Lights Out

Teaser by Steven P. Ross

Newberry Park in the early summer evenings is a hotbed of outdoor activity, from walkers strolling by stone waterfalls, to foursomes waiting their turn for the pickleball courts. My favorite is the two dozen or so basketball players crowded around a college-scale court with metal nets that were actually intact.

On this calm evening, as the sun was hinting at a disappearing act, the overhead lights were just flickering on and my team won our first two pickup games. The rules were each basket counted one point, first team to 21 wins. Losers sit. I was feeling exuberant until we got smoked in the third game. 

Besides me, my team consisted of my friend Chuck Hiller, Johnny Hensen, “Eyes” Turner, and “Bad Mouth” Craig, who got that moniker because his breath could cause his opponent to back off. There was one team ahead of us waiting to play the winner so we twirled basketballs, mocked each other’s girlfriends, and talked smack until it was our turn. 

We had to play the same team we lost to the first time around and the result the second time was no better. Sweating profusely, Johnny was gasping for breath and said he couldn’t go on. Eyes complained he had to go to work in the morning and said goodbye. Chuck and I knew Eyes worked a desk job for his brother-in-law who let him make his own hours. We laughed at his pathetic excuse.

The three of us remaining elected to keep going. We declared we would play the “winners” of the current game.  Chuck looked around from the replacement pool and picked a guy who was a regular and often snuck beers into the park. He asked three other players lounging around if they were interested, but they all declined, saying they were done for the night. 

I spotted an unfamiliar player who looked older than the rest of us. He was dressed in long black gym pants and a plain long-sleeve gray jersey. He wore a bright green bandanna and a gold chain around his neck. 

“You interested?” I asked.

The man looked around as if the question was meant for someone else. 

“Yeah, you.”

He sighed. “Okay. I guess so. Let me put this gym bag against the wall where I can keep an eye on it.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “What’s your name?”

Hesitation. “Just call me Jeremy.”

“Okay Jeremy. I’m Lincoln Ortiz but my friends call me Linc.”

Chuck added, laughing, “Sometimes without the ‘n’”

Our new opponent was the opponent who beat us in the first game, minus their shortest guy who went home. They jumped out to a quick 5 to 1 lead. Our new teammate was more a spectator until I was trapped in the corner by two opponents. To get myself out of the jam I found Jeremy out front and lobbed the ball his way. He grabbed it and weaved his way for a layup. 

On the opponent’s throw in, he stole the ball and gently made another basket.  He started to dominate the game and Chuck and I were becoming mere observers. Midway through he was about to put the ball in play when he stopped. 

“Don’t touch that bag!” he called out to a straggler grabbing his shirt while bending down near the bag.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize I was that close.” We stared at the poor guy who quickly moved away.

“A bit paranoid, wouldn’t you say?” Chuck whispered to me. 

I smiled. “He’s good.”

I admired how fluid he was, how he was able to poke a steal here, an interception there all the while making it look easy. That boy had played some ball in his time.

The final score wasn’t close: 21-8. As were the following three games, all of which we won handily.

As we were going off the court Chuck raised his hands. “That’s it for me. Let’s go get us some beers.”

I walked over to Jeremy carefully lifting his bag. “Where have you played ball before?”

His eyes were empty. “Just a Knights of Columbus league when I was younger.” He started to walk away.

“Want to join us for some beers?” I asked.

He shook his head and crossed the main thoroughfare adjacent to the park and disappeared.

A total of ten of us took over the counter at the nearest bar and the beers started flowing. After an hour the players started saying their goodbyes. Chuck, Bad Mouth, and I were still seated, amazed at how good Jeremy was and hoped he would visit again so we could pick him.

“I think it’s time for me to go home,” Bad Mouth said. Chuck and I agreed and we hopped off our stools and left. 

For Chuck and I to get home we had to pass by the basketball courts. Shadows from nearby trees cascaded over the court. I checked my smartwatch. “It’s Eleven o’clock.”

As if on cue, the lights turned dark.

As we were leaving Newberry Park, we heard a siren. At this time of night sirens are not unusual. Chuck was about to cross Higgins Street bordering the park when the siren got louder. Then a second, and a third.

“What the hell is going on?” Chuck asked.

I shrugged and looked further down Higgens. “Look. Police!”

Within seconds squad cars were coming from every direction, going around the park and descending down every visible side street. 

“Boy. Looks like a damn convention,” Chuck remarked. “Where are they all going?”

“Let’s find out.” I crossed Higgins and walked toward the disturbance. “Careful. There’s no lights here.”

“Don’t need them. Their flashers are all we need.”

Three blocks in we encountered a police cruiser blocking our progress. Three police officers were casually engaged in conversation and eyed us suspiciously. Other curious residents gathered.

Chuck walked up to one cop. “What’s going on?”

The officer looked at him like he was a fly about to be swatted. “Police business. Please move on.”

After fifteen minutes of standing around an ambulance appeared, lights flashing. People kept asking what happened and gossip spread like wildfire. We decided to return home.

The next day I happened to stream a local TV station and recognized Newberry Park in the background. 

A stern reporter was talking in a monotone voice saying Johnny (Big Iron) Casselli was found shot in the head in the basement of his bungalow three blocks from where we were playing. He had been cooking a late-night meal.

The reporter added that police had no suspects, but a neighbor swore he saw a man earlier that evening wearing a bright green bandanna.