Rust and Bone by Craig Davidson

the court, no matter how tight the coverage, he’s draining it. Running one-hander from the elbow—good. Fadeaway three-ball with a defender down his throat—good. High-arcing teardrop in traffic—good. In my head I’m hearing Marv Albert, longtime New York Knickerbockers play-by-play man and purloiner of women’s undergarments: Mikan takes the ball at the top of the circle, shakes his man, hoists up a prayer— YESSSSS! Twisting circus shot around two defenders—good. Step-back three launched from another zipcode—good. The lead’s flipped, 22-17; the Yanks’ faces are stamped with grimaces of utter disbelief.
    â€œThis cat’s got the skills to pay the bills, ladies and gentlemen!”
    Throughout this shooting display Jason’s expression never changes: a vacant, vaguely disgusted look like he’s sniffed something rank. He doesn’t follow the ball after it leaves his hand, as though unwilling to chart its inevitable drop through the hoop. If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost think he wants to miss. Scan the crowd for a familiar face, my shitheel supervisor Mr. Riley maybe— See that, asshole? That’s my son! My good genes MADE that! What did your genes ever make, Riley? Oh, that’s right—a few stains on the bedsheets and a PUSSY TAX CONSULTANT!
    The game-winning shot’s a doozy. Jason passes down to Al, who is blocked but corrals the ball and shuttles it to Jason. The other point guard’s tight to his vest and Jason backs off, dribbling the ball high. Maybe it’s just the malt liquor but at this moment he appears to move in a cocoon of beatific light: glowing sundogs and sparkling scintillas robe his arms and legs. He goes right but so does his defender, swiping at the ball, almost stealing it. They’re down along the baseline, Jason’s heels nearly out of bounds and he shoots falling into the crowd, a dozen arms outstretched to cradle him and as he’s going down I hear him say, in a small defeated voice, “Glass.” The ball banks high off the backboard and through the net.
    â€œThe dagger!” screams the announcer. “Oh lord, he hits the dagger! ”
    The crowd breaks up, drifting away in twos and threes to bars and parks and restaurants. A work crew dismantles the nets and sound equipment, packing everything into cube vans to truck to the next venue.
    â€œGreat game, son.” Somehow I’ve managed to slop beer down myself so it looks I’ve pissed my pants. Try to pawn it off as excitement. “A real barnburner—look, you got me sweating buckets.”
    Jason’s sitting on the curb with his teammates. “Yeah, guess it was a pretty good one.”
    To Kevin and big Al: “Lucky Jason was here to drag your asses out of the fire, huh?”
    They don’t reply but instead pull off their shoes and socks, donning summer sandals. Big Al’s toenails thick yellow and thorny, curling over his toes like armor plating.
    â€œWhat say I take you boys out for dinner?” I offer breezily. “A champion’s feast.”
    â€œThat’s okay,” Jason says. “Kev’s parents are having a barbecue. They’ve got a pool.”
    â€œA pool? How suburban.” Jam one hand in my pocket, scratch the nape of my neck with the other. “So Kev, where’s your folks’ place at?”
    Kevin hooks a thumb over his shoulder, an ambiguous gesture that could conceivably indicate the city’s southern edge, the nearest town, or Latin America.
    â€œCould I tag along?”
    Jason sits with his legs spread, head hanging between his knees. “I don’t know. They sort of, like, only did enough shopping for, y’know, us three.”
    â€œWell, wouldn’t come empty-handed. I could grab some burgers, or … Cheetos.”
    â€œYou see, it’s like, we kind of got a full car. Y’know, Al and me and all our gear and