It was winter and there was snow on the top of the mountains. The gym we were in was dusty and the team across from us was weird. My lips were dry and so was the air. The basketballs were so loud in the quiet gym. The crowd was sparse. Most people’s parents didn’t come out, not on a Saturday. The other team was strange. They were normal I guess: Black, white Mexican. All that. But one of the kids was real tall, real tall. His head almost hit the top of the backboard and his jaw. His jaw never closed, his mouth was always a little open with a little drool and his long teeth that were more like a wolfs than a kids.His hair was cut so his bangs covered most of the pimples on his forehead but you could they was there. I tried not to stare but it was hard. I bricked a couple layups in warm ups. The tall boy didn’t talk to anyone but he could hold the ball up where no one could reach it, not even the coaches. He didn’t do nothing mean or nothing, he just scared me. His body was boney like an old ladies. His legs stuck out like a chicken’s and his hips were so sharp you could tell his bones was too. I was almost sure his toes was gonna poke through his shoes.
The coaches were quiet in the locker room. We all wanted to know what we was supposed to do about the tall boy with the chicken bones and long long arms. But he was one of those people you don’t talk about. One of those kids that took classes in the basement. Coach talked about teamwork and defense and hustle and we all screamed WIN like usual, but when we ran up those stairs we could all feel something off, something cold.
The chicken was up there waiting for us at center court. The ref blew his whistle and threw up the ball and it bounced off the chicken man’s head and into my hands. I blew down the court and all the way I could feel his bones jostling and floating and crunching as he waddled down to meet me. I threw the ball up to avoid the contact and it hit the very top of the box and over the rim. Airball. The gym was too cold to sweat but I ran back down sweating. The chicken man was under my rim, his whole presence painful. He got the ball and dropped it through the hoop like one does an object from a tall, high place.
Our team was losing. We weren’t worse. We were just all befuddled and the game just kept going and going, down by 5 then 10 then 20. And no matter how many timeouts we called we couldn’t move around the chicken man who swallowed all and scored without even appreciating it. We hated him.
We didn’t say it in the huddle but we all did, and when he left for a breather and the game got back to normal even the crowd was relieved not to have to witness this freak show and their kids interact with this freak. Outside the snow had fallen that night and melted somewhat, but the football fields and bleachers were still covered in the light dressing covering all the wounds of the dead grass. It was wet but it was snow. I took the ball off a rebound and dribbled down and flipped in a reverse, the ball hung on the rim orbiting the cylinder, about to fall. Then two yellow, sallow hands grabbed the ball. And I lost it.
“THAT’S CHEATING, YOU FREAK!!!”
The whole gym went silent. The freak still held the basketball in his arms. I watched his face crumble a the corners and then the whole thing fell apart. The ball fell and he began to run. His pace matched that of a wounded deer, bounding but held back by a sharp pain.The ball reverberated against the floor.
Boom
Boom
Boom
And then it started to roll.
The chicken man reached the door which he pushed open. We could hear the slide and clink of the lock. I was the first to the door. I watched his long legs carry him and his maroon jersey all the way across the football field. His legs glowed tallow against the snow, and his jersey beat like a living heart. His long legs carried him well past the snow and dead grass and field posts and outhouse and into the dead trees and snowy hills beyond. And the chicken man was gone for real.
Jack Ludkey is a NYC based writer, director and poet. He has been featured in Spectra Poets, Dream Boy Book Club, ExPat Press and more outlets. His debut poetry collection “All I Can Say” will be out later this year. He is also an editor of The Burning Palace.
High Horse 