This is the Part Where You Laugh by Peter Brown Hoffmeister Page B

on you.”
    “Fuck you,” the gangbanger says, and takes it all the way to the rim at the other end, but one of the bigs blocks his shot.
    “Foul,” he says.
    “What?” Creature jogs up next to him.
    “I called a foul, motherfucker.”
    “Even though he blocked you clean and clear as day?”
    The big looks at the gangbanger, then back at Creature. “Whatever,” he says. “He can choose to call that.”
    “No,” Creature says. “Everyone and
your
mother”—he taps the gangbanger’s chest—“knows that wasn’t a foul.”
    “Keep talking,” the gangbanger says, “and I’ll cut your mouth out with a razor blade.”
    “Oooh,” Creature says, “talk dirty to me, baby. I like that,” and he winks. “I guess we’ll check you the ball, then.”
    I step over next to Creat as we set up on defense. I say, “Chill a little. Let’s roll these guys and get on to the next game.”
    “Really?” he says, and he says it loudly enough for everyone to hear, even the people on the sidelines waiting to take next. “You think this guy is getting tired of me dragging his limp dick up and down the court?”
    Someone courtside yells, “Boom, Creature! Damn!”
    And Creature smiles at me. “Sorry. I had to say that.”
    Everyone laughs but the gangbanger. When the next ball goes out of bounds, the gangbanger says, “Keep talking, I’ll wreck you. You’ll see.”
    Creature steps up eye to eye with him, right there on the baseline, and the game stops. Everyone can tell that Creature is as athletic in a fight as he is on the court. His hands are huge for his size and he leaves them open before he fights like he might do anything. Maybe rip a man’s arm off. Maybe break his teeth. Gouge out eyes with his thumbs.
    Creature says, “We could just squabble right here, P-Town boy. Right now. Is that what you want?”
    That gangbanger doesn’t know what to say. He isn’t in his hometown, on his home court. He can’t just call for backup, and I see his eyes flicker back and forth as he looks at Creature and considers his options.
    I step up next to both of them and say, “Hey, boys, can we just play some more ball, huh? Give this one up?” I try to allow them both a chance to step away. Then I use a phrase I saw my uncle Henry use once outside a bar. I say, “Y’all both look tough enough to me.”
    And that does it. It works.
    “All right,” Creature says, and nods. “I think we’re done here.”
    After that fourth game ends, we play the next game and win, but not like we should. Creature keeps looking over at the gangbanger, who’s on the sideline now. Creature keeps flexing his chest, winking at him, kissing the air when he hits a shot. And twice Creature gets beat on fast-break layins at the other end while he’s showboating to that sideline.
    “Creature,” I say, “the game’s right here, man. It’s right here.”
    This side of Creature annoys me. Even in league games, in games that count, he can get like this. And when he does, I spend all my time thinking about him. I can’t lose myself in the game the way I want to. There’s no flow. No rhythm. No pace. And we don’t dominate like we should.
    Creature says, “I got this, baby. I got this locked down.”
    “You better,” I say, “ ’cause this is garbage.”
    We win the fifth game 11 to 7—sad to me because the fifth opponent is the worst we’ve played yet. I have to use our three bigs over and over because Creature isn’t setting quality screens anymore, and we certainly aren’t killing anyone in the pick-and-roll.
    In the sixth game, my bigs are tired and we get run off the court. The gangbanger walks off somewhere near the end of the game, so Creature can’t talk trash to him on the sidelines anymore. Creature tries to step it up after that. He scores three baskets in a row, but it’s too late. We lose the game 11 to 8.
    On the sideline, Creature and I share a jug of SunnyD. I say, “You’ve got to focus better than that, man.