Mamba Mentality

[Buko]

The weekend had been lousy, the morning had been lousier—and the thing to blame was a lousy game the Friday before. It had a way of infecting the mood and bleeding into the psyche. Caused you to watch too much YouTube and finish that whole sleeve of Double Stuffed Oreos. The Terriers losing wasn’t newsworthy or something to get sad about. That was just Tuesday, hike up your skirt and keep it moving. It wasn’t so much the losing as it was the way they had lost. Embarrassingly. A humiliating 88-33 drubbing. Fifty-five points. Five. Five. Dos cincos. Conjoined fives. Get the idea? They nearly lapped them twice over. It made the Globetrotters versus the Generals seem sporting. But hey, at least the numbers all repeated to create some bizarre loser's numerology. The only thing that kept the opposing team from hitting ninety-nine was the clock hitting zero.

The only things keeping the Terriers from being competitive being the rules of basketball, the laws of gravity and the will of God. Big Dick Buster, sophomore starting point guard was the lead enforcer of that will.

It had been a miserable game, in all aspects. Dicky had shot the ball twelve times and only made two shots. He turned the ball over five times and only dealt out three assists. It was a catastrophe. A failure in leadership from a coaching and a player perspective. They lost on Coach Jordan’s strategy and with the ball in Richard’s hand. The guilt was well deserved. The accountability he felt in his heart had been completely earned.

Big Dick had lost them the game. Nothing was said in the aftermath. The loss had been too great for anybody to say anything at all. That had just been the moment. Richard knew that silence was always temporary.

[ Big Dick Buster Continued (but not chronologically) From: Talkin' 'bout practice ]

The door to the school gym opened up unceremoniously and Richard threw his backpack on the gym floor. It was still early. The school had just opened up and students had begun trickling in. Class wouldn’t start for an hour. Coach Jordan had an arrangement with the custodial staff. They opened up the gym a bit early and the basketball team got to practice their shots and run their drills. The hope was that if they kept running drills, eventually they’d be running up the score. How much was hope worth? How long did hope last?

Richard, in his dress shirt and with his black and green Boston Celtics basketball stared at the otherwise empty court.

Empty, barring another person…

“Didn’t figure you the early bird Donnie-Boy.”

[Dogs231]

If it had been any other school, if they had been any other team, it would have been different.

There was no question about what happened Friday. It was a thirty-three-point disaster, too high to score on the Richter Scale. They'd gotten slaughtered on their home court—the scoreboard looked like a kill count. It was the kind of stuff that made the front pages of the sports columns, but in this case, they were barely a footnote.

When shit went this wrong, there was usually a reason. A referee gets paid every time a pick wins, like Tim Donaghy from '03 to '07. Some gamblers pay people to throw, like the Black Sox in '19. If there was money on the table, though, he never saw it, and the calls were clear as crystal.

He wanted someone to blame, but as far as he could see it, the game was square. It came down to strategy and skill; they'd failed at both, simple as that. Nobody cried foul or even said as much as a word in their defense. They didn't even try.

If it had been any other school, if they had been any other team, it would have been different.

But it hadn't, they hadn't, so it wasn't.

DONOVAN LAUER: PREGAME START

He started on the baseline, by the white block. He tossed the ball into the air, to the outside, then curled on his elbow. He gathered the ball to his right and spun, his eyes already on the red circle hoop, then took a shot.

He'd run the same drill what felt like a thousand times over, rinse and repeat. Other people didn't get that about him; they didn't see the point in it, but he did. To him, it was a form of art—some people made sketches, sculptures, or symphonies, but well, he made shots.

It was mindless relaxation for him. He could pop in some shitty earbuds, listen to music, and just run the same drill a thousand times until he did it perfectly every time. He didn't care if nobody else did them. It was his work, his practice, his perfection. Better they stay out of his way than fuck up his tempo.

As he went in for another round, Donovan heard the sound of the door as it opened. He glanced over and saw it was Dick, the school's so-called champion, who'd gone two for twelve just three days prior. Donovan couldn't help but scowl at the other boy, though he still thought fondly on that game last year.

Dick and the coach had led them straight into one of the worst losses in years, and that said something; they'd had plenty of thrashings already. The goodwill he still had for the other boy, saved up with those make-it-or-break-it moments, was all burnt up, like an old matchstick.

Donovan tossed the aged, well-worn Spalding onto the rack as the other boy approached. His hands rose to his ears and plucked out the speakers, which still blasted a mix of snares and hi-hats. He sized up his teammate, clad head-to-toe in his usual formal get-up like he was ready for his speech at the Hall of Fame.

"I run drills every morning," he said, almost a growl, "where else would I be?"

The court was his palace; no quarrels over rent, sudden calls from work, or lectures about his grades. He got in every morning and stayed as late as he could manage without getting an earful. There wasn't any other place like the hardwood.

He was dedicated; he put his heart into this shit. Of all the people in the world, the others should've understood that. And yet here he was, on the worst team in the District, certified rock bottom, trying to carry them to the top.

"Fuck," he said with a sigh, "what are you here for?"

[Buko]

“The whole team runs drills,” Donovan wasn't special, “Don't forget,” Dicky glared, “I’m the starting point guard.”

And I will be until you can beat me out and good luck with that was what went unsaid. Richard didn't really need to mention it. But he thought it and didn't bother hiding his grin at it. A private joke between Dick and Dick.

Donovan was surly. Kid had a chip on his shoulder the size of a boulder and he didn’t mind using it to wedge distances and nurture discord on the team. Donnie had a nice enough jump shot and a good enough handle—but he had never played organized ball. He couldn’t set a pick with precision nor did he understand the finer points of running a play. Least as far as Dick saw it. For Donovan, the game boiled down to two things: ball goes in hoop and I put ball in hoop. Real master tactician. Regular ol' Phil Jackson.

He was an above average basketball player—but he couldn’t really play basketball. Until Donnie caught the difference, he’d always be behind Dicky on the depth chart and be stuck riding the bench. Donovan knew it and Richard knew it. If Dick was Donovan, he'd hate him too. But he wasn't Donovan, he was Big Dick and therein lied the problem. Well...Donovan's problem at least.

“My shot,” he rolled his right wrist, “My wrist is still messed up.”

It wasn’t an excuse, it was an explanation. Dick found himself still shrinking in the vulnerability.

“If I can’t shoot over 50 percent—we're not gonna win another one this year.”

[Dogs231]

"Yeah, well, someone should tell 'em," he spat, dismissive tone, rolled eyes, "that they ain't running them enough."

Donovan theatrically glanced about the court, as silent as the grave.

The condescension didn't help, either. Dick was the starter, but that didn't mean anything. The guy clung to worn-out prestige like a life raft; he didn't have anything to back up his boasts.

"You and I both know," he paused for emphasis, "that's 'cause you don't question anything Coach Jordan says. You're the biggest yes-man on the team. Where's that got us?"

Donovan didn't even bother to finish; some things were better left unsaid. Everybody knew the Terriers were an awful team, and he didn't need to spell it out.

He cracked his neck—left side, then right—as he watched the boy spit out excuses; it seemed like Dick always had a few up his sleeve. At least when he screwed something up, he had the spine to admit it. He didn't try to spin it like a coward.

"Oh sure," he snapped with a scowl, "Dick, you ever think that maybe, if you can't shoot, you should step the fuck out of the way?"

As far as he was concerned, it was honest advice. Dick had complained for weeks about his wrist—if it was such a problem, maybe he wasn't fit to play. If the guy wanted to be dead weight, that was his prerogative; Dick didn't have the right to drag the rest of them down with him.

[Buko]

"You ever think, Donnie," Big Dick said in a high pitch nasally voice that mimicked (poorly) his idea of what Donovan sounded like, "That maybe you're such a bad teammate and leader that me at seventy percent is more reliable than you at one hundred?"

Big Dick bounced his ball, dribbled quickly in his dress pants and approached the free throw line. Richard's big baby blues narrowed at the hoop. His soul saw nothing else. Dicky replayed countless coaching sessions and videos. Free throws were a science and you had no right to miss them. They were free. The Terriers weren't good enough to miss out on free. Big Dick's technique was perfect and practiced, his eyes focused and true...

The ball smacked into the backboard, too hard and then bounced on the outer rim before finding itself on the ground once more. Unceremonious. Anti-climatic. Miss.

"Rebound for me," Dick ordered, "I need to make ten in a row."

[Dogs231]

Donovan clenched his teeth and clasped his hands into fists. The rage built itself up in his chest, and the blood bubbled and boiled in his veins. The sounds of heartbeats and hi-hats blared in his ears, intermingled and indistinct.

Dick didn't know when to fucking quit, that was for sure, not when it came to sports, and not now either. The guy sure liked his potshots; they were the only ones the other boy reliably made, so it tracked, as far as Donovan was concerned.

"Don't talk leadership and teamwork like you know what it is," he hissed, "blind leading the blind, that's your deal. You don't know shit."

The other boy turned away, then tossed the ball at the basket. Dick missed; it wasn't the first time, it wouldn't be the last, and they both knew it.

His so-called teammate turned back, a stupid, scrunched-up expression on his face, and started flapping his gums again. Donovan practically saw red; he couldn't fucking believe what he was hearing.

The guy couldn't be serious; rebound for him?

Like fucking hell he would.

If Dick wanted to keep running his mouth, he'd fucking shut it for him, teach him some god-damn respect and humility.

Donovan scooped up the ball, turned on a dime, and threw it hard; he was never one for warning shots, and now was no different.

[Buko]

Here was the truth as far as Richard saw it, y'know, the answer as to why Dick was a better teammate than Don and how he managed to get under the former’s skin so easily. Dicky trusted Donovan. Not to play good basketball or operate with any social sense—but he trusted Donovan to be Donovan. That was the lesson, ultimately, that there was too much energy and time spent in distrust and making enemies. You had to be two steps ahead of your foes, you had to question every word of the distrusted. If you trusted everybody you didn't waste time with doubt and disbelief. If you spent your time making friends, you had no enemies--only allies who didn't know it yet. Dicky believed in his fellow man. He trusted people, at his core.

Dick trusted people to be themselves. He trusted Donovan to be himself.

He also trusted in his own ability to see people for what they were. Dicky trusted a liar to lie to him. Trusted a snake to bite. Trusted a thief to steal. He trusted a hothead with no sense like Donovan, to be a hothead with no goddamn sense like Donovan. Dicky trusted Donovan to be Donovan--but that also meant that it was impossible for his teammate to surprise him. Not by acting like a middle school bully.

The ball whizzed right over his head with an intimidating whoosh. Richard smiled back at Donovan’s explosion of anger and rose out of the duck. Spicy. Dicky knew he had pissed Donnie off and that his teammate couldn't help but respond. Dicky didn't take the time to be the bigger person. He was too short for that.

“Don’t get mad Donnie,” Dick said as he turned around and walked across the gymnasium to pick up the ball that Donovan just threw, “Get good.”

Richard dribbled the ball and pondered how to go about this. His better nature was telling him to go about practice on his own—but his ego and arrogance couldn’t handle not pushing Donovan’s buttons when he exposed them. There was blood in the water. Dicky was more than down to further chum the sea.

“You wanna know the real reason why you’re one of the best shooters on our team and you still can’t get serious playing time? It ain't cuz I'm a yes-man."

[Dogs231]

Donovan took a step forward, gait like a lion on a hunt. He was staring bullets at the other boy; if looks could kill, Dick'd be lying on the ground, stone-dead. He couldn't stand the smug condescension; Richard was a source of constant buzzing, like a mosquito in his ears.

The description fits like a glove; the kid was a bloodsucker, leeching up all the play-time, support, and attention. And like a mosquito, Richard didn't do jack shit for anyone; he was just fodder for the other teams, who ate up his bad plays, course after course.

He won one fucking game, and what; he's a god now, untouchable? Fuck off, get the hell out of Mt. Olympus, Dick; you're all bluster, no fuckin' tempest. Still, part of Donovan wanted to know, call it morbid curiosity; why did the Coach always choose Dick?

"...go on then, spit it the hell out."

It was as much a warning as a demand; Donovan was at the edge of his wits, the other boy's words driving at his skull like a chisel.

[Buko]

“It’s not rocket science Donnie,” Dick said with a casual confidence, “Passing the ball to you is giving up.”

Dick trusted Donovan to be Donovan. He was skilled—but he was self-centered. Dicky recognized his own ego and maybe because he saw the arrogance within himself he was more easily frustrated by the arrogance of Don. There was truth to what Richard was saying though. Donovan was self-taught, self-determined and single minded. All he knew was how to get buckets for Don. He couldn’t be bothered to generate points for others.

“You’re predictable,” Richard critiqued like his teammate’s game was an essay and Richard’s tongue lashed red, “You’ve never seen a shot you don’t like. Nobody on this earth has ever uttered the words 'Great pass from Lauer!' and nobody ever will judging by your pissy attitude.”

The ball bounced in Dicky’s hand and provided a rhythm to his speech. To the left, to the right, between the legs and then spin—now! Shoot! And…

Swish!

“You’re a bad teammate Don…because you hate being on a team,” there was a defiance in Richard’s voice, “You want more playing time? Try making your teammates better,” the cocky grin cemented on his face, “You can’t be trusted to do anything but jack ‘em up and that’s why you ride the bench on a team full of bench riders," finally the haymaker of honesty, "I’m a 5’3” point guard with a fucked up wrist and an addiction to cheeseburgers," Dick spat, "Maybe that should tell you how sorry you are.”

[Dogs231]

Donovan, for a moment, was entirely still as he listened to Dick's words. The only movement was that of his eyes, darting around to follow the ball, and of his chest, rising and falling with each breath he took; with each word said, the repetition was shallower, harsher.

It was a raw, ugly feeling, being in that position; scrutinized, picked apart, disassembled. Donovan wasn't used to being on the other side of the barrel; he'd always been the one to dish out unwanted critiques, putting people in their place, and now he was facing the guns like a verbal firing squad.

It fucking hurt, every single word of it; the worst part was that he knew it was true. Donovan didn't give a damn about the team, but he liked playing, and he liked winning; was that so wrong?

The coup de grâce, so to speak, was that final comparison; Donovan had always hated comparison with the rest of the team, but at that moment, it felt like a death sentence. He didn't fucking get it; Dick was three inches shorter and still managed to look down on him.

Donovan sputtered for a moment, trying to get the words out, trying to think of something to retort with; in the end, though, he just gritted his teeth as if to grind them into dust.

[Buko]

Richard saw blood in the water and tasted verbal vengeance. Dick could push and he could prod and he could stab and he could twist—but why? For what purpose? Dicky trusted Donovan to be Donovan. He trusted a liar to lie. Trusted a snake to bite. Trusted a thief to steal. Dick trusted Donovan to be Donovan—but that also meant it was impossible for Dick to be surprised by him.

“Don’t get mad Donnie,” he repeated tersely, “Get good.”

And that was the point, wasn’t it? If Donovan was gonna be a hothead and an idiot—Dicky had to use that fire. If Richard wanted to be a leader—that meant he had to lead. And what did that mean? That meant that what he said couldn’t be for the benefit of I—he could only speak for and toward the ideal of us. Dick had to look Donovan in the eye and speak to the fire in his belly.

Conflict by itself wasn’t a bad thing.

Competition on its own wasn’t toxic.

Fire could burn down a forest—but it could also keep you warm and fuel your car and take you to places you never could on your own. Dick could stand the heat. Just looking at him you knew he was no stranger in the kitchen.

“We’re never going to be tall enough, strong enough, fast enough, skilled enough or have enough,” Dick spat, “That’s what it means to be a Terrier, that’s what you gotta get and not let break you,” he paused, “You gotta play to win, but we don’t gotta win to play.”

[Dogs231]

Donovan's teeth were still gritted and gnashing, his jaw locked tight, like a cage, eyes searching for an exit from the room, like a wounded animal. His posture closed in, a defensive stance; it was as if he was preparing to block a shot or to shield himself from an oncoming projectile.

Words, though, don't work like that; they have a way of creeping in, even when you don't want to hear them. It took a certain level of confidence to block out the noise, to ignore everything; as confident as Donovan was, he didn't have what it took. That mantra echoed in his ears, just as it echoed in Dick's mouth; don't get mad, get good. The advice seemed a condemnation in his mind, an indictment of him; he was always playing his A-game, so was even that not good enough?

If there was anything Donovan felt he excelled at, it was basketball, and that was why he cared so much about it; he didn't have anything else, he thought, anything else to stand out. There were many things that Donovan wasn't—he wasn't clever, strong, tall, or particularly handsome, and he sure as hell didn't have money—but he could play ball. It was the one point in his favor; it was his thing, Cosa nostra, like the mafia.

He could dish it out all day, as far as anyone knew; most of the time, he could take it, good as he gave. Under those circumstances, though, at that moment? It was too much to bear; everything felt like it was spinning as he cycled through emotions he couldn't describe, didn't understand. An alarm reverberated through him, an inexplicable fight-or-flight response; it screamed at him to get out!

Donovan charged towards the discarded Spalding, scooped it up, and outstretched his hand to grab his backpack. He closed the distance between himself and the exit, fumbling with the two components, trying to fit them together like mismatched puzzle pieces. He stormed out, doubts and fears and thoughts tossing through his head.

Never enough, he thought to himself, as he tried to hide the wounded heart on his sleeve, never enough.

DONOVAN LAUER: CONTINUED ELSEWHERE