Ball Is Life
a basketball mystery by David Jans
While my adopted home state is abuzz with the Nuggets on the verge of their first NBA title, this little story came a-floating my way and seemed all too apropos. And of course, a nice underside spin, with mystery and UFOs.
And although it might seem a tad ironic that it’s set in Philly what with the whole Embiid thing all year, this is not meant to rub that in at all. But you know, enjoy your MVP! I’m sure your time is coming. One city can only lose so many championships.
Content warning: some language
Ball Is Life
by David Jans
I knew the case would be like no other the moment the file landed with a thud on my desk.
"Here you go, Jans. Ben Gerrard, missing twenty-year-old white male, disappeared last night near the basketball court on the hill next to the St. James school. Word has it he went to high school there, a local legend, a real baller. A few people said they saw flashing bright lights in the area. I don't know; the whole thing sounded strange. Oh yeah, and good news for you. He dropped his cell phone. Start there and then follow-up with the family, will ya?"
As the most junior detective in the 24th district of the Philadelphia Police Department, Chief Robertson used my desk as a receptacle for all things missing. Missing person cases suck. The work is tedious, and the abductor almost always turns out to be a family member, which I find super boring. This one felt different, though. The whole bright-light thing created a Stranger Things vibe.
I also liked the basketball tie-in, being a big fan myself. Philadelphia schoolboy legend returns to where he once dominated after crashing and burning out at Syracuse. I totally get it. Add in the intrigue and complexity of the kid’s apparent affiliation with a drug syndicate, and the case had it all. The cell phone, well, it was like finding a winning ticket in the missing person Powerball jackpot. I cashed it in with Slippery Pete, our resident Harry Houdini of password cracking.
The detective playbook says to go straight to recent calls and texts, but something told me to look at his camera first. Oh, hey there, twenty-minute-long video right around the time of the disappearance at 10 PM. I put my feet up on the desk and started the show.
The footage began at breakneck speed, a bouncing and jarring Blair Witch Project-style romp narrated by a frightened, breathless videographer. The production departed from the terror in the woods format and had our amateur back-peddling in an open field. From what I could make out at least. Besides what appeared to be a series of blinking lights in the distance providing some natural illumination, the video was mostly dark. Bouncing and jarring probably undersold the instability, but I’ll tell you what—the kid has directorial talent. Capturing raw footage of this magnitude while back peddling, at a high rate of speed, at night, while under apparent duress is no easy task. Perhaps his elite athletic ability had something to do with it.
Besides a few F bombs it was mostly short heavy breathing from an audio standpoint. He was clearly scared shitless but had the presence of mind to document it. Whatever it was. The light was getting brighter. As if tracking him.
And just when I thought my motion sickness would kick in from all the action, the video angle dropped abruptly. With an audible thud and gasp. The director kept rolling, albeit with the phone pointed to the ground. From the wheezing, I gathered he probably had the wind knocked out of him and needed a minute to catch his breath. Slowly the video resumed, with the lights now further away. The kid did well to create some separation with his expert footwork. The larger floodlights were replaced by dozens of smaller round lights. Some green, others white. Close enough together to form a pattern, but it was hard to make out because they blinked in random order. Come on. How about some play by play here?
"This is Ben Gerrard. I’m finally . . . in a . . . position here to comment, on this, whatever in the hell this is.”
Okay, here we go. Tell it Ben.
“Oh man, I can't catch my . . . breath. This is insane. I was shooting some hoops, working on my game, man, on the court next to the school. I saw some shit. Some lights. In the distance, but they kept getting closer. Closer still. I swear to God, I’m not smoking dude. The lights were following me. I think I’m good right here. Whatever it is, it landed yo. Right next to the court.”
The video was finally stable, but basically dark, except for the random light pattern thing I mentioned. At least the audio was clear.
"I feel like this is something straight outta . . . .”
Damn, but choppy. I think he accidently hit the pause button or something. Sounded like he was teeing something up. The video was mostly still inconclusive, but the blinking lights seemed to be forming an outline of sorts. Of what, I could not be sure at this point, but progress, nonetheless. I was also picking up a scant sound. But it was building.
And then the narration finally kicked in.
“Wait, the bottom of this, this . . . whatever it is, is opening. Oh my, do you hear that? The entire operation up to this point has been stealthy and smooth. But now, I hear the faint sounds of what might be the dopest beat I have ever heard. It's getting louder as the door opens wider. Oh, hell yeah, it sounds . . . sounds like someone cutting up the beat with the precision of Mix Master Mike, the DJ for the Beastie Boys. So filthy. Wicki-wicki-wickidy-wick-wick-wak. This is dope, hip-hop the way it used to be. I love old-school.
“The door is almost entirely open now. Holy shit. I see blinking multi-colored lights and fog. The DJ has stopped slicing and dicing, and the beat has slowed considerably. I can't even imagine what the hell will come out.
“We have movement. I see . . . oh, man . . . several thin-legged . . . people, aliens, who knows. The fog is pretty damn thick. They're coming down a ramp to the court paired off in twos. Wait, wait a minute. This is unbelievable and rather disappointing if you ask me. They look . . . . look like an iPhone Alien Emoji. Oh wow, what a letdown, so stereotypical. They're even green, but a lighter shade than one might expect to see in the movies.
“Anyway, some of them are incredibly tall, and the entire group is lean. They've lined up five a side near the end of the ramp and are moving, shimmying to the beat, talking to each other, and clapping. Wait, the DJ has kicked in again, freakin' slicing up the beat. The lights have picked up, too, and if there wasn't enough, the ship is pumping out fog at increasingly heavy levels. The beat is being interrupted by a series of foghorn blasts.”
Unbelievable, this is gold. Keep it coming Ben.
“Listen, a voice. It sounds like a public-address announcer, shades of Michael Buffer with the deep, slow build-up. The only problem is the language is incomprehensible, an intergalactic tongue perhaps. The fellas lined up at the end of the ramp get it, as evidenced by all the high-fiving and chest-bumping going on.
“Oh my god, an extremely athletic-looking alien is making his way down the ramp. The dude must be six-feet-ten and is taking his good old time with both hands stretched out as if he's a Messiah, looking down upon his people. Yeah, he's a leader of some sort. A captain, of this, um, team, maybe. He has now raised his hands and is looking skyward, perhaps paying homage to a god or a fallen family member.”
From the sound of it, the kid may have majored in journalism at Syracuse before dropping out. They’re known for it. Nice cadence and professional tone. While the narration kept me on the edge of my seat, the video quality continued to be poor. The footage picked up only scant traces of light and the sound of a beat and horn, but it lacked intensity, out of sync with the riveting story Gerrard was spinning. His equipment did look like an ancient version of the iPhone. I also couldn't rule out the possibility the guy was tripping balls. He kept it rolling.
“Okay, back to the ramp. It’s interesting they all look the same, each one a sleek light green specimen sans clothing. However, there are height differences. The next one looks shorter, maybe six feet three or so. He’s working it, raising his hands in a raise the roof-like fashion. Damn, this one's smooth. He finished his routine with a three-sixty spin and then faced off with a teammate to perform the most intricate handshake I have ever seen. They have clearly practiced this a lot.
“Well, it looks like the introductions are complete. Five in total. The group has formed a circle, swaying back and forth with their arms wrapped around each other. The tallest cat is holding court in the center and looks to be barking out orders while gyrating to the beat. Basketballs are now rolling down the ramp. Of course. Let's see what these guys have—looking good so far. Each one can handle, but the smallest of the starting five is more fluent with the ball than the rest. Interesting. Everything seems consistent with what I would expect from a positional and height perspective. Who knows, these guys could have been studying our game from afar for many years.
“The team is working through some drills now. It's all fluid as if orchestrated by a maestro. The boys have broken up into threes and are doing the weave. The passing is crisp as they make their way smoothly up the court, the ball never hitting the ground. Holy crap, the tall one just glided in for a tomahawk dunk. So sick.
Hold up. I see a group of guys making their way to the court. They're tall, athletic looking, all late teens or early twenties, and a few of them look familiar. The captain of the intergalactic crew doesn't look happy with the fact there are only four. He's waving his arms around and is in the face of one of the humans. Now he's looking around, scanning the area. Dammit, I think he spotted me. He's motioning for me to approach the court. I better get the hell out of here . . . no, please, leave me . . . . alone, I don't want to play . . . ."
The video abruptly ended. There was a flash of light, screaming, a garbled sound, and the phone crashed to the ground.
"Hey Chief, the Ben Gerrard case is tremendous. You have to check out the video when I get back from talking to his family. For the movie, I'm thinking James Franco for my role and Al Pacino for you."
Before I could turn the door handle on the way out, Gerrard's phone blew up. Vibrating and blaring—
Intergalactic, planetary, planetary, intergalactic
Intergalactic, planetary, planetary, intergalactic
I reached into my jacket pocket and removed it just before Mike D delivered the first line of the Beastie Boys classic. My heart thumped as I read the text and nearly fumbled the phone,
Ball is life. Don't bother trying to find me.
Snapchat exploded next. I did drop the phone when I saw the picture. I reached over and picked it up as the clock ticked down 3. 2. 1, and then it was gone.
But not from my memory. Gerrard looked so happy. The Alien did too, his right arm draped around his recruit, flashing two fingers horizontally across his chest.
Meet the Author:
David Jans is an emerging writer based in Charlotte, NC. His short stories and flash fiction have appeared in Red Fez, Menacing Hedge, The Disappointed Housewife, and The Raven Review. He enjoys watching the NBA Finals and thinks the captain of the visiting team in his Ball of Life piece is related to Nikola Jokic of the Denver Nuggets.
Twitter: @DavidJans3
If you liked this story, check out:
