Hoop City (Touchdown Edition)

Chapter 1: Fifteen Hours

"I'm on your wing, T. On your wing if you need me."

I always knew where my brother Mike was on the basketball court. "Right here, Tony!" Mike shouted, giving another enthusiastic wave. I slowed my dribble as I reached a faded yellow three-point arc, drawing the defense in closer.

Two defenders blocked my lane to the basket, futilely swiping for a steal. I dribbled as fast as I could in between and around them like a racecar weaving through traffic. A voice from beyond the court shouted at me, "Pass the ball, showboat!"

As he finished those words I picked up my dribble, watching Mike streak toward the basket unguarded. I lofted an alley-oop pass toward the side of the rim. The guys surrounding the court were silenced as Mike left his feet and glided toward the hoop. He grabbed the pass in mid-air, and in one effortless motion tomahawked the basketball home. Amidst a sea of 'oohs' and 'aahs' I heard another voice from beyond the fence, "Get off that rim. You ain't Jordan yet!"

The rim rattled as Mike let go and landed firmly on his feet with the backboard shaking behind him. If I were that tired backboard I would have slept easy that night, knowing that Mike and I were leaving in the morning to attend the University of New York. In fact, everyone who ever played against us at the Jungle would sleep well that night. Every day, Harlem's future stars lined up for a chance to play here. And every day, they went home disappointed. Mike and I owned these courts. But with our senior season in the rear view mirror and the two of us heading off to college in the morning, tomorrow will be a different day. Tomorrow, someone else will actually have a chance to win.

They call these courts the Jungle because out here, you've got to fight to survive. This is where the best players in New York City develop, right here in Harlem, a place where life isn't always easy.

The usual crowd stood around the fence surrounding the Jungle during our last game before college. They shook the metal links when we dunked, when we made a shot or a great play. Their love for basketball was unfazed by time and circumstance. These one-time great players squandered college scholarships and NBA dreams for lives of drugs and crime. They were lost, sipping from bottles of beer, wondering where their dreams had gone.

Mike and I watched each other carefully, refusing to get trapped on the wrong side of the fence. We're fraternal twin brothers, born two minutes apart at Hoffman Medical Center, just across the river from Yankee Stadium. We've been partners since before we could dribble straight.

My name is Tony Hope, but people around here call me "T." People say my brother and I are gonna play in the NBA someday. Tomorrow morning we leave for college, for the University of New York. Leaving this place is gonna be the greatest and saddest thing that's ever happened to me. I love Harlem. I just hate what it does to people.

After Mike's dunk, we shuffled back and got set defensively. I could hear the buzz from the sidelines. "Last game for the Hope boys, huh?" I bent my knees and pulled on my shorts, palms out, feet moving, ready for oncoming traffic. Mike slapped his hands onto the concrete and yelled, "One-nothing! Play some D now!"

I was guarding Bo Johnson, the skinny point guard whose jump shot never seemed to miss. He was dribbling casually down the court, using his body to separate me from the ball. Bo's biggest problem was that he couldn't dribble to his left. I slid over in anticipation of his only move.

Just as I thought, Bo faked to his left and tried to beat me to the hoop right. I was ready and waiting. I stepped into his dribbling lane and knocked the ball clean from his hands. Bo started to complain that he'd been fouled, but his whining was aimed at the back of my head. I was already off and running. Nothing stood between me and the basket.

Mike was trailing me on the fast break and there was no one else in sight. "Right behind you, T! Showtime!" I knew exactly what to do. I pretended to go in for the lay up, but instead of scoring, I bounced the ball high off the tattered backboard and waited for Mike to snatch it from the air. He soared to the hoop, this time grabbing the basketball with his right hand and slamming the orange pill ferociously. The crowd began shaking at the fence again, "Did you see that? He was three feet above the rim!"

Mike and I bumped chests as the ball bounced helplessly below us. We dared Bo Johnson to pick it up and try his luck again. "Perfect pass, T!" Mike grabbed me by the shirt, "Now how's anyone gonna stop us, bro?" I smiled from ear to ear, envisioning our future as clearly as I had a thousand times before in my head.

We went on to win that game, 11 - 3. After we scored the final point, Bo Johnson threw the ball at my chest. He was always a sore loser, "That's bull, man. Didn't we make a rule that you and your brother couldn't play together?"

Mike walked up to Bo confidently. He palmed Bo's tiny head as he spoke, "I don't remember that rule. Do you T?"

"Nope, I don't remember that rule either." I threw the ball back to Bo, "Whose got next over here? The Hope brothers are all finished."

Mike and I stepped off the court together for the last time. We moved toward the wood bench outside of Vinny's Pizza. Xavier White walked toward us. "Been a great ride fellas. Make us proud." He shook our hands and walked away as quickly as he came. I looked up and noticed a small line forming in front of us. Old friends approached one by one to wish us luck, reminding us of our responsibility to them and to Harlem. These were the same guys we'd played with since we were kids, back when they used to call me "Shorty" and the only passing lanes I would see were in between the legs of my opponents.

We started to watch the next game, quietly realizing that while our world was changing, life in Harlem would remain the same. A gust of wind flung trash through the holes in the metal links that enclosed the courts. Thirty or forty players had short conversations while they leaned against the fence or sat on a nearby bench. Younger players bounced up and down, stretching their legs, each ready to prove that he was the next great one. Tomorrow, these same guys would still be watching and waiting. Music would blast the same way as it had since we were little. Only tomorrow, Mike and I wouldn't be there to hear it.

"You know, it's crazy saying goodbye. I've got to be honest, I don't want to leave this place." Mike stared off into space as a few more guys from the neighborhood passed by. "I wish they had a college in Harlem with a good hoops team, I'd play here in a second." Mike was nervous about leaving home. In eighteen years of life, we'd only left New York twice. Once to meet my great aunt Debra (who didn't remember us anyway), and the other time was when Mom saved up enough money to send us to basketball camp in Boston. Life had been simple up until now.

With college fifteen hours away, things were about to get much more complicated. For me, leaving home was something I looked forward to. Advancing closer to my NBA dream was all I ever thought about. For Mike though, things were more complex. Don't get me wrong, he loved basketball too. He was the captain of our team, and arguably the best player in the state. He'd also been crowned prom king, earned varsity letters in three sports, teachers loved him, and he was the most popular kid in school. Every girl I knew would blush when Mike glanced her way. I guess it's his easy smile, or the confident way he carries himself. People in Harlem followed my brother the way they would a movie star. So when Mike told me he didn't want to leave, I understood.

I stared into the crowded street, watching a homeless man search for scraps of food in an overstuffed garbage can. I tried to ease Mike's worries, "We need this move. You think life is good now, just wait until we're wearing NBA uniforms." I smiled. "Don't worry. We'll come back someday."

Steam rose up from the concrete streets. The August heat had taken over like a virus. Mike walked over to a hot dog vendor who sat in a lawn chair holding a broken umbrella. He was wiping sweat from the top of his head with an old handkerchief. Mike paid the man a dollar, slapped him five, and ate the undercooked dog in two bites. He walked back toward me, mustard running off his bottom lip, "All I'm saying T, is don't forget where you came from. This is home. We've got one last night in a place we've spent our entire lives. Let's make it a night we'll remember." Mike spoke with a determined look in his eyes.

"What do you mean?" I'd seen that look on my brother's face before. Like when we were eleven, and he convinced me to sneak out one night and shoot hoops in the middle of winter. He called it "an experiment of will power." As it turned out, our will was strong, but our bodies weren't. We both got so sick that we missed two weeks of school. And Mom punished us for two more weeks after that.

Or the time Tommy Hillson called me "stupid," and Mike promptly broke his nose with a left hook. The next day Tommy's dad called Mom, and we had to go over and apologize. That mistake grounded us for another two weeks. My brother had been getting me punished my whole life. Yeah, I'd seen that look before. It meant trouble.

Mike stared off into space and I repeated myself. "What do you mean? What are you gonna do?"

Mike grinned mischievously. "Relax, T, I'm just going to this party tonight. You should come."

I was never much for parties, "I don't know. I've gotta pack."

"Pack? Come on!" He pleaded with me. "Let loose a little, who knows, maybe you'll have some fun."

I had a hard time saying no to my brother, "Who's going?"

He paused. "Nick and Devon are picking me up - "

I cut him off. "I'm not going anywhere with those guys. You shouldn't either."

"All right Mr. Perfect, forget I said anything. I'm doing what I'm doing, you can come if you want." Mike bumped knuckles with me and walked away. Fifty yards later, he stopped. He wagged his finger at me, speaking sarcastically, "And make sure you're in bed by ten, Mister." Mike and I shared a laugh as he turned the corner for home.

I stayed to watch the last game of the day at the Jungle. I couldn't understand why he was going to a party with those two morons. Well, I wasn't going with him. That much was for sure.

It was five o'clock already and the sun was beginning to hide behind some of the taller buildings. I desperately wanted it to be morning. In just fifteen hours Mike and I would be sitting in our dorm room at UNY. I couldn't wait. I bounced up from my seat, ready to begin the next chapter of my life.

Four blocks later I approached our east Harlem apartment, 335 159th Street. Climbing eight flights of stairs every day helped strengthen my calves. The only guy I knew who could jump higher than the Hope brothers was Terry Jackson. He lived with his grandma on the twelfth floor. When I reached our place I pulled my keys from a pocket in my backpack and chipped a few pieces of red paint from our beat up door. Mom always complained to the landlord about the splintered wood, but he never fixed anything.

Mike beat me home by a few minutes. He and Mom were sitting on the couch watching television when I walked in. I bent over to drop Mom a kiss on may to the kitchen. She always had a smile on her face when her boys were in the house. I grabbed an apple from the fridge and took a huge bite. My cheeks were stuffed when my brother made a stupid face at me. I almost spit a pile of apple onto the floor, but swallowed through my laughter.

I stared out the kitchen window, thinking about college. The streets had turned black. The night was moving in.

I was startled by a knock at the door.

Mike jumped up from the couch, expecting company. When he opened the door, Nick Cipro and Devon Jacox were standing there with backpacks on. Nick stood about six-foot-three inches tall and was well built. He had dropped out of high school a year earlier to work at his cousin's car wash, but drinking and drugs had taken over his life. Devon was a scrawny guy who had a high pitched laugh like a hyena. He'd also dropped out of school. These were not the people I wanted hanging around my brother.

I half-heartedly slapped hands with Nick and Devon, biting my lip to stop myself from telling them to leave. I didn't want these guys in my house, kissing my mother's cheek and taking my brother off to some crazy party. I knew that, while they had nothing to lose, Mike stood to lose everything.

The room seemed to stand still. Devon made a funny comment and Mom started laughing. He laughed along with her and his high-pitched cackle really started to get at me. My eyes locked onto Mike's. I slowly shook my head from side to side. I spoke to him without saying a word. "Stay here tonight, Mike. We'll talk about UNY, look through pictures and pack our stuff. Me and you tonight, Hope."

It was just a few moments before the guys began heading out of the apartment. Nick and Devon wondered why I wasn't coming out with them. I think I said that I wanted to get a good night sleep before my big day tomorrow. The truth was, I wanted no part of their plans. Mike followed his 'friends' out. I slapped my brother's hand before he left.

I stared out the peephole, watching my brother disappear down the stairs. Mike even walked like a future all-star, chin up, smooth steps, never a change of pace. People claimed that when all was said and done, Mike would be the best to ever come out of Harlem. I always knew my brother was a better player than me. My job was easy. If he was open, I passed him the ball. If he was covered, I set a pick for him. If he took a bad shot, I battled for the rebound.

The telephone rang just as Mike disappeared down the stairs. I moved away from the door to answer.

The voice on the other end was panicked. "Tony, it's Lloyd. Where's Mike?"

Lloyd Bright was a friend of ours from school. "He just left with Nick and Devon. What's up? "

"I talked to Perry and he said that party was going to be crazy tonight."

"What do you mean, crazy?" I asked.

Lloyd was quick. "You know what I mean. The kind of party you go to if you're looking for trouble."

My heart jumped. "Well, what should I do?"

"I don't know, man. But if I were you, I'd get Mike out of there." Lloyd sounded serious.

"Where's the party?" I spoke while I changed into a pair of jeans.

"That's the problem, I'm not really sure. Perry says it's somewhere over by the high school." His clue was vague.

I hung up the phone and frantically laced up my sneakers. By leaving with Nick and Devon, Mike had taken a terrible shot. I had to get the rebound. "Mom, I'm going to meet Mike."

Mom responded from her bedroom. " I thought you said you were getting a good night's sleep."

"I will." I tried to hide any panic in my voice. "I gotta go, Mom." If I kept talking, I'd lose track of Mike.

"All right, baby. Be home by eleven-thirty."

I left the apartment, locking the door behind me. My last night in Harlem was going to be a lot different than I'd imagined. I wanted to be in my bed, dreaming of NBA super stardom. I wanted to be resting my head on my pillow, picturing myself with a University of New York jersey on my back, throwing alley-oop passes to my brother. Instead, I was racing out of our building as fast as I could.

When I reached the bottom of the staircase I noticed the guys walking east toward the river. I followed them stealthily from a block behind. I'd keep my eye out from a distance.

The three of them walked a few blocks until they reached Jenkins Park, better known in Harlem as the Park. This was where kids shot hoops before they earned an invite to the Jungle. I stopped for a second and remembered back when I played on these same beat up courts. The holes we'd cut out of the fence years ago to avoid the locked gates seemed to have shrunk in size. Or maybe I'd just gotten bigger. The rims still had no nets and on the far backboard, the letters 'LW' were written in bright blue. I knew those initials, Lamar Williams, Harlem's greatest player. You couldn't walk ten steps in Harlem without hearing about Lamar Williams and the legend of his "Sweet Feet."

Mike and I were once great players at the Park. But you're not a legend like "Sweet Feet" until you beat the best. This was our journey. And it all began six years earlier, right here, through the holes in the Park fence...