Boot(s)

4-Boots

Peter "Boots" Jackson

One of my all-time favorite memories comes from high school. I was a nineteen-year-old junior, barely passing all of my classes. I had repeated sixth grade, then eighth. I was in danger of repeating eleventh. I had never really worried about it, until all these colleges started recruiting my best friend Bo for basketball. Bo was off to college soon, like all the other kids at Prep. But me, I had no fucking clue where I was going.

This night, the night of my favorite high school memory, all of that went away. The only emotion in my anxiety-prone chest this night was happiness.

"Oh fuck right off, won't you? Do you see this sign? DO YA? Bobby O'Callahan is my best friend and I will be sitting front row whether you move your ass or not."

Despite the fact that the man sitting in Jessie and me's usual spot in the plastic Prep bleachers was three times the size of her, he mumbled a few choice words and scooched down to make room for the two of us. She turned around to look at me with her classic and-that's-how-it's-done eyebrow raise. I grinned wildly back at her, then settled into the seat.

Since the first time he played in a game his sophomore year (the other lanky, tall, never-missed-a-three-pointer player on their team tore his ACL and was out for the season), Bo O'Callhan—Cal everyone called him now—was a certified Atlanta celebrity.

That first game he blocked more shots and scored more threes than the top four players on the opposing team combined. He had been a fixture on the starting lineup ever since. Tonight was the semi-finals in their bracket of the state tournament and Prep had done well enough to host it. Jessie and I had only been late to the game because the spray paint we used to write on the white poster board in the parking lot wouldn't dry fast enough for us to hold them up without the letters running. Jessie had written the classic, "I love you Cal #13," while I stuck to the more appropriate "O Captain my Captain." It was a line from a poem Bo's dad framed for him once he got the nomination at the start of his junior season. The poem didn't do much for me, but Bo was all excited when he told me about it, so I thought it'd make him smile.

And it did. As soon as he came jogging in from the locker room, the only white boy leading the onyx sea of basketball players, he looked up for us, saw our signs, and tossed his head back and laughed. Of course we couldn't hear him over the thunder of the feet on the bleachers and our own deafening screams, but still. He was laughing.

The game was a bit of blur, mostly because I had gone to every single home game those two years, and Bo performed the same at all of them—undeniably incredible. He was the team's MVP.

But I do remember the loudness, the screams, and the chants of his name. Maybe it was because it was the semis, but the chants for Cal were some of the loudest I had ever heard them. Maybe that's what fueled him, because to this day, he still claims this was the best game in his basketball career. I won't give too much away, but his basketball career does include five years in the NBA. So.

For some reason, he was playing point in the middle of the game. I didn't remember if someone got hurt or he just found himself there or coach put him there or if I am not remembering correctly at all. All I know is I watched him dribble, dribble, then charge and weave and score a jump shot or a layup from the top of half-court fifteen separate times. I remember thinking he can't do this again. He's hunched over, he's barely able to dribble he's so tired. And the Hawks had certainly caught on to his act. If they hadn't, they didn't deserve to be on the god damned court. But Cal, by then, was being labeled one of the best high school basketball players in Georgia. So, his eyes on the clock, stopping to wipe his forehead with one hand while he dribbled with the other, he charged again, weaved again, and went in for his sixteenth lay up from half-court. And he made it, of course.

And those were only his two-pointers. The man was a machine. Every time he was left alone outside the arc, even for a millisecond, Cal drained a shot. That night, he took maybe 40 threes. His shooting percentage from the three-point range was 89%. That is literally impossible.

That night, Cal single-handedly beat the Hawks. He had fifty-nine points. Final score was 101-43. And the Hawks had been labeled the toughest team to beat in the conference. At the end of that game, I could have kissed him. But someone, surprisingly enough, got there first.

The crowd had stormed the court as soon as the buzzer signaled the final seconds of the game had ended. Being in the front row, Jessie and I had easy access to head straight for Cal. We always did this, so he knew we were coming. He turned from where he was standing, just outside the arc, a few steps away from the Hawks' bench. He saw us in a full sprint towards him, and broke out into the biggest grin I had ever seen on his face. His hands fell onto his knees in exhaustion.

I jumped on him, wrapping my legs around the side of his torso. Jessie clung on to his other half, screaming obscenities in his ear. I gave his disgustingly sweaty head my best noogie, then hopped off his body, ready to slap his back and discuss every last shot he took.

But then, out of nowhere, Jessie was gripping his cheeks. And then she was pressing her lips onto his like we were in the cast of god damned High School Musical. Cal immediately put his hands up, like he was about to be shot, or arrested. His eyes were wide open. I still think this is the first time he had ever been kissed, just by this horrifying reaction alone, but he claims it wasn't.

And then I was smiling this stupid dumb smile and laughing at the sight of my best friend being kissed and acting like he's been knifed. "Hubba hubba, Jess!" I remember saying, or something stupid like that. She broke away from him, completely unabashed or embarrassed. Cal's face had grown more beet red, if that was possible, by the time my current girlfriend joined us. She slipped her hands into mine and offered Cal her congratulations.

He smiled awkwardly, like he always did around Jamie, but thanked her and turned to exchange some inaudible whispers with Jessie.

"So," I rudely interrupted them, grabbing Cal's shoulder. "Y'all sweet on each other these days? Did I miss something?"

Neither Jessie nor Cal looked very embarrassed, surprisingly. Cal just shook his head and started to say something about heading back to the locker room to shower.

"Hey, before you go," I shook my hand away from Jamie's blue manicured fingers. "Y'all are coming out tonight to celebrate right? Plenty of booze for the two you."

Cal mumbled something again, but I didn't catch it. He dug a few fingers into Jessie's shoulder. I found the action strange.

"What Bo?

"I said I'm not really in the mood. Got a work out in the morning. I'll catch you later." He turned, walking quickly towards the locker room without even waiting for my response.

I gave Jessie a look. "What's his deal?"

Strangely, Jessie didn't have anything to say. She shrugged, then waved goodbye, and took off after Bo.

I waited to leave until I watched her reach him. She tossed an arm around his lower back. For some reason, I wanted him to shake her off. But all he did was grip her shoulder and pull her into him tighter.