Rucker Park Setup Read Online Free Page A

call at the end of the game might go his way.
    Fat Anthony’s got two goons on his squad, and getting close to the basket’s like being in a football game. It’s that rough.
    The painted rectangle from the backboard to the foul line, fifteen feet away, is called “The House.” Only there aren’t any welcome mats for kids in different colored jerseys, just elbows and forearms to greet you.
    That crap stops lots of teams without any heart. But nobody on our side’s backing down an inch, especially in front of a crowd like this.
    Non-Fiction misses a shot, and I push the ball back the other way in a hurry. Two of Fat Anthony’s guys follow after me, so I know somebody’s running free. I look up on instinct, expecting to see J.R. waving his arms, like I couldn’t get him the ball fast enough.
    But J.R.’s not here.
    There’s a kid in green alone on the other side of the court. I whip him a pass, and he drives for the hoop. That’s when one of Anthony’s goons hammers him hard to the ground.
    Three Non-Fiction dudes are standing over him.
    â€œNot in our house!” one of them pops off.
    Hamilton is already between them, and everybody in green is rushing over to stick up for their man. Players on both benches are standing, and Mitchell’s holding back our guys.
    Greene jumps the scorer’s table and makes a run at Fat Anthony, till two cops get in front of him. But Anthony doesn’t budge. He just stares straight at Greene, and the corners of his mouth curl up in a smile. The crowd is split between boos and cheers. And Stove is in the middle of everything, laying down the law.
    Stove gets Mitchell and Fat Anthony out at center court, away from everybody. But Stove is so hyped that half the park can hear his speech.
    â€œI’ll kick the next player out of this game who crosses the line. I don’t care how important he is to your team,” warns Stove. “I don’t referee football or boxing, just hoops!”
    Then everything settles down, and the game starts up again.
    Players on both squads are flat-out fast. Only Stove hasn’t been on a court in a few weeks. There are circles under his eyes, and he’s breathing hard to keep up. And the next time the ball goes out-of-bounds, Stove stalls for time by walking it over to the scorer’s table and wiping it dry. But it’s mostly slick from his own sweat.
    I step in front of a pass headed for a Non-Fiction kid and jet the other way with it. They’ve got two guys back between me and the basket, so I rocket straight for the first one. A couple of steps before him, I dip my head and shoulders to the right. Soon as he bites, I cross over to my left. The guy almost breaks his ankles trying to stay with me and falls to the floor with his feet twisted in a knot.
    â€œHe got corkscrewed!” screams Acorn.
    There’s a goon planted under the hoop, waiting for me. I cup the ball in my right hand and show it to that bonehead. Then I bring it behind my back, like I’m going to switch hands. I hesitate, and when the rock doesn’t come out on the left side, he gambles on the right. But I switched hands all along, and I go sailing past.
    He scrapes my shoulder, and I scoop the ball into the basket, high off the backboard. Stove’s and Hamilton’s cheeks puff up to blow their whistles, and they both bring one arm down through the air. It’s a foul. That basket counts, and I got a chance for a three-point play.
    Only I never heard those whistles. Right then, you couldn’t hear a car horn blowing on the court. Everyone at Rucker Park was going wild, celebrating that move I made.
    â€œI don’t care if it’s yellow, spicy brown, or even di -jon. Hold the Mustard ’cause that was a foot-long hot dog delivered bone dry,” bellows Acorn.
    Before I step to the foul line, Fat Anthony calls a time-out to quiet the crowd. Then he shoots me a look, like I better