put Kanye on headphone blast and start focusing on the game tonight.
I only get about four steps before I see Uncle Kid waiting on me. He’s leaning against his dinged-up Nova, skinny as a lamp-post and a little disheveled. He’s got no coat on, just a dingy Nike sweatshirt that looks about as old as he is. He shivers in the wind. Still, when he sees me, he gives a big smile. “D-Bow!” he shouts, so loud I can hear it over my music. “You gotta be ready, son! Game day!”
I wanted to retreat into my own world for an hour or two before reporting back to the gym, but Kid’s energy is infectious. It’s almost like it’s his game tonight. I slide my headphones down around my neck and walk over. I offer a handshake, but he pulls me in and gives me a half-hug. “You’re my man, D-Bow. It all starts tonight,” he says. We stand there in the chill for a few seconds. I can sense the other students looking at us as they file out of school. I love my uncle, but he does look out of place so when he asks me if I want to take a ride, I jump on in.
That Nova of his is a sorry old bucket. Even as we climb in, I can hear the shocks squeak under our weight, and when the heater kicks on it sounds like somebody’s shuffling cards behind the dash. It smells like glue and stale food too.
Instead of taking me back home, Kid goes down Central, hangs a right on 32nd, then another right on Fall Creek Parkway. I figure he just wants to cruise around a bit, but when we pass under the red bridge of the Monon Trail, he points up at it, and I realize he’s got some lesson in store for me.
“See that?” Kid asks. “They connected that trail all the way from the North side to downtown, but they hit our neighborhood and they put it right over us, so all those people out biking and jogging with their dogs can pretend like we don’t even exist.”
“Yeah,” I say. I’ve heard this story before from my dad, as if I’m supposed to be offended by that trail. But like my mom points out, they just followed along the old railroad line, so if we’re supposed to get pissed off, then she says we might as well look up who the hell originally designed the city and then go shout at their graves. It’s just as productive as bitching about people from Noblesville riding their bikes, she says.
But there’s an edge to my uncle’s voice as he talks, and he grips the wheel a bit tighter with every block. His old sweatshirt hangs off his arm, and underneath it he looks thinner than usual. For as long as I can remember, Uncle Kid—Sidney, as my dad would stress—has been kind of a problem. I don’t mean he’s a bad guy. But there’s always been some kind of bad news swirling around him. He can never keep a job for long, he doesn’t get arrested, but he’s got friends in and out of jail, and he’s always got some scheme that’s going to turn things around that just makes my dad shake his head in disgust. And sure enough those schemes always lose money for Uncle Kid and he’s got to pound pavement to try to find someone who will hire him again.
He guns it to beat the light at Keystone. The whole car rattles and squeaks as he bounces through the intersection. He slows down then and goes quiet, but he frowns as he stares ahead. All this frustration started for Uncle Kid before I was born, back when he came out of Marion East only to see his basketball career go nowhere—or at least not as far as people thought it would. So he shuffled around, a disappointment to everyone. And that’s the thing. Even now, I feel like he’d be okay except that the weight of everyone else’s disappointment presses on him until he lives down to what they think of him. The only time I don’t see all of it weighing on him is when he’s on that Fall Creek court, schooling guys.
We roll north until Fall Creek becomes Binford. The houses on either side of us start to rise from more and more impressive lots. We go past a few commercial intersections—gas stations and fast food joints like anywhere else—but soon the lights get brighter and suddenly my uncle’s Nova appears out of place next to the luxury cars and new model SUVs.
“This is where you want to be,” Kid says, almost to himself. “Up here with the beautiful people.” In his voice, though, I hear both my mom’s resentment and my dad’s desire.
Then he hangs a right on some residential street and we wind back and forth through neighborhoods, some houses rising three stories up.
“I could have lived in places like this,” he says. “Just needed a break here and there.”
I don’t say anything. The truth? Hell yes, he could have lived in a mansion if things would have played out. But it seems rude to agree with someone who says something like that, like you’re calling attention to all the ways they screwed up. I’m not sure exactly where we are once we go under the interstate, but at some point I see us pass a sign that says we’ve crossed from Marion County into Hamilton County.
Uncle Kid just stares straight ahead. “Not that I’d want to live like all these people, but, D-Bow, up here they look after each other. It’s impossible for people up here to fail.” Then he looks over at me. “But, my man, down where we are, you have to look out for yourself. I learned that the hard way.”
He’s leading to something, and it doesn’t take me long to see what. We come down a hill past a country club, then hit a bigger intersection, and he turns onto 126th. Then there it is: Hamilton Academy, its lights up since their first game is tonight too.
“If I’d have played ball at a place like this,” Kid says, “instead of wasting my time with Joe Bolden, things would have been a lot different, I can tell you that.”
I slouch down in my seat and fold my arms. Hamilton’s a power in the state, cranking out Big Ten talent every year. Champs of our Regional five years running, with a state title to boot. Right now, there’s a junior there—Vasco Lorbner, 6'8" with range and skills—that has every college in the country beating a path to his door.
“I’m not stupid, you know,” I tell my uncle. “I hear what Mom and Dad say. I know what you’re getting at.”
“Well?” he says.
“Well, if you want to tell me something, tell it.” I look out the window now at Hamilton Academy. Ten years ago, that school was a little 2A hole-in-the-wall, but every year the people pour North. And they bring their cash. Now that place is a cathedral—brand new facilities and trees lining the drive—compared to the old decaying brick of Marion East.
Uncle Kid just laughs, that kind of aggravating sound people make when they think they know better than you. He wheels into Hamilton Academy and then hangs a U-turn, starting our journey back home. “All I’m saying is you have options I never had. Think about it.”
We don’t say a word to each other for a while then, and soon enough he’s got us back out to Binford, puttering south into a cold drizzle.
“Can we get a move on?” I say. “I got to get my head ready for Arlington tonight.”
Uncle Kid pauses and shakes his head, but then he hits the accelerator. The Nova jumps forward, the whole car rattling with the effort.
5 – GREEN
4 – STANFORD
3 – BEDFORD
2 – VARNEY
1 – STARKS
That’s what’s written on the chalkboard in big white caps when I come through the locker room door. I’m one of the last ones there, thanks to Uncle Kid burning up my time, and nobody even looks up at me. Everyone’s getting taped up or already pulling on their gear. Coach Murphy, standing at the front of the locker room, is the only one
