Darting into the alley, Trophy Barker heard the guns firing behind him. His body flew forward into the side of a garbage dump, then lay next to it motionless.

No one behind him, not Custer, his drug dealer, or his friend Willy, followed. Later Trophy would find out they were dead from the bullets and that a bullet had lodged in his spinal cord.

He spent months in rehab centers, one for his spinal cord injury and one for his drug problem, and went home with a shiny new red wheelchair to push with arms that still protested and a body that felt uncertain.

Things were not the same at home. Old football team members avoided him. Neighborhood kids stared at hiim. He rolled up and down the block in his wheelchair like they told him to build his strength. He kept pushing every day that summer, waiting for school to start, even shooting a few baskets with his little brother Carl in the park down the block.

“Ain’t you Trophy Barker?” a teenager in green shorts asked Trophy one day, running over with the basketball, tossing it to him.

“That’s right,” Trophy said, shooting the ball toward the basket. It bounced off the rim and back toward him.

“What happened to you?”

“He got shot,” Carl said.

“Man, you were a good football player. That sucks, man.”

“Leave him alone,” ten year old Carl said, taking a step toward the kid who was twice his size, his fists up. “Don’t be trash talking my brother.”

“I ain’t trash talking nobody, you little piece of –“

“Hey!” Trophy said, turning toward the teen. “Shoot some baskets with us instead of your mouth off.” He tossed the ball toward the teen. “What’s your name?”

“Trey,” said the teen, shooting the ball easily into the basket. “Why would I want to play ball with a guy in a wheelchair and a kid?”

“You got something better to do?” Trophy asked.

“Better ‘n that. For sure.” Trey looked at Trophy. “Why you out here doing this anyway?”

“It’s good exercise. Gotta stay in shape. Besides, they got teams for wheelchair basketball.”

“For real?”

“Yeah, for real. You never heard of those?”

Trey shook his head. “No, but that’s cool. I can show you some shots. Basketball’s my game.”

“You on the team at school?”

“Me? No, I play street ball.” Trey grabbed the ball. “I’m not into earning no letters.”

“Or learning them either,” Carl whispered to Trophy.

“What’s that you said?” Trey asked Carl. “Step aside, little man, and watch a pro.” He took a few three pointer shots, sinking them into the basket easily each time. “You see, I am the man around here.”

Trophy looked around the playground, the rusted nets, the battered backboards covered with graffiti from gangs. He nodded. “So you knew Custer?”

Trey nodded. “Yeah, sure. I know what happened.”

“Then why’d you ask?” Carl said, standing to the side, kicking a stone.

Trey shrugged and shot another basket. As the ball went through, Carl dove toward him, tackled his legs and took him to the ground.

Trophy laughed. “See, we’re a football family.”

“Hey! Get off me” Trey said, pushing himself up. “You better watch your little brother, Trophy. It’s not like you got street cred any more.”

“Maybe I don’t need street cred,” Trophy said, grabbing the basketball as it rolled toward him. He held it in his lap. “You shouldn’t be playing with peoples’ heads, Trey.You know what I’m saying? You’re not smart enough to do that.”

“Not smart like you? Look what happened to you.”

“Yeah. But I’m not doing drugs now.”

“You say that now. How long you stopped?”

It was Trophy’s turn to leave the air silent and shoot the ball. It went into the basket easily, but his anger seemed to float in the air.

On the way home Carl asked Trophy why he let Trey talk to him like that. “You shoulda beat him up.”

“That wouldn’t stop him from talking. People are gonna talk.”

Carl shook his head, bouncing the ball as he walked. “It’s not right. You didn’t do nothing wrong.”

“Anything wrong. And yeah I did. What I did was stupid.”

“Don’t say that, Trophy. I love you.”

Trophy stopped and hugged Carl. “Love you too.”

It was the second time anyone in his family talked to him about the shooting and why it happened or how he felt. The first time was the night he came home. His mom made his favorite dinner, spaghetti and meatballs, for Carl and Trophy. Then she brought out a cake saying ‘Welcome home Kevin.” Kevin was Trophy’s given name but everyone called him Trophy since junior high when he led the team to a regional football championship.

Carl looked at the cake and said “That’s not his name. His name is Trophy.”

Their mom shook her head. “No need to call Kevin that now. Football’s over for him.”

Trophy shook his head. “Mom, don’t say that.”

Carl took his fork and smeared the letters spelling out the name until their mother grabbed his wrist and pushed him away. “You ruined the cake.”

“You ruined the cake!” Carl yelled, running into his bedroom.

Silently, their mother cut two pieces of cake, put one near Trophy and sat down and began to eat her piece. “Go on, Kevin, eat,” she told Trophy. “It’s your favorite, chocolate on chocolate.”

He picked up his fork and pierced the cake, then looked at her and asked “Could you call me Trophy, Mom, please?”

But she hadn’t. Not since the day he came home did she ever address him by his nickname. It was always reminders of things to do like “Kevin, did you do your exercises?” “Kevin, did you remember to go to your appointment?” but never the old days where they talked like two adults, when they dreamed of him playing professional ball and buying her a house and ending all their money problems. It hurt.

It was easier to deal with things in his own way, not the way she tried to shove him toward a new reality. The way Trophy saw things, he could play sports in his wheelchair and he could still be who he was. Maybe not the same, but not that different either.

The court date came up. He testified against the drug dealer who shot them all, identified the guy from his wheelchair as his mother sat in court, her head down. On the way home in the special van the court sent to pick them up, she said “Kevin, I don’t want you ever using those drugs again, you hear me? I don’t care what kind of help you need, I’ll get it for you, but you promise me you’ll stay away from that.”

He nodded.

“Tell me.”

“I won’t do it again.”

She looked out the window of the van. “Drugs took your Daddy. I don’t want them taking you too. What’s happened I can’t change. I blame myself for not paying attention to what you were doing. That’s going to change now. You go to school, you come home, you study. You understand?”

Trophy nodded and hung his head. He couldn’t blame her for how she felt, for not trusting him or his judgment. But he wanted to scream out the window of the van for rescue from what felt like a steel trap she was putting him in. He just didn’t want to argue with her when she was hurting so bad.

“That’s cool,” Carl said when they got home and Trophy rolled down the van’s ramp onto the sidwalk. “We should get one of those.”

“Don’t talk crazy, Carl. We can’t afford something like that,” his mother replied, going into the house.

The van driver gave Carl a high five and the boys watched as the van disappeared down the street. “We’ll get you one of those, Trophy. We will,” Carl promised.

“Yeah, how long would that last out here?” Trophy asked, looking up and down the block at the beat up cars, the broken windows in the shops and the graffiti strewn walls.

“So we’ll move,” Carl said brightly. “Want to play ball?”

“Not now. Got to change out of this suit.” He rolled into their apartment up the steep ramp, then right to his bedroom. It looked the same. Light brown walls, football posters and awards hung on the wall. The shelves with his football trophies. Trophy after trophy after trophy, sitting there, gleaming in the afternoon sunlight.

He held one up, the Most Valuable Player of the Year award he won last year, a few months before he was shot. His name was inscribed on the bottom: Kevin Barker.

“Kevin,” his mother said from the doorway. “You okay?”

He nodded, hot tears falling on the trophy. “Mom?”

“What?”

“I’m sorry, Mom. I really am.”

She crossed the room, put her arms around him and held him. “Kevin, things are going to be alright. “

“I wanted better for you, for Carl-“

“Shhh,” she said, rocking him. “Football’s not the only way to do that. You can go to college, you can get an education. Your whole future’s in front of you.”

“You still believe in me, Momma?” he asked, wiping the tears away.

“Course I do, baby,” she said.

“You crying, Trophy?” Carl asked from the doorway.

Trophy laughed. He tossed the trophy to Carl. “Read what that says by my name.”

“Kevin Barker,” Carl read. “So?”

“So Momma is right. If that’s what she wants to call me, it’s okay.”

“Kevin. Ugh,” Carl said in disgust.

They all laughed then, muffling out the sounds of gunshots down the street, as the afternoon sunlight glinted off the trophy in Kevin’s lap.

Copyright 2007 Ruth Harrigan