Kick by Walter Dean Myers Page A

Avenue. You know where they were going to build that park?”
    â€œIt’s got that little pool for kids?” Kevin asked.
    â€œRight. Anyway, there was an abandoned building across from the park and we were told that some crackheads were using it to sleep in. I went in and didn’t see anything on the first floor. I called up the stairs to see if anyone was in the building. No answer.
    â€œMy partner went to the rear of the building and I headed up the stairs. I didn’t expect any trouble. I looked around on the second floor and it looked empty. I was looking for trash, empty food containers, things like that. I thought I saw something in a corner and put my flashlight on it, and all of a sudden, I heard a gunshot. I turned and saw this jerk with a pistol in his hand. He fired again and I drew my weapon. He tried to shoot again, but his gun jammed and he threw it at me.
    â€œI told him to hit the ground, but he took off running toward the back of the building. I thought he might be going for another gun, but I saw him head toward the window. I got to the window and saw him climbing down the fire escape. I was pretty sure I recognized him. We picked him up two days later. You got all that?”
    â€œYeah, I guess,” Kevin answered.
    â€œI could have shot the guy when his gun jammed and he was still pulling the trigger. I could have shot him when he started to run. I could have shot him as he climbed down the fire escape. But even though I would have been justified in using my weapon, I didn’t, for two reasons. One, I had more to lose than he did if the shooting was judged to be not justified. The second reason, and the most important, was that I held myself to a higher standard than that sucker. You get my drift?”
    â€œI didn’t shoot anybody.”
    â€œYou hit a kid on the field today because he wasn’t playing the way you thought he should have been,” I said. “He set the standard and you sunk to it. Or was I seeing wrong out there?”
    â€œYou were watching—you weren’t on the field!”
    â€œAnd the refs, were they just watching , too? And was everybody out there wrong but you?”
    â€œSorry.”
    â€œKevin, don’t tell me you’re sorry,” I said. “Sorry is about forgetting to pick up the milk. Sorry is dropping a glass or making a mistake on a math test. Punching somebody on a soccer field, getting suspended from the game, is not sorry. It’s called stupid.”
    â€œI guess I’m stupid, then.”
    â€œWas I wrong about you?” I asked him. “Maybe you’re not a good kid who needs a break. Maybe you’re a young man who thinks he can do whatever he wants as long as he thinks it’s right.”
    â€œLook, I’m trying to do the right thing. I’m trying to do the right thing on the field and off. When you’re sitting on one of the benches watching the game and you have time to . . . to . . . ”
    â€œTo think about what should happen?”
    â€œYeah. If that ref had been watching all along, that wouldn’t have happened.”
    â€œLife doesn’t work that way and you’re not going to be able to change that,” I said.
    â€œWhatever—the next time I’ll just let them push us around and win the game easy,” Kevin said. His voice had lowered. His head drooped.
    â€œThe thing to remember, Kevin, is that there won’t always be a next time.”
    I motioned toward his house and watched Kevin start up his driveway.
    On the way home I wondered again if we all had been wrong about Kevin. He acted too quickly on the field and had to be pulled away from the fight. Off the field, talking to him, he didn’t seem like a hothead, but the punch he threw at the kid who fouled his teammate looked hard and deliberate.
    I got home and told Carolyn what had happened.
    â€œAre you telling me that you never got into a fight at his age?” she