Chapter VII

VII

 

Some chubby little boy was crying for his mask and snorkel.  The other kids were playing keep-away.  I got up and intervened, returning the boy’s stuff.  A nearby mom frowned at me.  So I went back to my apartment.  I reviewed notes on a lecture from someone in my study group, but after an hour or so I took a break.  I checked the cable channels and decided to head on down to the courts for some hoops.  At the bottom of the hill, I ran into two guys my age.  I recognized them from the games I’d seen on the court nearest the parking lot.  Those guys played above the rim.  So I didn’t know what to think when the tall one called me out.

“Hey, haven’t I seen you shooting baskets?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Do you hoop?” asked his shorter friend.

“I can hoop,” I said.

“We need another body for three-on-three,” said the taller one. 

I had heard other guys on the court talk about him.  He played at Dayton and his friend was a teammate from high school.  Their game was at a much higher skill level than mine.

“I don’t play above the rim,” I told them.

“Do you know the rules?” asked the shorter guy.

“I’ve played,” I replied.

The smaller one looked at his friend and then turned to me and extended his hand.

“I’m Joe,” he said.

“Rich,” I said, shaking it.

“And I’m Doug,” said the taller one, stepping in and fisting me.

“Let’s go,” said Joe.

I followed them down to the courts at the far end of the park.  We hooked up with two others guys shooting baskets�"and Madigan talking on his cell phone.

“What about this guy?” Doug asked.

Madigan ended his conversation. Then he walked over to his gym bag and put the phone inside and pulled out a wrist band.  Everyone waited his response.

“He’s mine,” said Madigan, adjusting the band.

I couldn’t believe it.  He had never seen me play.  I didn’t have much of a game.  In fact, I was so accustomed to being chosen last that I pointed at myself just to make sure.  Madigan nodded.

“You can have Red to,” added Doug.

Red walked over and fisted me.

“You got game?” he asked.

“Don’t worry about him,” said Madigan.

He bounced the ball to Doug.

“You covering me?” he asked. 

Madigan nodded.  Doug smiled.

“Let’s do this,” he said.

He looked at his two teammates and turned to Madigan, bouncing the ball to him.

“To twenty,” said Doug. 

“Whatever you want,” said Madigan.

He bounced it back to Doug.

“Make it; take it?” he asked.

“No two point margin to win, though.”

Doug agreed.  Madigan pointed at Joe.

“I got him,” said Red.

 Madigan pointed at the smallest guy on the other team and looked at me. 

“Take him,” he said.

I wish I had, but unfortunately that guy took me.  He made a lay-up and hit a wide-open jump shot.  After my guy made another uncontested jumper, Red got in my face.

“Where’s the damn D?” he demanded.

“You worry about your man,” barked Madigan.

“But�"”

“No but,” he said.

Red didn’t say another word.  Madigan looked at me.

 “You’re his shadow,” he said, pointing at my man, “Don’t leave him.  Whether he’s got the ball or not, stay between him and the basket.”

That’s exactly what I did.  I didn’t shut him down, but he didn’t get any more wide-open shots.  He missed a few.  I even stole a pass to Doug.  As for the rest of my game, Madigan took it beyond my wildest expectations.  He dished me the ball while I ran along the baseline.  I made my first ever reverse lay-up.  Unfortunately, Doug was good, and he was on fire.  Our team was down by four baskets. 

“Show time,” said Doug,

“Not yet,” smiled Madigan.

“You can’t stop me,” said Doug.

Madigan just looked at him.  Doug dribbled the ball from one hand to the other.  Then he stopped and stared down Madigan

“Game,” said Doug, bouncing the ball to Madigan.

He tossed it back.  Doug lunged forward.  Madigan swiped the ball and passed it down court for an easy layup.  Their next position Madigan blocked a shot and scored.  He made the assist to tie the game.  Our next position he drove the lane.  Doug stood his ground.  Madigan dumped the ball off to me.  I kissed it off the backboard.

“First time I ever scored the winning basket,” I confided as Madigan and I made our way up the hill.

“Your problem is you think too much,” he said.  “Don’t think; just do it.”

“That’s not easy when you don’t have game,” I said.

He laughed.

“You got game.”

“Not much,” I said.

“Enough,” he said.  “We play every Friday afternoon.”

“I’ll remember that,” I said; then added, “Thanks for the invite to your parties.”

“Thank Heather,” he said, “She likes you.”

“She’s not my type,” I told him.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“She’s married.”

“She’s getting a divorce,” he said.

“She’s still married.”

“That shouldn’t stop you from going for it.”

“It’s reason enough for me,” I said.

“You must have an eye for that blonde.”

“If you mean Ashley�"”

He nodded.

“She has a boyfriend,” I said; and then, changing the subject back to Heather, “She told me that she knew you when you lived in Chicago.”

“Well, I’m not actually from Chicago,” he said.

“That’s what she and Mrs. Dinsmore told me.”

He chuckled.  “I’m from the suburbs.  Are you familiar with Naperville?”

“I’ve been there once,” I replied.

“I have family there,” he said, and raising his arms, added, “Besides, you tell someone Naperville and you end up telling them Chicago.”

“So how did you meet Heather?”

“We have a mutual friend,” he replied; then quickly came back, “I’m told you’re a grad student at Dayton.”

I nodded.

He asked, “Mathematical modeling or applied statistics?”

“Mostly statistics,” I replied, “I’d like to try my hand at risk analysis.”

He laughed.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“I’d love to sell you the Brooklyn Bridge,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean you’re going to buy it.”

“Well, if you must know,” I said.  “English was my primary major.”

“Then why don’t you teach?”

“I want to write.”

“Then write,” he said.

“I can’t finish anything.”

“Quit trying to be perfect,” said Madigan, “Just write.”

“When did you become an expert?”

“English for the Professions was my college major.  I specialized in marketing in grad school.  I sell technology.”

“Well, you’re obviously very good at it.”

“It pays the bills,” he said; then, extending his hand, “I don’t think I properly introduced myself.  I’m Matthew J. Madigan, but call me Madigan.”

I shook his hand.  “I’m Rich Winston.”

“Rich,” he repeated with a slight nod of his head. 

“Everyone calls me Rich.”

“Rich,” he repeated again.

I nodded, “My birth name is Richard.”

He rubbed his chin and snapped his finger.

“Mind if I call you Ritchie?” he asked.

“Call me�"”

“Hey,” he jumped in, “I was about to get something to eat.  Would you like to join me?”

“Well, I need to take a shower.”

“Me to,” he said.  “Meet me in front of my garage.”

When I got to his place the garage door was open.  He was pulling the cover off his black Jaguar XKR convertible.  I had heard some mention of Madigan’s Jaguar, but folks spoke more about his Harley.

“You like wings?” he asked.

“Sure,” I replied, “Who doesn’t.”

I helped him fold the cover.

“I know a place where they make them red-hot,” he told me.

“I’m game,” I said, handing my folded end to him.

“You sure?” he asked. 

I nodded.

“These are really hot and not part of any meal plan,” he said, placing the cover on top of a work bench.

“I allow for hot wings.”

“Good,” he said, jumping in the car.

He started it up.

“Get in,” he said, opening the passenger door.

I got in the car.  He rolled out of the garage. 

“It’s a 525 audio system with eight high-output, low-distortion speakers,” he said.

I nodded.

“Under the hood there’s a supercharged 5.0 liter V8,” he said. 

He accelerated down the service drive to the County Line Road access.  He pulled out.  Then he punched the gas to the intersection.  He turned right on red without stopping and headed east on Dorothy Lane. 

“My father has a much older model,” I said. 

Madigan noticed two young ladies checking us out in a sport car.  He saluted in their direction.  Then they disappeared in his rearview mirror. 

“He only drives the car on occasion,” I went on, “Usually with my mom.”

Madigan mentioned the need to feel the wind in his face; but not until much later did I find out what that implied.  By then, my curiosity about him had waned into little more than a terrible accident waiting to occur; which was what unnerved me as he swerved into a right turn without even hitting the brakes.  

He looked at me and turned up a song by the Rolling Stones.  I braced my hands against the dashboard.  He drove with reckless abandon, winding in and out of traffic to the beat of Sympathy for the Devil. He veered to the right where Wilmington Pike goes left and Smithville Road heads into Dayton proper.

He turned up the volume and sang, “Pleased to meet you.  Hope you guessed my name.”