EZ and the Intangibles Read online

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Forty

  EZ and the Intangibles

  Bob Katz

  Fitzroy Books

  Copyright © 2018 by Bob Katz

  Published by Fitzroy Books

  an imprint of

  Regal House Publishing, LLC

  Raleigh 27612

  All rights reserved

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN -13 (paperback): 978-1-947548-18-3

  ISBN -13 (hardcover): 978-1-947548-45-9

  ISBN -13 (epub): 978-1-947548-19-0

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018939695

  Interior design by Lafayette & Greene

  Cover design by Lafayette & Greene

  lafayetteandgreene.com

  Cover art by Colorcocktail/Shutterstock

  Fitzroy Books

  fitzroybooks.com

  Regal House Publishing, LLC

  https://regalhousepublishing.com

  For Louis and Daniel

  Chapter One

  It’s not fair. You do something stupid or lame or embarrassing early in life, say second or third grade, and from that time onward all anybody seems to know about you—or want to know about you—is that one same dumb thing. It follows you everywhere. Like some horror movie stalker with bloody fangs, lurking in the shadows. There’s nowhere to hide. I know. I’ve tried.

  For me, Ethan Zanay, it was just a stupid basketball game. And the problem had nothing, or almost nothing, to do with the fact that I stank at basketball.

  Longview, where I live, is crazy about sports. By “crazy,” I don’t just mean the typical ways that people enjoy watching games on TV in their free time instead of doing other things. For us, it’s deeper. On County Road 12, as you enter town from the north, we still have a large billboard-sized sign that reads, in gold lettering on a blue background (gold and blue being our high school colors):

  LONGVIEW

  1992 Division III Basketball Champs

  If you enter town from the west, along Valley Road, there’s another sign, same color scheme, maybe even larger—you can’t miss it unless your eyes are shut tight—that reads:

  LONGVIEW

  2003 Division III Region 9 Basketball Champs

  None of these triumphs are exactly Super Bowl XXX-whatever. My point is we care about sports, a lot. We take pride in being tough competitors. And winning the game—any game, in any sport—is supposed to remind us that if we just work hard enough, and don’t give up, we will achieve other kinds of victories, maybe bigger ones, in other

  areas of life. If Longview had other achievements worth bragging about, I’m sure we’d advertise that information on an even bigger sign, big as a stadium scoreboard. But so far, we don’t.

  My situation, which I will soon explain, was not helped by the fact that my dad was a local basketball legend. He’d been Longview High’s leading scorer his junior and senior years, and was Most Valuable Player of the 1992 champion-

  ship team. And it certainly didn’t help that he was now a local legend for a far less brilliant reason—something about money people had given him for a business project that didn’t work out the way it was supposed to. He was soon going to stand trial. I once asked Mom why Dad didn’t simply give the money back. Wouldn’t that be easier? Like No harm, no foul?

  “It was,” my mother sadly explained, “a large amount of money.”

  Because Dad had been a high school basketball star, and was nearly six foot five, everyone assumed I would follow in his footsteps. If that weren’t bad enough, my little brother Zach, two years younger, was already nearly bigger than me and so supremely talented at sports that it had been suggested that he skip a grade. Of course, that was nonsense. Skipping a grade is something that only happens if you’re a lot smarter than kids your own age. Which Zach definitely is not.

  I have other complaints about my brother beyond the fact that he’s off-the-charts tall and athletic for his age. Zach’s nickname is ZZ. Mine is EZ. See the problem?

  Printed on the page, it’s just a simple coupling of initials. But spoken out loud—the way kids shout your name on the playground? The letter E followed immediately by the letter Z sounds, when spoken aloud, like a real word. A word that can be used as a diss. Especially in sports.

  Easy out at bat. Easy man to score on. Easy pitcher to hit. Easy to fool. Easy to ignore. You get the idea. Easy to forget.

  Unfortunately, some things they don’t let you forget.

  Chapter Two

  If I had to do over again, of course I would do it differently. The third-grade basketball travel team was called the Otters, and I was on the team because of my dad. He was high-spirited and popular with just about everyone—except the people who’d invested money with him. Initially, Dad had been our head coach, which was why I’d automatically made the team. Everyone knows that’s how it works.

  A few days before our first game, my dad’s legal troubles took a turn for the worse. It’s not like I was eager to learn details, but they were front page in the weekly Longview Gazette. I couldn’t avoid it—that photo of him, squinting with the sun flush on his face, smiling that enormous smile like he didn’t have a worry in the world. He did.

  What had been initially planned as an affordable housing complex out past the mall never got beyond the maze of interlocking concrete foundations that were now filled with muddy puddles, home to little black tadpoles. Dad was the developer. He’d built porches and garages and bathrooms for people, and they were always pleased with his work. But he’d never attempted anything nearly this large before. The project ran out of funds. The funds had come from friends of his who wanted to help Dad out and also wanted to make some money. The term “fraud” was used a lot in the Gazette article. A trial date had been set for the middle of February.

  Mr. Rutledge, Troy’s dad, had taken over coaching the Otters. He could have cut me from the team, but I think he felt sorry for my dad. They’d known each other since boyhood and had played together on the Longview High team. They still played together on a men’s softball team every summer—that is, until recently. The Gazette article reported that several of the angry investors were from that softball team. A few of them had kids in my school.

  Even though Dad was no lon
ger coaching the Otters, he sat at the end of the team bench during our first game. He was still innocent until found guilty, and nobody had a problem with him being with the team on the sideline—nobody except me, that is.

  Being third string, I didn’t expect to actually play. At halftime, we were ahead 27–19; Troy Rutledge already had fifteen points, but that wasn’t enough for his dad. Coach Rutledge certainly wanted the Otters to win, but he particularly wanted Troy to score a lot of points. Coach was a numbers guy—in business as well as sports. His job had something to do with math and money, and everyone said he was very sharp at managing both.

  The game got tight in the second half. I was fine sitting on the bench—Dad was in a sour mood, and I didn’t need to make it worse by screwing up on the court. Mr. Rutledge had been pacing the sideline, scowling and growling just like a real coach in a big game on TV. He stomped over and stood directly in front of me, blocking my view.

  “Ready, EZ?”

  I was not ready.

  “Good. You go in for Leo next time out.”

  This didn’t seem wise. Leo Espada was our best ball handler. My one hope was that the game would speed along to a quick conclusion before there was a time-out. I kept an eye on the scoreboard clock and silently prayed.

  The referee was a high school kid I recognized as a lifeguard from the town pool. He had a cool tattoo on his upper bicep—some kind of monster skull. Girls at the pool were always asking him about it.

  My dad had told Zach and me stories about how he had been a lifeguard back in high school. There was a twinkle in his eyes when he talked about those days. It was, he’d said, possibly the best time of his life. Better than now, that’s for sure. Dad looked miserable in the folding chair at the far end of our bench, saying nothing, even when we kept missing open shots and making dumb passes.

  Mr. Rutledge sprang to his feet, crossed his arms, and raised them high above his head. This, I knew, was the signal that coaches used for a time-out. I knew all the hand signals used by the referees and the coaches. Most kids didn’t. I think I knew this stuff because I spent just about all my time on the bench, watching.

  Panic pounded my chest. My fingers were suddenly freezing. The ref blew his whistle. Time out.

  When the game resumed, there I was on the court, shivering like a wet puppy. The gym was freezing, and I was wishing I’d worn a sweatshirt under my jersey. We had an electronic scoreboard that had been donated by the Lions Club. Home team—the Otters—was down 41–43 and forty-six seconds remained on the clock.

  Instinctively, I immediately scampered toward the corner—I wanted to get as far from my dad as I could, and to a sufficiently remote region where no teammate would dare to pass to me. Why, at that moment, Troy decided to throw the ball to me, I had no idea. Maybe his dad told him to—

  although that seemed unlikely. Maybe it was a deliberate prank intended to make a fool of me—that did seem possible.

  Paralyzed, I watched Troy’s pass speeding my way. This was all a bad mistake. I prayed that the ball would halt, mid-air, and go somewhere else. This was happening way too fast. I was definitely not ready.

  But there it was, like a meteor hurtling through space at breakneck speed, and I had no choice. I caught the ball, deep in the corner. All I knew was that I needed to get rid of it quickly. Hot potato. I could feel my dad staring at me, like there was nothing else in the entire world worth looking at. Too much pressure.

  After passing me the ball, Troy—thanks a lot, Troy!—cut straight to the hoop. This was the Otters’ trusty give-and-go, a play the team had practiced quite a bit. Myself, I’d never actually performed this play in real game conditions, but I knew what it called for: the teammate who makes the pass was supposed to immediately cut to the hoop; the player (me) who receives the pass was supposed to instantly pass it right back to his teammate (Troy) breaking free. Get the ball to the big man in the middle—or so announcers on TV always advise. I was terrified. The ball in my frozen hands felt like a chunk of ice. I remembered how this pass was seamlessly executed on TV—the point guard neatly looping the ball over the arms of the helpless defender, and it was an easy two for LeBron James or Kevin Durant.

  Troy was clever at sealing off his man, and broke to the basket. I’d have to loft my pass over the upraised arms of the defender and gauge the right distance for leading Troy as he cut to the hoop. Could I do it? I never had before.

  The pass soared from my hands like a wild bird escaping its cage; immediately, I worried it was too high for Troy to catch. Truthfully, it might have been too high for LeBron. The ball flew upward—ludicrously high—and, seconds later, descended straight through the hoop with an audible swish.

  My teammates cheered. Coach Rutledge cheered. Parents cheered. I stood in stunned silence, my arms still extended, my feet stuck in the same spot deep in the corner.

  My dad sprinted onto the court like a mad man, hollering, “EZ does it!”—a family joke that usually meant I had done something really stupid. It was always said in a sarcastic tone and had never been meant as praise. Except this one time. This time, Dad was not being sarcastic. He was thrilled.

  Chapter Three

  Dad was beaming so brightly that it hurt to look at him. He has an enormous smile that completely re-arranges every feature of his face: his eyes, his mouth, his cheeks, and the crease across his forehead. He had not smiled much in recent months.

  “Just like the old man,” one father bellowed, slapping a hand on my dad’s shoulder. “Right, Ace?”

  Ace had been Dad’s nickname in high school. Arthur was his real name, which was what most people called him now, and the name the newspaper had used in reporting on his case.

  After accepting congratulations from a few more parents—you would have thought that Dad was back in high school and that he had won the game—Dad broke away, putting his arm around my shoulder. I was still freezing, and the warmth of his large hand felt soothing, like a heating pad. We walked like this, together, toward the exit.

  It would have made a cool photograph—the tall, square-shouldered ex-athlete father bursting with pride as he strolled across the varnished hardwood alongside the pint-sized youngster, his talented son. You see photos like that in the sports pages all the time. They give you a warm feeling for how sports have a wonderful way of connecting the generations, old and young, parents and kids.

  But don’t look too closely at this photo. Something is wrong. Something is not right with the father’s son. His eyes are cast down, chin tucked to his chest. The tall handsome father is smiling. The boy is not.

  “Heck of a shot,” Dad gushed.

  I couldn’t help it—a torrent of tears splashed down my cheeks. I was not a crybaby. My younger brother ZZ—more on him later—was the crybaby. ZZ would get teary-eyed watching TV cartoons, like when the baby elephant gets separated from his mother. I had never been like that, not even at ZZ’s age.

  “What’s the problem, EZ?” Dad stopped and turned to me.

  I knew what the problem was. I just had no clue why it overwhelmed me with such sudden emotion.

  “Hey, kid, come on, tell me. What’s the matter?”

  “I wasn’t…I mean, I didn’t…”

  Dad waited. I knew he didn’t have a clue.

  “It wasn’t a shot,” I blubbered finally. “It was a stupid mistake. It was a horrible pass that was way too high.” Now I was really crying like a baby. “Okay?”

  Dad didn’t know what to make of this. But Troy Rutledge and a few teammates who were walking behind us probably did. My life was officially ruined.

  Chapter Four

  On the drive home, Dad tried his best to cheer me up. He was not a big fan of boys making a display of their more sensitive feelings. Dad had never told me this in so many words, but I knew. He was tall and strong, and the plan was for me to grow up and be exactly the same way—in body and in
mind. Crying was not part of the plan, and crying for no good reason was even worse.

  Dad kept the driver’s side window cracked a few inches, so the smoke from his cigarette could escape without making the car reek. Mom hated the fact that he was smoking again, but he was clearly under a lot of stress and so she tolerated it—as long as he smoked outdoors and away from me and my brother.

  “Mistakes happen,” Dad acknowledged, flicking cigarette ash out the window. “Some go your way, some—maybe even most—do not. That’s just the nature of the game. And the nature of life.”

  We were on the old iron bridge, crossing the wooded ravine that separates Longview into its two halves—one side poor and industrial, the other side well-to-do with big houses on suburban lots. My tears had stopped, but I was plenty upset.

  “It stinks, Dad. How’d you feel if everybody congratulated you for a total mistake?”

  My dad grinned. “Oh, I get it. You feel like a fraud.”

  I nodded.

  “And that’s not a good feeling, huh?”

  I nodded again.

  Dad flicked his cigarette butt out the window and closed it.

  “You know,” he said, “you could just pretend. Pretend you knew the shot was good from the instant it left your fingertips. Bet that’s what LeBron would do.”

  I almost started crying again, although I wasn’t sure why. I guess I wanted to be the boy who would have made that amazing shot on purpose. I wanted to be congratulated for something wonderful that I had tried hard to do and had accomplished deliberately—not for some stupid mistake.

  Getting cheered for a mistake felt awful to me; it felt like I was being mocked in some kind of cruel prank—like having the chair yanked away just when you’re about to sit down. Ha, ha, ha. Very funny. Troy Rutledge did that to me in second grade. He pulled my chair away so I fell on my butt while the rest of the class laughed their heads off. This was much worse. A stupid chair didn’t mean a thing. Basketball, on the other hand, meant everything.