DRAKE PARK - Arab & War...the musical band

Chapter 4: Tai - A NOVEL

Don’t talk sh*t

8/24/09 – edit

CHAPTER IV: TAI -

Wearing his black and white converse he seemed to bounce when he walked; as if his heels didn’t like the feel of the ground. “Smack, Smack, Smack,” echoed the sound of the basketball as it left and obediently returned to its’ owners hand. His name was Fa’afetai, but on the streets people called him “Arab” because he’d wrap his afro up like a turban with his t-shirt when he played basketball; the way a girl would wear a towel on her hair after bathing. When he was at home, out of respect for his sisters and mom, he’d put a shirt on, but just about any other time he was bare-chested. Arab had average looking features with a friendly face that made him approachable.

He had the typical semi-full lips that he licked often, almond shaped eyes with the usual Polynesian Mongolian fold eye lids. He was also tall and lean with a naturally tanned body that girls fantasized privately over. Arab had this peculiar high pitched laugh that was funny because it almost sounded like a girl. Aside from ruling the basketball court at Drake Park, he reeked with sensuality which made him the most sought after teenage boy in the neighborhood.

To watch him play ball was to watch the notes of City, Country, City by War, preformed on the pages of the basketball court. He moved on the court like the instrumental arrangement of that song. A nice and easy going stride like a lazy summer day, which is how he’d start out, just like the harmonica, 1 – 2, 1234, 1 – 2, 1234, an easy tempo unhurried, warm and inviting. But then the saxophone unexpectedly would interrupt with the underlining percussions changing the beat to a steady 4-4 measure transforming the games pace. Calculated movements lucid and lightning quick, like the bongos in and out without warning, slowly enveloped with the saxophones limitless reach for the high notes. The other players’ usually half a second too late in response, would swat at emptiness where the basketball was in a vain attempts to stop the tempo. Sneakers squeaking, stepping left, right with a fake left, he’d pose standing erect on his toes, while cupping the basketball under his right forearm, like a swans neck. He’d fake another left, find his opening and magically he’d make his way to the hoop over and over. The game would continue with words, sweat, grunts and more squeaking of the converse as the intensity would build with the tempo. Another hoop off the backboard into the chain linked net. The guy he was playing would check the ball back in. Above his knees Arab would pinch his khakis upward a little while hunching over in a defensive posture fixated on the other player. Feverishly his opponent would lose his momentum along with his pride, chasing after the melody that ruled the court.

The basketball and volleyball courts ran parallel to each other, that was usually occupied with a game of there own in progress, with voices that repeated “side-out.” To the south was a handball court that stretched the length of both volleyball and basketball courts with all three separated by a chain linked fence. The old timers or Vato’s with there handle bar mustache, and cut off khakis, wearing white sport socks up to their knees played handball almost every night during the summer. The other guys in the neighborhood would come by to get Fa’afetai but he was not to be bothered until the game was over. We’d wait on the stone bench outside of the court watching through the fence as the game intensified and sometimes those playing volleyball, and the Chollo’s with they’re game of handball, would stop to watch this teenage kid Arab, step into a whole new dimension of accurate time and space tempo. Usually the loud and cocky self assured players would find their ego crumbling midway through a two hour long game.

His body moved rhythmically free and wild with the saxophone, while his feet matched the unpredictable undertones of the bongos; creating a world of musical arrangements while delivering the ball into a circle. You knew you were in trouble before the next harmonica interlude…easy, tempting you to play some more. But then the tempo would change and the dawning realization that Arab was just fucking with your head, and exposing your imagined skills and abilities at the sport. You only had a minute or so to try to find a way out, an excuse to leave the game with some dignity. But it was too late after recklessly announcing your renowned talent prior to playing. There was no, “never mind I don’t want to play you” as a way of saving face. This wasn’t basketball anymore but a trial to prove your craft at the game that would size you up and find out if you would hang tight; until you got your ass kicked by this kid that wasn’t Black but Samoan.

Repeatedly he would dance to the beat of the music, while making his way to the basket - jump with a poised finger roll delivering the ball into the cool metal skirt underneath the rim. After a couple of hours, the same pompous opponent would undress his self confidence and slowly leave watching his shoes lead the way home. Arab’s game embodied his surroundings as an extension of himself if you will; that brought all living molecules into subjection to his desire on the basketball court. To watch him play ball was like watching the notes of City, Country, City move. Effortless, precise, deliberate and calculating, always leaving his opponents permanently insecure about how well they thought they played. He was master of this domain and he knew it; executing a ballet of motion and perfected rhythm that would mesmerize any onlookers. He’d kill you on the court.

By Terry Leifi-Silverstein