’s mixed up with betting and ’shine and all kinds of stuff, just like you’d expect for a friend of Lucky’s. Judge Chillingworth’s getting ready to lower the boom on him.”

  “I thought Peel was a judge.”

  “Just a city judge. Judge Chillingworth’s the head of the whole circuit. They used to be friends, but he’s about fed up with Joe right about now. This is between you and me now, you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Trapper was rattling on about how he taught the great Babe Ruth how to use a bait-casting rod. He made a right-hand turn off A1A and headed out the long, straight road that went west to Camp Murphy.

  “We going to the base?” Cassidy asked.

  “Yep.”

  “How do you get in if you’re not military?”

  “Got a sticker. I was stationed here during the war. When they found out what I did in real life they made me an MP and a critter-getter. Gators in the ponds, snakes in the toilets, ducks on the runway, I was the guy they called. Believe me, wild and woolly as it was back then, I got called a lot. I still help them out now and again. They even pay me! Can you imagine that? I take home a critter I can sell, plus I get a U.S. government check in the mail. I guess that makes me a government contractor!” His laugh boomed in the trees.

  Sure enough, at the guard station the MP didn’t even get up from his chair, just leaned out the door and waved them through. Trapper ignored the signal and pulled over.

  “Hey, Frank, is Lieutenant Lefaro at the gym this morning?” asked Trapper.

  “Yeah, he came through about a hour ago. I guess that’s where he was going. He was dressed in sweats anyway.”

  The exhaust fans were beating away up in the rafters and the gym was empty save for two young captains playing badminton and one short, stocky, dark-haired guy shooting set shots from the top of the key. He looked to be of Mediterranean extraction. Cassidy recognized him as one of the guys he always saw playing in the really good afternoon pickup games. Games he was never invited to join.

  He came over with a head-wagging, jaunty stride, a big smile on his face. The leather ball was tucked casually on his hip. Despite the heat, he wore white cotton sweat bottoms, a black singlet, and some kind of gold chain around his neck with a small gold medallion. Cassidy thought he was the most confident-acting person he had ever met.

  “Hey, Trap,” the man said. “This the kid?”

  “This is him. First Lieutenant Ronald Lefaro, meet freshman Quenton Cassidy.”

  Lefaro stuck his hand out and when Cassidy took it, he was surprised how small and soft—almost dainty—it was.

  “You wouldn’t know it to look at him, but Lieutenant Lefaro is arguably the best one-on-one basketball player on this base, now that Al Smith has mustered out,” Trapper said. “Ron started all three years at Colby, and in his senior year, this officer and gentleman was an all-American.”

  “Little all-American,” Lefaro corrected.

  “Still,” said Trapper.

  Cassidy’s eyes were as big as sand dollars.

  “Okay, kid,” said Lefaro, “I’ve seen you a few times in pickup games with your buddies. You handle the ball good and you’ve got a decent shot. You leaving us, Trap?”

  “Got to run some errands on base. Quenton, I’ll be back to pick you up in one hour. Pay attention to this man. It could change your life.”

  Lefaro was already walking out onto the court, motioning to Cassidy to follow. The other officers had finished their badminton game, so the gymnasium was quiet except for the big exhaust fans beating away at the warm air.

  “Okay, here’s the first thing you need to work on. And keep in mind, this won’t be as much fun as playing pickup games with your friends. This is more like real work. But if you want to get better, this is what you need to do.”

  Lefaro stood on the foul line, facing away from the basket. He motioned for Cassidy to go to the top of the key. He bounced the ball to him.

  “Okay, let me show you how I would defend you,” he said. “Go ahead and drive on me. Give me your best move.”

  Cassidy took the ball and, as he had been taught, first looked at the rim as if he might shoot. Lefaro’s knees were bent slightly, but otherwise he almost looked as if he were standing around waiting for a bus.

  Cassidy gave a quick jerk with his head and the ball as if he were indeed looking to shoot, but then brought the ball down and in an instant began driving to his right, thinking that he would blow by this way-too-casual older man for an easy layup.

  Lefaro quickly sidestepped to his left, and before he knew it Cassidy was making contact, his progress toward the rim now subtly altered. He put his head down and drove wider to the right, trying to get around the man, but the more he veered out the more Lefaro rode him farther out. Finally, it got ridiculous and Cassidy realized that the man was not going to let him go right. In fact, he was overplaying Cassidy so much that the path straight to the basket lay wide open in front of him. All Cassidy had to do was stop his futile effort to drive to his right and just head straight for the hoop.

  To accomplish this he retreated a half step, did a crossover dribble from right to left, started to dribble with his left hand, and . . .

  The ball was gone. Lefaro was at the top of the key, dribbling casually, doing that little arrogant head wag, and looking at Cassidy with raised eyebrows that said: See?

  He had simply reached down and tipped the ball away as soon as Cassidy switched to his clumsier left hand. As Cassidy continued to the rim, Lefaro had slipped behind him and scooped up the ball. Cassidy ended up dribbling air.

  “Know what happened?” he asked.

  “Yeah, you stole the ball,” said Cassidy.

  “Okay. But more basic than that?”

  Cassidy shrugged.

  “You can’t go to your left,” Lefaro said. “Neither can most of your friends—well, except for the lefty. And he can’t go to his right. If a guy can’t go one way or the other, he’s easy to guard. You give him the way he doesn’t want to go, and overplay him the way he wants to go. You take away seventy-five percent of his game before he makes the first move. Try again.” Lefaro bounced the ball to Cassidy and assumed the defensive position.

  Cassidy took the ball at the top of the key, did the quick shot fake, took one dribble to the right, and quickly crossed over to his left as Lefaro called, “Good!”

  Lefaro stepped over to Cassidy’s left to cut him off, but Cassidy now found himself with a half-step lead, which he tried to exploit by driving down the left side of the lane, dribbling with his left hand. For a thrilling split second he thought he was going to get an easy layup on this arrogant man, but Lefaro’s incredibly quick feet had brought him back up against Cassidy, forcing him once again to the outside. Every dribble down the key he took, Cassidy was being driven farther from the basket.

  When he was even with the rim, not knowing what else to do, Cassidy picked up his dribble and began trying to find a way to take his free step around Lefaro. It was impossible. Lefaro was right on top of him, and whenever Cassidy gave him any look at the ball at all, his hands were flashing out, slapping at it, clipping the ball, twice nearly dislodging it altogether.

  Finally, out of desperation, Cassidy turned his back to the rim, took one step away, and shot a fairly decent hook shot with his right hand. Lefaro didn’t block it, but he was in Cassi
dy’s face the whole way, and Cassidy was almost proud that the ball actually caught the front of the rim before bouncing away. It wasn’t really that close, but it wasn’t an embarrassing attempt, either.

  “Okay,” said Lefaro, who was at least breathing harder now. “You had a good fake and a good first step. Then what happened?”

  “You were on me.”

  “Right, but what happened?”

  “I took a hook.”

  “You took a desperation hook,” said Lefaro.

  Cassidy said nothing but had to admit it was true.

  “You went left because I gave you left. That’s all well and good. But then when push came to shove, you didn’t have anything to finish with. I’ve seen your pull-up jumper on the right. I’ve seen your driving hook on the right. What do you have on the left?”

  Cassidy shook his head.

  “Basketball, like most sports, is a game of action and reaction. If I overplay you to your right, knowing that’s where you want to go, I’m trying to make you pay for your weakness. So what do you do in response?”

  “Go left?”

  “Not just go left, but go left successfully. Make me pay for overplaying you. The only way to do that is to learn how to score going left, just like you do going right. Learn to dribble better with your left hand, get yourself a reliable left-handed layup, a left-handed hook that you’re not afraid to shoot in a game. Practice other tricks, your crossover move, or that inside-out hook you tried, but practice them until they’re natural moves that you actually like to do, not ones you use when you have to.”

  Lefaro noticed that Cassidy looked a little glum.

  “Sorry, kid, none of this will be much fun until you do it in practice and then start seeing it work in games.”

  “I don’t mind practicing,” said Cassidy.

  “I know that. I’ve seen you. That’s why I’m here right now. But you’ve spent a long time practicing the things you do best. It’s always more fun to work on strengths rather than weaknesses. The problem is that a smart opponent will make you pay for it. The way you beat him is to not have any weaknesses.”

  Cassidy was in a kind of shock. The simple truth of what Lefaro was saying stopped him completely. He had thought he was playing the game of basketball all this time. What he was really playing was half a game of basketball.

  “All right, let me show you one more thing,” said Lefaro, heading back to the top of the key. “You guard me now.”

  He checked the ball to Cassidy, who tapped it back. Cassidy assumed a defensive stance a half step to Lefaro’s right, but staying ready to adjust, figuring Lefaro would have some good moves to his left.

  Lefaro took the ball, looked at the rim, brought the ball up in shooting position . . .

  And shot the ball! It cut the net cleanly and with enough backspin that it bounced right back to them.

  “All right,” said Lefaro. “Don’t forget: that’s the third option. I can go left, I can go right, or I can shoot. Those are your three options in one-on-one. Let’s try again.”

  Cassidy checked the ball back to him and again assumed a slight overplay position to Lefaro’s right.

  Lefaro brought the ball up, faked the shot, pulled the ball back down, and started to his left. Cassidy did a quick sidestep to his right to cut off the drive as Lefaro straightened up and shot the ball again, this time catching the back of the rim and deflecting straight down through the net.

  Jeez, thought Cassidy, I’m getting drilled here.

  “Once more,” said Lefaro, checking the ball to Cassidy again.

  This time Cassidy was primed. If Lefaro tried the little one-hander again he’d be eating some leather. Cassidy tapped the ball back and assumed a defensive position a half step closer to him. Lefaro took the ball, did a little halfhearted fake to his right, then started to bring the ball up into shooting position. Cassidy shifted his weight to his toes and got ready to spring. When Lefaro went into the first motions of his shot, Cassidy began to elevate, the toes of his Converse low-cuts now barely on the floor.

  In the blink of an eye Lefaro was gone, quick-stepping around him and casually laying the ball up softly against the glass backboard. He hadn’t gotten Cassidy quite into the air, but he had rendered him nearly weightless, and therefore helpless, before bringing the ball down and zipping by him.

  Cassidy sighed and hung his head. He was just plain beaten. As his father would have said, no two ways about it.

  “I don’t get it,” he said. “What am I doing wrong?”

  “Nothing really,” said Lefaro, walking back with the ball tucked on his hip, head wagging outrageously. “I’ve shown you three ways I can beat you, and you know you can’t discount any of them. You have to be ready to counter all three, and it’s just more than you can handle right now. That’s the position you want to put your opponents in.”

  “But how can I stop you?”

  “You can’t.”

  “But . . .”

  “You’ll get bigger and quicker and better. I’ll get older and slower. Time will even things out, believe me. What you can do right now is get smarter. And better. You do that by practicing what you need to practice. By working relentlessly on what I showed you today.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Cassidy saw Trapper just coming in the back door. He looked back to Lefaro. “When can we get together again?” Cassidy said.

  “Don’t worry about that,” said Lefaro.

  Cassidy lost the grin. “But what . . .”

  “I’m not taking you to raise. I’m just pointing you in the right direction. This is all stuff you’re going to have to work on yourself. I’m talking hours and hours of practice, every day if you can. For weeks and weeks, months and months. Sorry, but that’s the hard truth. Most guys won’t do it. They’d rather just come out and play three-on-three, couple games of horse, have a few laughs with their buddies, and go shoot pool at the service club. You notice how many people are out here this morning, working on their weak sides?”

  “Yeah,” said Cassidy. “It’s empty a lot when I’m practicing.”

  “I know,” said Lefaro. “I’ve seen you. Like I say, it’s why I’m here. That, and that big galoot over there.”

  Trapper was jingling the keys to his Jeep as he walked to the edge of the floor.

  “Lieutenant Lefaro,” said Cassidy, “thank you, sir . . .”

  “Call me Ron. And don’t worry about it. Just keep working and I’ll see you around the campus.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’ll play some horse or something. Just no one-on-one. Not for a while, anyway.”

  “Lord, no.” Cassidy laughed.

  “Hey, you guys,” Trapper said, “what’s so funny?”

  “This kid has a helluva move to his right,” said Lefaro.

  CHAPTER 24

  * * *

  HOUSE, SATCH, AND DEE-TROIT

  In World War II, the cavernous building that became the gym where Cassidy played had held a massive sand table where they planned the invasion of Normandy. If some bright OSS cartographer had had the foresight to glue on some tough little HO-scale hedgerows, it might have helped the Allies win the war quicker.

  A corporal named Lafollette, whose maternal grandmother lived in Sainte-Mère-Église, tried to tell his superiors about the “gnarly-ass hedges” he knew only too well (he had visited her in the summers and spoke French fluently). But they had bade him shut up and ordered him back to gluing down miniature trees and church steeples. They thought the big problem was going to be finding recognizable landmarks, not a bunch of bushes big enough to stop tanks.

  Thus the allies found themselves “bogged down in the hedgerows,” and a few thousand more American boys would now remain forever teenagers slumbering under white crosses, row on row, in the quiet fields of Brittany.

  The sand table was many years gone now and the building had been turned into a gymnasium where the Air Force officers came to play badminton or take a steam, and the enlisted me
n and “dependents,” children of servicemen, would play pickup games on the gleaming hardwood floor. This floor, with its splendid glass backboards, was Cassidy’s home court.

  They were soon to be sophomores in high school, and Cassidy had grown in the past year. He wasn’t over six feet like Stiggs and Randleman, but he was closing in on it. And while the other two could now—with a little run-up—touch the rim, he could with great effort get to the third or fourth row of knots in the net. He was far too skinny to be very effective under the backboard like the other two, but he occasionally got his timing just right and snagged a surprising rebound that would have Stiggs staring at him in exasperation.

  He had been at the gym since ten that morning. After lifting weights, he played some pickup games with a couple of airmen who weren’t very good, then rode his bike over to the cafeteria for lunch. Cheeseburgers were twenty cents; for less than half a dollar you could walk out pretty much stuffed, a condition that might last an hour. In no time he was back in the gym working on left-handed layups.

  Stiggs and Randleman showed up midafternoon. Randleman and Cassidy were official “dependents,” but Stiggs had no military status at all. Still, he hardly even slowed down his bike at the gate. He was so familiar to the guards they just waved him through. For dependents the base was a paradise. They could swim at a lake at the officers’ or NCO club, go to a movie, shop at the BX, even play a round of golf. Sometimes when they were feeling brave they would shoot pool at the service club until someone noticed they weren’t old enough to be servicemen, and they were booted out. But the gym was where they lived.

  The three played horse until some of the better players started straggling in.