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‘mothafuckin’ good’ he was at basketball to a disinterested audience. BB made up for his small stature and age deficiency by having the loudest mouth for miles around, and he’d have gotten his ass whooped every thirty seconds if it weren’t for his brother being a high ranking Black Stone Ranger.
    A gangway gate creaked open halfway down the alley, which led to a large, red brick apartment building. A wooden stairwell snaked down the rear of the structure, and two older black kids sauntered out. Everyone’s eyes shot towards them. The first out wore a black Starter cap with a large gold “P” above the brim. The other one had on white jogging pants with the left leg rolled up to his knee and a black pick comb jutted upright from the back of his cone-shaped afro. They all flocked over, and Ryan and I trailed in their wake.
    â€œKrazy Crew!” the one with the hat bellowed, elongating the words. He threw up a quick wrist-flicking hand gesture. The mob of kids instantly echoed it. They formed a “C” with the thumb and index fingers and a “K” with the middle, ring, and pinky on the same hand.
    â€œMonteff,” the one with the pick said. “Mama’s looking for you, go on inside.”
    â€œAwe, T-Money, come on,” Monteff cried, throwing his head back in agony.
    â€œAight, it’s your ass, nigga… Speaking of ass whoopins, ya’ll been holdin’ down the set?” His tall, thin body loomed over us. His Adam’s apple bulged.
    â€œHell yeah. Aw hell yeah,” us kids roared urgently.
    â€œWe need to hand out any violations?” the one with the hat asked. He mashed his wide fist into his palm high over our heads. “Any mouth shots?”
    This sent a shiver of frightened murmurs through the crowd. Even BB got spooked. His eyes bugged, and his bottom lip drooped open.
    â€œAh, we just fuckin’ witcha,” the older boys said, bursting into laughter. A sigh of relief hissed from us kids.
    â€œBut ya’ll need ta get toughened up,” T-Money said. “So we gonna have us some boxing matches today.”
    â€œHow about dangly, old Leroy,” BB shouted. “He ain’t never fought nobody.”
    â€œYeah?” T-Money asked, furrowing his brow. “Come’ere, Leroy.” Leroy sifted to the front. “And who else?” T-Money scanned our faces.
    â€œWhat about Joe,” BB said. “Dat white boy prolly neva fought nobody.”
    â€œWho’s Joe?” T-Money asked.
    All the kids turned and shot their index fingers directly at me. A pang singed through my throat. I’d been in plenty of fights. I was the toughest kid in my grade at St. Greg’s, but all these kids were from Pierce—the rough public school down the street.
    â€œYou wanna fight?” T-Money asked, baring his yellow-white chops.
    I nodded and pulled my t-shirt off. The kids oowwwed.
    â€œHell yeah,” T-Money said. “I like your style boy, you look like you finna whoop ole Leroy.”
    The boys formed a shoulder-to-shoulder circle about the size of a boxing ring. I slipped my crucifix off and handed it to Ryan. He slid it over his head without a word.
    â€œTwon, get Leroy’s corner,” T-Money directed, motioning to the other big kid.
    Leroy was a little taller than me and skinnier. He wore a white t-shirt with grease stains streaked across the belly and some tight cut-off blue jeans. Leroy twirled his finger through his light-brown afro that sprang out puffy and thick like the tips of cauliflower.
    T-Money crouched down to my eye level and gripped his jogging pants as he chomped a wad of Juicy Fruit. “You got him, champ. You just gotta go’n whoop his ass... Hit him like dis.” T-Money bobbed on the toes of his black Reeboks. Then, he threw quick-darting punches into the air like he was swatting flies with closed fists. Years later, when I started to box, fighting at