The Last Day at Oz

Chicago is quiet this morning. Eerily quiet. The normal creaking and clinking and clacking of the “L” crossing over North Avenue is subdued, almost whispering, afraid to wake the neighbors. Oz Park is empty when I enter. There are no screaming children running wild at Dorothy’s Playground. There are no birds singing or flying or chirping in the Emerald City Garden. The Cowardly Lion bronze statue with faded green age on his paws stands in silence while the Tin Man echoes the empty air that lingers over Lincoln, Larrabee, and Webster. 

On a normal day that intersection is alive with raucous, revving engines, and roaming pedestrians on bikes and on foot. On a normal day, the baseball fields are filled with youths sliding into third base and catching pop flies, the sound of aluminum making contact with leather. On a normal day, the tennis courts radiate heat from the squeaking rubber soles sliding around to save match point. On a normal day, the basketball court contains more than just me and him playing 21. Just me and him, a stranger who arrived at the same time with the same goal. That’s all there is in sight. Other than us, Lincoln Park is a ghost town.

            The basketball courts are just west of the Dorothy and Toto statue, closer to Halsted and

Burlington. They are immortalized in bronze as well, a basket in her hand and of course her Ruby Red Slippers on her feet shining in the morning light. The courts have two goals on each end of the asphalt floor and four goals on each of the sides. On a busy day, there can be upwards of forty men and women hooping and another forty waiting. “I’ve got next.” Someone calls out to ensure their spot in the next game. “Ball in.” “Winners stay.” But like I said. This is not a normal day.

            The sound of the weathered basketball bouncing off the dirt-dusted court is the only sign of activity. It hits the asphalt over and over and over. It thumps at a low frequency when it strikes the hard surface, followed by a high-pitched ring. It strikes the ground over and over and over.

Thump – Ring – Thump – Ring …and then a momentary silence as the ball flies toward the goal. The double rim is merciless and vibrates violently as the ball ricochets off it falling back to the ground. Thump – Ring – Thump – Ring – Thump –

Ring…silence…swooooosh. Nothing but net.

            “You wanna play twenty-one?” I ask.

“I’m down,”

He is similar to me in age. Twenty-five or twenty-six. He isn’t overly athletic-looking or overly out of shape. He is like me. A little pudge around the face. A little pudge around the waist. But he can shoot, and he can dribble and that’s all it takes to win at twenty-one. We are the same height. Six-foot one. He wears Nikes. I wear Adidas. He’s got blonde hair. I’ve got brown. He is probably a Cubs fan. I like the Sox. We both love the Bulls and we both would give anything to “Be like Mike.” Regardless of those little details, we are the same and somehow, we are here together on this quiet Sunday morning, and we are grateful for each other.

We need each other. We can’t play without each other. 

            “We playing tips?”

             “Lets play straight up.”

             “Three and out?”

            “Shoot till you miss.”

            “Three-point line or free throw line?”

                          “Three-point line.”

                          “Call your own fouls.”

            We communicate in what sounds like a foreign tongue to anyone who doesn’t play ball, especially street ball. But we know this language and we speak it fluently, bilingual brothers preparing for battle. There is something beautiful about negotiating on a basketball court and the rules that are made and kept. The code of conduct. The honor. If only the rest of the world could agree to terms in such a way and hold to those terms with respect to their opponent.

            “Let’s play a best-of-seven series,” I say as I stretch out my legs. I haven’t ran in a few days and really want to get a good sweat in. Besides, I have really strong endurance and usually end up beating my opponents easily after the 2^nd or 3^rd game. This is my strategy for success. 

            “That works for me. I need a good run,” he responds without a second thought.

            His strategy must be the same as mine.

           “Shoot for ball,”.

            Thump – Ring – Thump – Ring – Thump – Ring…. swooosh

            “Check it up”

            The game begins and we exchange shots and blocks and steals and sweat. We sprint for the goal and miss, we sprint the goal, (And-1.) We rebound our missed shots, and we take it back behind the three-point line over and over and over again. Our bodies collide and slide off of one another as we play tight defense. Relentless. We are lost in this activity, this game. But to us, this is not a game, it is a way of life. A way of speaking. A way of forgetting. A way of letting go of everything in this world that is not meant for us. We are lost in competition. We are lost in Oz Park. Like Dorothy, we are in search of something, perhaps a way out, perhaps a way home, perhaps a way to live happily in the city of Chicago, perhaps in search of a friend. We are making the only sounds in Lincoln Park. Sounds of life.  Thump – Ring – Thump – Ring – Thump

– Ring…swoosh. We are alive.

            “Game!” He says as he knocks down a deep-range three. 

Nothing but net. 21-19.

“Run it back!” I respond as I pass him the ball.

“Check.”

He fights for the ball with the same urgency as I do but rarely fouls. He calls his own mistakes as I do. 

“That was a travel.”

“I stepped out.” 

“I double dribbled.”

“That was an air ball.”

“I touched it before it went out – Your ball.”

He shoots well from beyond the arc the same as I do. And he drives with passion and determination the same as I do. We are a perfect match-up. Inch for inch, pound for pound, shot for shot, we press each other and will not let up. We are like clones or brothers or twins or best friends; yet this is the first time we have ever met, the first time we have ever spoken, the first time we have shaken hands. Sports can do that; they create a union between men and women, between strangers. A secret bond. A universal understanding. A family.

“20-20. Don’t miss.” He says while waving his arms in distraction. Swoosh.

I take game two. We stop for some water.

“Do you stay around here?” I ask him as we walk toward the drinking fountain.

“I’m about two blocks away on Clyborn. What about you?”

“I live right next to the Red line on Clark.”

We step back into our arena and the small talk stops. Not because we aren’t interested in what the other has to say and not because we are being disrespectful, but because we love the game too much and it’s time to get back to it. It is our favorite pastime. Our favorite sport. I head to the top of the key and he passes me the ball.

I take game three. 21-17. He takes game 4 and game 5. 21-19, 21-18. He has been killing me with that step-back three every time.

“Uh, oh! It’s elimination time!” he says as we check the ball for our 6^th game.

He takes the opening shot. I get the rebound. Thump – Ring –

Thump – Ring – Thump…Swoosh. At the line, I am locked in. Swoosh. Swoosh. Swoosh.

Swoosh.

“7, nothing.”

I can’t miss until I do and then the ball comes right back to me on a hard and fast bounce off of the rim. I shoot without hesitation. Swoosh.

“13, nothing”

I win game six, 21-5. He gives me a high five and nods his head in defeat.

“Good game. Good game.”

“Game 7 baby! Let’s go!” I say as if I am an overly dramatic announcer for the Bulls.

“It all comes down to this,” I continue. “The moment we —”

“The moment you lose! Now let’s go,” he says interrupting my hype speech. 

We shake hands before we begin. There is something about his eyes that seems familiar when he does. Something peaceful and positive. I have played with a lot of players in the city, and some can be a lot to handle. Too much ego or too much attitude. He was nothing like that.

He is a good player. He is a good sport. He is a good man.

We are the soundtrack of Oz Park this morning. Our dribbles and missed shots are the drum and bass and our skidding shoes and swishes and swooshes are chords on repeat. Thump – Ring – Thump – Ring – Thump – Ring…Swoosh – Swoosh – Swoosh. While the rest of Chicago sleeps in, we find ourselves wide awake and in love with the game of basketball. We are all in. We give it everything we have. Our inhalations are clean and deep. Our movements are athletic and strong. The sweat that seeps from our pores drips onto the concrete below as if to give us proof of our exertion. Proof of our effort. Proof of life. Thump – Ring – Thump – Ring – Thump …thump, thump, thump, thump, thump…. 

I think he’s joking when he goes down. I think he’s just playing. Pulling a prank, exaggerating to get me to laugh. Then I think he’s injured. Maybe an ankle. Maybe a hamstring. Maybe his knee. Maybe a…and then I realize this isn’t a game. He isn’t joking. He isn’t injured. He isn’t exaggerating.

His face hits first. The ball slowly comes to a stop a few feet away from him. Blood begins to seep out of the cut on his left cheek at the point of impact, a knot swells. His body begins to tremble in a chaotic, aggressive, angry, and uncontrollable manner. He is seizing.

Shaking. Trembling. I go to his side and kneel down to help him. Oz Park is empty. Lincoln Park is silent. On any other day, it would be full of people. On any other day, there would be someone who could help him, someone who knows what they are doing.

On any other day, there would be. But this is not any other day.

            I break the silence of Lincoln Park with my scream.

                 “Somebody help me!”

            He continues to seize with an overwhelming amount of force. His head cracks against the pavement over and over and over. Crack – Crack – Crack – Crack…I panic and roll him over onto his back and drag him onto the grass so he won’t hurt his head. His seizing intensifies. I run to my things, grab my phone, and call 911. It is 10:03 A.M.

            I run back to him. On my knees, I place my hand on him. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help him. I don’t know how to stop this.

                      “Somebody! Please Help!

            He begins foaming at the mouth. His eyes roll back into his head. His seizing worsens. Intensifies. Angry and out-of-control convulsions. Lincoln Park is empty except for us. It is just me and him alone.

            The howl of a siren cuts through the atmosphere. It whines and cries through the streets of Chicago like a lost child. I hear it and hope. I hope they are coming for me. I hope they are coming for him. I hope that he will be alright. I hope that they get here….Faster. The siren gets louder as it approaches Oz. And there, just west of the Dorothy and Toto statue, the two of us are together.

            The paramedics push me to the side as they begin assessing the situation. They take his pulse. He is not breathing. They place a plastic device over his face and begin sucking out a yellowish-white liquid from his lungs. It spews onto the ground. There was so much liquid coming from him it is as if he has been plucked out of the lake. They begin CPR. And in that moment, I begin to cry. I am scared. I am lost. I watch as they pump on his chest. His ribs crack and crunch under the pressure and they continue. Thump – Thump – Thump – Thump…Breath – Thump – Thump – Thump – Thump …. Breath. I want him to breathe. I want him to snap out of it. I want him to get back up and be ok and beat me in our game seven with his really good step-back three. I want him to shake my hand and smile and tell me, “Good Game.” I want him to go back to his house on Clyborn. I want to see him again one day and play another amazing, best-of-seven game of 21. I want him to live.

            At 10:28 A.M the paramedics stop performing CPR. At 10:28 A.M the paramedics remove the plastic device from his throat. At 10:28 A.M the paramedics load him into the back of the ambulance. At 10:28 A.M he is dead.

            Lincoln Park is silent as they drive away with his lifeless body. They don’t even turn the siren on as they head away with him. I sit on the court in a cold sweat and watch them disappear from sight. I am alone in Oz. The Tinman is silent and watching. The Cowardly Lion, silent and watching. The scarecrow is silent. Dorothy and Toto – silent. There is no sound minus the ringing in my ears and thumping of my chest as my heart refuses to slow. Thump – Ring – Thump – Ring – Thump Ring.

            I stand up. My legs are weak. Shaking. The wind picks up and blows softly onto my sweaty body. The dust and dirt atop the court swirls and moves like liquid. And the ball, his ball is all that remains. The ball rolls softly as the wind blows harder. I watch it roll across the court and chills form on my skin and tears well up in my eyes. He was here. He was the same age as me. He was the same height. He wasn’t overly athletic. He was pudgy in the face and pudgy in the waist and a really good shooter. He was a good player. He was a good sport. He was a good man.

              Chicago is quiet this morning. Eerily quiet. And I will never return to Oz again.