Zen and the Art of Faking It Read online

  But instead I just said, “We’re all Buddhas, Michael. All of us.”

  End of conversation.

  End of practice.

  Beginning of scary night.

  As Woody and I walked out of the gym, I thought, This is probably the last time she’ll ever want to be anywhere near me. After tomorrow, it will be all over. So, of course she looked more beautiful to me than ever before. I wanted to reach out and push the hair out of her eyes so gently that she would swoon. Admittedly I was a little unclear on how exactly one swoons, or even whether I’d be able to tell she was doing it, but I assumed swooning was better than hating me like she would after the game. I almost stopped her on the steps of the school, led her to our rock, and told her everything. Really I did. But when we got out there, Peter was waiting for her.

  “Hi, Emily,” he said as he smirked relentlessly. “Mom didn’t want you walking alone with the Meditating Molester here, so she sent me to escort you. Even though I told her the Buddha Boy was too removed from earthly desires to make a move on you, she just wouldn’t take no for an answer. Sorry, San. I guess you’ll just have to laugh and arch yourself home without my sister.”

  “No problem. We live in different directions anyway. Plus you and Woody should spend more alone time together. In my culture, family is very important. I will see you tomorrow. Enjoy your time with your stepsister.”

  I had to get that “step” part in there. Peter was gritting his teeth. “You know we’re going to kick your boys’ second-rate butts tomorrow, right, San?”

  “Well, I should hope so. If the A team didn’t beat the B team, that would really be tremendously embarrassing. Wouldn’t it, Woody?”

  Behind Peter’s back, she was almost laughing. I took a second to enjoy that face. Then I fired my parting shot. “But Peter? Isn’t Michael one of your best friends? Should you really be so gleeful about kicking his second-rate butt? In a charity game? Please think about it, all right?”

  Heh-heh. Let him chew on that for a while.

  While I went home and chewed on my nerves. What was going to happen when my mom met Woody’s mom? I mean, I could probably have made up some lie to explain Mom’s undeniable non-Asian-ness, but the cat would be out of the bag as soon as they started talking anyway. Was there some desperate, last-minute plan that could get me out of this? Could I pretend I was deathly ill and skip the whole event? I knew that some guys had gotten out of serving in the Vietnam War by shooting themselves in the foot. Maybe I could slam my toes in my bedroom door or something, and then—and then nothing. I would just be forced to attend the game on crutches, and that wouldn’t stop the dreaded Meeting of the Moms. My only chance was to get struck by lightning on the way to school in the morning. Maybe if I constructed a special electro-attraction suit out of tinfoil and clothes hangers, I could manage to get myself fried in time—IF it happened to be raining.

  Oh, who was I kidding? This was my last night of happiness, for sure. Well, except for the fact that I was already miserable. Dang.

  At dinner, Mom felt like talking. I didn’t. She gave up. I went to my room and stared around at everything, like a caged animal. Then I had a strange thought: What if I actually sat and meditated? Like for real, to calm myself down. So I tried it. And it worked great. After about half an hour of sitting zazen, I was much more at peace about this. I even resolved to tell Woody the whole truth myself in the morning, and face whatever came.

  Naturally, after a good night’s sleep, I came to my senses and reminded myself that I was a total coward who loathed confrontations of any kind. So when I arrived at school in my cool new Laughing Archers T-shirt, all I did was talk with Woody about her biological-mom situation. She still hadn’t heard from her mother after sending the recording, but said she was feeling OK with the whole deal. I think her exact words were, “I gave it my best shot. At least now if I don’t hear back, I’ll always have that.” I was thinking, Yeah, it must be nice to have guts. Not that I’d know from personal experience, though.

  School happened with all its usual breathtaking excitement and beauty. The high point, as always, was lunch. Woody was playing a brand-new song. I mean, it was a seventy-year-old song by Woody Guthrie, but it was brand-new to me. The words were really appropriate:

  It’s a hard and it’s hard, ain’t it hard

  To love one that never did love you.

  It’s a hard and it’s hard, ain’t it hard, great God,

  To love one that never will be true?

  I haven’t really talked about Woody’s voice yet, and I guess I should. Listening to her, most of the time, was like hearing water bubbling and flowing over smooth stones. Her voice was just that natural and easy. Me, I trip if I try to pace while I’m on the phone. But Woody could play these amazing little runs on the guitar while she sang a totally different melody, and it came floating out of her like she was born to sing just that one song, at just that one moment. Woody sang so well that you almost forgot she was singing, if that makes any sense.

  But on this one song, there was a jagged angle to her tone, like the words were being ripped out of her one by one. When the song was over, it looked like she might have been crying a little. I just wanted to put my Cheesy Mac platter aside, run to her, and let her bury her face in my shoulder. But I didn’t.

  Stupid me.

  The rest of the day dragged, but eventually school was over, and it was time for the basketball game. I felt my heart hammering away as I walked down the hall to the gym with Woody. On the outside, I was this calm guy, smoothly complimenting Woody on her singing, and chatting about hoops strategy. On the inside, I was dying piece by piece as I thought, This is it, my good-bye walk with the girl of my dreams. I have to remember everything—how she looks at this exact second, the way the Laughing Archer shirt matches the little black rubber bracelet she’s twisting as we talk, the way I feel when we’re washing dishes together. And then I have to say so long to all of it.

  I went into the locker room, and Woody went into the gym to make sure the T-shirts were getting sold and the ticket money was being collected. I don’t know how she and the team had set everything up without my noticing, but then again, even Zen masters can’t concentrate on everything at once. Whatever. The B team and A team were at totally opposite ends of the changing area. The A team had the prime location right near the showers, which put them closest to me, right behind a partition, as I walked in. I overheard an interesting little convo between Peter and some guy with a squeaky voice.

  Peter: Let’s go, guys. We have to crush them today!

  Squeak: Uh, chill, Pete. It’s just for fun, right?

  Peter: No, it’s not for fun. This is for our reputation! It’s for our names and our honor.

  Squeak: No, it’s not. It’s to get ready for the spring tournaments and raise money to feed poor people.

  Peter: What kind of attitude is that?

  Squeak: What, wanting to have fun playing against my friends and feed the poor? I guess you’re right, Jones. I have an attitude problem.

  I walked away smiling, and went to give some last-minute nuggets of wisdom to my team. In fact (and I’m not proud of this), I had memorized a famous Zen speech about sword fighting and adapted it to basketball. I got the guys in a semicircle around me and gave my stolen pep talk: “If you place your mind on your opponent’s ball handling, your mind is absorbed by your opponent’s ball handling. If your mind is on your opponent’s passing, your mind is absorbed by your opponent’s passing. If your mind is on your opponent’s shooting, your mind is absorbed by your opponent’s shooting. If your mind is on your dribbling, your mind will be absorbed by your dribbling. If your mind is on your passing, your mind will be absorbed by your passing. If your mind is on your shooting, your mind will be absorbed by your shooting. And don’t even get me started on rebounds.

  “My point is, there is nowhere to put your mind. You need to be mindless out there.”

  “Hey, no fair,” somebody yelled out, “Mike has an un
fair advantage!”

  They all laughed, but then they all looked back at me blankly. Mike spoke up. “Um, San? What does all that stuff have to do with basketball? Are you telling us to just kinda shut up and play?”

  I smiled. “Yes, Michael. Shut up and play.”

  We hit the court. I spaced out during the pregame rituals, which Woody handled, because they were totally baffling to me anyway, and found myself searching the bleachers for signs of my mom. I saw Woody’s stepmother, but she was sitting with a man. I had a glimmer of hope: Maybe my mom was stuck in a massive traffic jam. Or maybe she had gotten hung up in surgery at the hospital. Or maybe the game was sold out and she couldn’t get in.

  Except there were no traffic jams in our little suburb, my mom wasn’t a surgical nurse, and even though the crowd was bigger than I would have liked, there were still tons of empty spaces in the bleachers. Hmm…maybe Woody’s stepmom had dumped my mother so she could have a hot date. Woody came back to our bench from the middle of the court, leaned over to me, and whispered, “My dad is here!” That explained the hot date, but not where my mom was.

  I temporarily forgot all about searching the stands when the game began. Instead, I spent the first half watching my Laughing Archers turn into Limping Losers. Woody handled all the substitutions and stuff (not that there was a lot of subbing to do, because we only had one spare guy), so all I had to do was sit and cringe as the A team built up a fifteen-point lead. They were faster than us, taller, stronger. Plus they had all these cool passing plays worked out that left our defense helpless. The worst part was Peter. Nobody else on the court was playing a particularly physical game, but he sure was—at the half he had two personal fouls, and one of our guys had to come out of the game with a bloody nose after Peter spiked a blocked shot back in his face. Peter also had seventeen of his team’s thirty-two points. Woody’s dad was cheering for him like crazy too. I wondered if Woody was noticing and if it was hurting her feelings. I didn’t get the chance to ask her before the half, though, because she was prowling the sideline nonstop, shouting basketball-expert-type orders at our team, and yelling advice to the referees too. I was out of my element, but Peter and Woody were definitely immersed in theirs. The only good news for me was that we were seven-for-seven on free throws.

  At halftime, nobody even bothered to speak to me. I patted them on the back, threw them towels, and refilled their water cups—but this was now Woody’s show. Maybe we should have called the team The Fighting Singers or something, because Woody was riled up: “That was not acceptable, gentlemen. They’re making you look like—like—”

  “The B team?” Mike offered.

  “Yeah, the B team.”

  “But we are the B team, Woody.”

  “Not today, you’re not. Today you’re The Laughing Archers, and that means you’re not going to go back out there and lose.”

  “Um, I thought in the Zen religion winning wasn’t the point.”

  Woody almost snarled at him. “Well, Mike, I’m Catholic. And I want to see those arrogant dorks over there go down. Here’s the plan. You’re not going to contain my brother with a straight zone defense; if we go man-to-man, they’re better than us one-on-one, and double-teaming my brother will make it even worse.”

  “Wow, Woody, you’re a real beacon of hope.”

  “Shut up, Mike. If zone doesn’t work and man doesn’t work, we have to think outside of the box. You know the triangle offense? Well, we’re going to go with a sort of inverted triangle defense. Mike, you’ll still cover my brother, but everyone else needs to be more flexible. You know that little, fast guard, Steve Winn?”

  That had to be the guy with the squeaky voice.

  “Yeah? What about him?”

  “Well, we’re not going to cover him at all unless he’s in the paint. He’s too quick for any of you anyway. And we’re not going to cover Craig What’s-his-name if he gets in the paint—he has no inside shot. So when they’re bringing the ball up, Steve’s guy is going to break off and cover about five feet behind whoever’s defending Peter. If Steve gets in close, his defender will switch back to him, and Craig’s guy will stay between Peter and the basket. It will be like a very soft double-team—much harder for Peter than just one of you guys being on him, but harder on the rest of their offense than a straight double-team. Got it?”

  “Uh, sure. Got it, guys?”

  They all mumbled what sounded like the word yes would sound if you inflected it as a maybe. Then Mike said, “What about offense, Woody?”

  “Definitely, we should try having some. And by the way, you’re playing like little girls out there—Peter’s pounding on you. Where’s your aggression? Where’s your drive? Where are your freaking ELBOWS? God gave them to you for a reason—so you could throw them around on the court.” She peered over at me.

  “Do you have anything to add, San?”

  “Uhh—go, team?”

  She rolled her eyes, and a ref blew a whistle. It was time to start playing Woody’s game. And we did. Sure, our guys started getting called for fouls—but their guys hadn’t been practicing their foul shots like we had. And as their other players started to join Peter’s parade of fouls, we started catching up. Whatever Woody’s weird defense triangle thing meant, it was working great too—Peter was getting all frustrated, and their other players weren’t scoring enough to make up the difference. All of a sudden we were within five points of them.

  Then two things happened at once: I saw my mom walk in, and Mike got mad at Peter.

  slam, dunk, crack—part two

  Yikes!

  I looked up from the game for a moment, and there she was, wearing a bright red scarf. She was looking around the crowd, as if she was trying to find someone. I followed the angle of her head; she was staring at little sixth-grade Justin, my rock-sitting buddy, who was holding a huge posterboard with the words SAN FAN written on it in fluorescent marker. Mom shook her head and started scanning the bleachers some more. I wondered how she expected to pick out Woody’s parents if she had never met them before. There must have been some kind of confusion, because she just kept standing in the doorway instead of going to a seat.

  A whistle brought my attention back to the action on the court. Mike and Peter were up in each other’s faces, and the refs were trying to get between them. Mike was shouting at the officials, “Didn’t you see that? He fouled me! That’s three personals. Kick him out!”

  But the officials hadn’t seen whatever Peter had done. Thanks to my mom’s entrance, neither had I. Woody went out to argue, and I ran over to get Mike away from Peter. I actually managed to drag him about ten feet backward, but then he yelled over my shoulder at the refs, “What are you, blind? Jesus!”

  They kicked him out of the game. We were in trouble here. The nosebleed kid was in no shape to get back in and play, so, with no Mike, we were down to four players. Woody came up to me and said, “San, what are we going to do now?”

  “Uh, power play?”

  “That’s hockey, not basketball. Seriously, what are we going to do? We’re almost caught up, and I am not going to forfeit.”

  I said, “What am I supposed to do, magically come up with another player?”

  Woody smiled. “San, you’re a genius!”

  The next thing I knew, I was in uniform. The refs said I couldn’t play in sandals, so Mike gave me his damp, sweaty, two-sizes-too-big socks and sneakers to wear. They were so big, I felt like Ronald McDonald out there. And the dampness was no fun either. But there was no choice. I clomped out onto the court, and the whole place started cheering.

  Crud. I looked at my mother, still standing in the doorway. She smiled and waved. Then the entire crowd started chanting, “Buddha! Buddha!” And the fun started. The A team guys must have assumed I was some kind of fearsome secret weapon, because they immediately double-teamed me. I’d like to say that my fleet footwork and slick moves got me into the clear over and over, that then I unleashed a devastating barrage of baskets, that I was
carried off the court a hero. But I didn’t have fleet footwork, I didn’t get a shot off for the first ten minutes I played, and the only chance I had of getting carried off the court would be on a stretcher.

  But the rest of my team started driving to the hoop over and over again while the A team was worrying about guarding me. Before you could say “thinking without thinking,” we were only trailing by two points. Peter called a time-out and got his team together. When they came back on, the double-team was gone, and Peter was defending me. “You’ve got nothing, San,” he growled as he bumped into my chest.

  “True,” I said. “I’m surprised it took you a period to figure that out, though.”

  While he was trying to come up with a witty reply, we scored again. The game was all tied up!

  On our next possession, we missed. Then they got off a lucky three-pointer, putting their team up by three with less than a minute left in the game. Woody was shouting, “Fast break! Fast break!” We charged up the court, but I was tripping over the tips of Mike’s huge shoes, so I was way behind everybody else. One of our guys went up for the world’s easiest layup and missed. But he threw the ball so hard off the rim that it flew over everyone’s heads and into my waiting hands. Peter was running too fast to turn around in time, so I was all alone at the threepoint line for a split second. I was afraid of what would happen if I gave Peter time to guard me, so I shot without thinking. Peter had swung his arm around to block the ball, and his fingers slammed into my chest just after I released the shot. The ref’s whistle blew, the buzzer went off to end the game, and my shot went in.

  Swish.

  I came down and fell on top of Peter. It was a total accident, but a very hard impact. My knees slammed into the tops of his legs, and his head smashed into my ribs. We landed in a heap. I couldn’t move, because I couldn’t breathe—Peter’s fingers had knocked half of the wind out of me, and his skull finished the job. Peter was under me, writhing in pain. “Get the hell off me, Buddha!” he gasped as he rolled over and tumbled me onto the floor.