The AntiChrist Was Conceived in Queens

Chapter 3 - He Got Game

Chapter 3

He Got Game

For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.

~ Ephesians 6:12

“You got to be forgiven first!” Rain recognized the voice ringing through the congested park. “Jesus said so!”

Past the high cement wall that formed two handball courts, opposite the Stage was a big, round, bald man of 25. His name was Buddha, his belly was overpowering his t-shirt, and he was preaching Jesus, pointing a big black bible at the people milling about and ignoring him. “Listen to me young people,” he went on, saliva spraying past the megaphone in front of his face. “Ain’t nothin’ you can do for God to make up for your sins. You just gotta accept his forgiveness. That’s the only thing that covers a wrong. Forgiveness! And God has already forgiven you!”

Rain dipped his chin, trying to avoid eye contact, and headed for the basketball court hoping it wouldn’t happen again. But he wasn’t fast enough.

“Rain!” cried Buddha through the megaphone, interrupting his sermon. “Rain Reynolds! I see you, and so does God. He’s got his hand on you, brother. You can’t keep running forever. Surrender now before it’s too late.”

Rain walked past Buddha, shaking his head. Sometimes, when Rain actually stopped to listen to the park preacher, Buddha made some good points. But not this time. Everybody knows the only thing that covers a wrong is reparations. Payback. That was the creed Rain, and virtually everyone he knew, lived by. Reconciliation requires reparations. If Rain were God, that’s what he’d demand. Reparations from the entire human race, instead of offering forgiveness, because forgiveness is too soft, too weak.

Rain ducked through the opening in the chain link fence and called out, “Who got next?!” Heads along the fence turned to see who it was, noticed the gold-on-purple lettering that said Rain played for the borough champs & PSAL runner-up, and then turned back to the game in progress.

Spongie, a popular freshman whose hands and feet were growing much faster than the rest of his body, sitting on a ball near half-court pointed at him. At the same time the biggest man on the court hollered in Rain’s direction. “Yo, you could run with us right now!”

Wherever they played Hassan was the biggest baller on the court.

“But you’ve got five,” Rain said.

“C’mon, yo,” said Hassan. “We need your handle.”

His gold tooth and earring glinted in the September sun, and his swollen bicep glistened like a wet shot-put just beyond the curled edges of his cut-off sweatshirt as he held the ball in a triple-threat stance. Rain remembered the last practice of the season when coach Maroni told him and the other guards to work on staying in a triple-threat stance during the summer so that they would always be in position to shoot, pass, or drive to the bucket.

Rain chuckled to himself. The most annoying thing about Hassan Butler was that whenever he got a rebound he hated to throw the outlet pass to the guards, whose job it was to advance the ball. Instead Hassan would lumber up the court with his head down, determined to take the ball to the basket, coast-to-coast, and prove to scouts that he had a handle. His family filling his head with ideas of going pro after high school didn’t help either.

“What’s the count?” Rain asked.

“We just started,” said Hassan. Then he turned to a pale, rail-thin kid Rain had seen around a few times before and said, “Yo, Pablo, step. My boy taking the rest of your run.” And Pablo stepped, without protest, blending in with the rest of the crowd lining the fences hoping for a chance to play.