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Ball Don't Lie Review"I could tell you a lot about this game....
"How a dark gym like Lincoln Rec is a different world. Full of theft and dunk, smooth jumpers and fragile egos. Full of its own funky politics and stratification. Music bleeding out of old rattling speakers from open to close. Old rhythm and blues. Stevie Wonder. Aretha Franklin. Funk. Motown. Marvin Gaye. Sometimes Jimmy gets talked into hard-core rap on weekends. Or Trey sneaks in his three-year-old demo tape.
"Always music.
"There are fat rats that scurry through the lane on game point. Beady eyes on the man with the ball. There are roaches congregating under the bleachers.
"There is so much dust on the slick floor that sometimes guys will go to stop and slide right out of the gym. Every time there's a break in the action, ten guys put palm to sole for grip.
"There are a hundred different ways of talking and a thousand uses of the word motherf____r.
"There are no women.
"In the winter there are so many homeless bodies spread out across court two you can hardly see the floor. There are leaks when it rains. Rusted pots are set out to collect heavy drops. Sometimes a guy will track in mud and everybody throws a fit. Jimmy sets out a twenty-five-dollar heater and everybody puts their hands up to it before they play."
Court one at Lincoln Rec is the epicenter of Sticky's life in L.A. and of his dreams for the future. Lincoln Rec is a constant for him, a positive one, unlike that series of light-colored minivans that have repeatedly arrived at the group home over the years carrying foster parents who pick him up, make him big promises about a real home...promises that for various reasons always go up in smoke and leave him, once again, chillin' back at the group home.
Court one is where he, a seventeen-year-old white boy, builds his skills playing an extremely physical style of pickup basketball with an assortment of tough, older black guys. On court one, where either you are seriously in the zone or you're spending all day with your butt in the bleachers, Sticky is determined to play and win.
As Dante, a former pro player and a regular at Lincoln Rec explains to him, Sticky has started the "life being a race" thing "three stones back." Not only has Sticky had to deal with the failings of his drug-addicted, prostitute mother and, later, with those repeated rejections by foster parents, but he also has "that mental thing, where you gotta do stupid stuff over and over and over." The depictions of Sticky's frequent ritualistic behaviors, revealing his struggles with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, are agonizing. But, ironically, it is that same compulsion that keeps him so focused on constantly perfecting his skills, whether they be related to basketball or to other, less noble, pursuits.
"Won't you help me girl
Just as soon as you can?"
--Al Green
There's the bright high school girl with the beautiful green eyes, Anh-thu, who works in Miller's Outpost. Sticky meets her one day when he drops in there to steal some new pants. "Annie" seems able to see through the hard shell to the real Sticky.
The story bounces back and forth from Lincoln Rec to scenes of Sticky's early days with his mother, the different experiences with foster families, playing J.V. hoops at school, hanging out partying with the guys, and being with Anh-thu. All together, there must be a hundred different characters we meet, and each one is unique and memorable. A number of those characters are homeless, some sleeping on cardboard on court two, others in a public toilet somewhere. Sticky's world is on the underbelly side of L.A. And regularly we get glimpses of the "other world" in the form of faceless businessmen who come walking in on their lunch break to watch what's going on and then return to their offices to tell their co-workers about the games, the fights, and, undoubtedly, about the skinny white kid with the moves.
"Rob's weight is on the back of his heels on defense. Waiting.
"The face rattles off truth in situations like this. Fear flickering in Rob's wide eyes: Get too close and Sticky sticks a jumper in his eye. Too many possibilities when the man with the ball gets to say which way and when, how fast and for how long. And you can multiply all that by ten if the guy can play. Get busted on in front of everybody. Get dragged all game by the skinny white kid everybody talks about.
"All the loudmouths on the sideline are at full attention.
"Sticky jab-steps right and pulls back, keeps his dribble.
"Rob retreats.
"Sticky is: through the legs, around the back, playing hoops with a yo-yo. Walk the dawg when everybody calls for a trick. Hold the ball too long.
"He is: stolen Nike shoes, stolen mesh shorts, ankle socks. Back and forth handling the ball, knees bent, his eyes in Rob's eyes. Piss off the old purists who cry for a return to fundamentals. The ones who've lost so much vision they're blind to the dance of it all. The spin move like a skirt lifting pirouette on callaused toes. The dip. Jump shot splashing through the net like a perfect dismount."
A damaged white teenager, a bunch of tough black "ballers," a dark rec center in L.A., and the girl with the eyes come together to make this gritty, urban story a powerful, rhythmic read. The thrumming beats and the sweat dripping out from between the pages also place author Matt de la Pena squarely in contention for Rookie of the Year honors.
You'll see this on my Best of 2005 list later this year.
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