Hannibal the Animal

Nana was one of those women who was at home anywhere, but the kitchen at Popop’s house was her place. She animated the space. The pots, pans, ladle, and spatula. They were extensions of her flappy old arms. As she moved over the pans, she smelled of lavender, talcum powder, and fresh bedding—mixed with the aroma of spices, ground pepper, parsley, and red pepper flakes simmering in oil and coating the eggs. Her owl-like eyes brightened and her cheeks flushed as soon as she got busy fixing a meal.

I was ready for a good meal. I’d been up all night reading the pre-calculus textbook my mother had gotten for me. She wanted me to “get ready” for a high school AP mathematics class I’d be taking next spring. I hadn’t absorbed a thing. More than anything, I wanted to make my parents happy. Even if I had to do the math. God forbid.

Coming to Popop’s house on weekends was a great getaway from the havoc back at home. It was an adventure that involved a lot of good, good food, and watching old 1950s musical cinema like ‘Singin’ in the Rain’, ‘Hit the Deck’, and all of the Shirley Temple films. And ice cream. Lots of ice cream. Rocky Road. Turkey Hill Choco Chip Mint.

I always felt safe and protected at Popop’s house. It is a place to me that is tucked away from the rest of the world. A place set apart. A place where nursery rhymes are true, where magic is real, and where good always triumphs over evil in the end.

“Jimmy, can you go fetch the pancake mix?” Nana asked.

“Where is it, Nana?” I asked.

“Up there in the cupboard over the stove, use the step ladder, Jimmy,” Nana said.

Even though I was known as a clumsy kid, I could certainly handle getting some pancake mix. Lately, it seemed like my parents were always getting short with me and saying, “Never mind, if you want something done right, you do it yourself.” I’d been at the point of tears a few times bringing in groceries. Placing cans of beefaroni in the cupboards, my mom would get testy and say, “No, that doesn’t go there.” And it wasn’t just that.

Mom was always calling Dad a “tyrant” and a “big man” and saying, “We’ve all got to do whatever the big man says.” Dad was always firing back, saying “you ingrate” and waiving credit card statements at her with shaking hands and a quivering exclamation, “You bitch.” Dad was always stressed about bringing in money at work and complaining about how much Mom was spending, and Mom was always saying how she did everything and he was never home, that she’d be more than happy to go to work and pay the bills if he would stay home with their “ill-behaved kids.” And on those nights, he went out for a “business meeting,” she stayed up all night calling him every thirty minutes and chain smoking Marlboro 100s by the phone. It was different at Popop’s house.

I opened the step ladder and held tight to the handles as I stepped up. Opening the creaky wooden cabinet, I saw cans of tomatoes, a shelf full of cereal boxes—Cheerios and Cap’n Crunch. Rows of canned preserves. Strawberry jam with a red and white checkerboard lid. Blackberry preserves with a blue and white checkerboard lid. Inside the cabinet, it smelled old. Shifting through the contents, in the back of the cabinet, I dug out the blueberry pancake mix. Nana’s blueberry pancakes were to die for.

As I pulled out the pancake mix and placed it on the platform of the step ladder, something that was lodged underneath came out with it and fell down on the floor. At first, I thought it was a streamer from Nana’s annual Fourth of July cookout.

As I put away the step ladder, I looked more closely at the strange object. It was an old-fashioned headband. Red, white, and blue.

Gaudy and frayed.

And it had the words ‘Animal’ written on the back in fading black indelible marker.

* * *

“What is this Nana,” I asked, holding up the headband.

“When I met him, your grandfather was a Scarlet Knight. He had one of those bright red starter jackets. And all the girls on campus were after him. But Hank here, he was a bit of a wallflower, and he spent all his time in the gym. I just happened to meet him one day waiting in line at the bookstore. And he was such a ghost, I didn’t know if I’d ever run into him again, but I was going to make sure that I did. They called him ‘Hannibal the Animal’,” Nana said.

“But Nana, Popop is old,” I said.

“I remember him when he was young and handsome and had a full head of hair,” Nana said, playfully giving Popop a punch on the arm.

“But why ‘Hannibal’,” I said, looking back and forth at each of them.

“It’s a silly thing,” Nana said, waving her hand. “Some old general who went to war against Rome. He was famous for bringing a whole army over the Alps. Some Quixotic figure who dreamed the impossible dream.”

“And what’s that Nana?” I asked.

“Well, Popop was a great basketball player. But he wanted to go pro. His coaches and parents and everyone all said it was a lost cause. No one believed. But he wouldn’t turn back—and your Popop was a history major, later taught history and would talk about these generals and their battles and name plays after different battles—but he had this big dream—like Hannibal—and one of his teammates was teasing him one day and called him Hannibal, and it stuck.”

“Was he really any good?” I asked.

“Your Popop looked like a Greek God. Graceful and fierce on the court, a rough player, but not dirty—and he was a handsome, handsome fellow. So tall and gentle off the court. He was great. Still is,” Nana said.

“Oh, come off it Gigi, you know we were both born old,” Popop said. Now Gigi is Nana. Her birth name is Jane. And Popop is really Hank. And they are the Salazars. So are we. But Nana and Popop have a lot of other names for each other.

“You old codger,” Nana said, “you like to talk tough when people are around. But it’s honey bear and sweetheart when no one’s around.”

“Enough Gigi. Don’t get all sappy on me. Maybe you’ve gotten dotty in your old age,” Popop said. He winked at me and flashed a goofy smile as he egged her on.

As they went back and forth, Nana poured the batter on the griddle. The batter hardened into soft fluffy circular lumps of love that she placed on a serving dish, a stack of gorgeous golden brown discs with spots of blueberry shining through.

I kept the headband in my pocket and clutched it tightly trying to imagine Popop on the hardwood while we ate.

“So, this was one of Popop’s headbands from when he played college ball,” I asked.

“No, honey, that one is from when he was a Harlem Globetrotter—in the Big Leagues,” Nana said.

“A what?” I asked.

“A Globetrotter. A hot dog. A player on a team that traveled around doing flashy, showboat stuff. It was a huge honor and a wild ride. Popop never made it on a major league team,” Nana said. “But he was always going to make it to the Big Leagues.”

“Gigi, that’s enough. Don’t fill this kid's head with lunacy,” Popop said.

“Hey, Popop. Wanna go out back and shoot some hoops,” I said.

* * *

Popop’s basketball court, out back by the corn fields, was one of those basketball courts you would see on municipal lots in rundown rural towns with budget problems—the kind you imagine with barren lots and tumbleweeds blowing through. The backboard is made of moth-eaten plywood. The kind that shakes with each glancing bank shot.

The rim was a rust orange with jagged white exposed underneath where the paint had completely peeled off. The net strings were gray and worn. The whole thing was shaking and swaying just a few centimeters to and fro in the gentle October breeze. The cement of the court was cracked with wrinkles and lines like those on the old man’s face and the painted key was fading.

“First to eleven. Winner’s ball. Two points from the top of the key. Got it, old man?” I asked.

“Got it,” Popop said.

The old man looked like a totem. Wooden and stiff. His lanky limbs and big head had taken over, and he had grown thin and spindly, with hardly any midsection or legs to speak of. His legs were more like pegs and his tight-fitted khaki work pants hung loosely over them like flowing drapes.

After checking the ball, I made a break for the basket. I gave it everything I had and didn’t even look over to pay mind to his defense. Just about five big strides, gliding by Popop, planting the left foot deep, bringing up the right knee, and stretching out my arm as high as I could to touch the ball off over the rim. There was no way this geezer could catch me.

Popop watched as I slipped by him and sunk the layup. “One up. Well done,” he said. And then the old man let out a deep rumbling chuckle and his lips widened into a big toothy grin like a jack o’ lantern with wrinkles. “Winner’s ball,” he said, ominously. And with a wink, he added, “You won’t be getting by me so easy next time.”

Taking the ball back to the top of the key, I felt a bit sorry for Popop. It must be painful to be that old. That useless. I reached into my pocket where I’d kept the headband and pulled it out.

“Maybe this will help,” I said, handing him the old headband.

He hopped forward in two fluid steps, stood at his full height in front of me, and looked down at the headband I was holding in my hands, palms up.

As if receiving a ceremonial award, he reached down slowly and picked up the headband and placed it on his head, over the ragged patches of white tufts of hair, over his wrinkled fore brow. He stepped back into a proper defensive stance. His eyes widened. Color returned to his face. He took off his button-down shirt and threw it over on the baseline. He smiled and said, “Alright Sonny, let’s play.”

I rushed forward for the backboard again, this time to the left, and did a crossover, thinking to catch the old man sleeping. But he was ready, and he side-stepped, more than a foot taller than I am—more like two feet taller—and he raised his arms high. I crashed into him like a wall. Found myself on my back looking up.

“Got to be quicker than that hotdog, if you want to get by me,” Hank said.

Popop checked the ball gain, and I passed it back. He gazed at me briefly, then looked up at the hoop. He dribbled twice on his right, and I moved to the left. Dribbling again, he took a long step forward, lunging with his right foot, then a half step forward, and he planted his left foot, and did a spin move, softly laying the ball into the hoop.

Lucky shot, I thought. He’s not getting by me again this time.

“1-1 hotshot,” Popop said. After checking the ball—which I rocketed back at him with force, he popped it up in the air like a volleyball set. Grabbing it dramatically with both hands. I never realized how big those hands were before.

Then Popop bent those rusty old knees. He sprung up to his full height and launched the ball with a crisp stroke. The ball hit the mark.

“2-1 cub scout,” Popop said. And it went on like that. For eight more plays. He shot from the top of the key, strode, and spun into the lane. Reverse layups. Fading hook shots. Little jumpers when I was off balance on the other side of the lane. He danced like he was performing an Irish jig. And as he laid down the law, his wooden body came to life.

The wood-creaking hinges of the old walking coffin became lubricated, as if with WD-40. The creased and crumpled paper of Popop’s face was smoothed out and ironed. The smell of sawdust and mothballs faded and was replaced with sweet-smelling sweat which drenched his neck and upper chest, leaving a rung of sweat catching at the top of his trousers. The sweat smelled like orange peels and salty popcorn with a bitter hint of ammonia. I also detected a faint whiff of Bengay analgesic. And his mouth sang with whistles and shouts.

He spun the ball on one finger, then on his elbow, and across those old broad, arched shoulders. He swung the ball around his torso, multiple times, then through his legs, and behind his back, and popped the ball back over in front of him. And he shot me theatrical looks with his eyebrows and mouth as he was showboating.

“10-1 short stuff, time to bring it. Game point,” Popop said.

“Bring it old man,” I said.

And as he came down the lane for a layup, I managed to anticipate which way he was going and go out wide and pick the ball.

“Nice move Jimmy,” Popop said.

I took the ball all the way back to the top of the key, turned, and paused for just a moment. I locked in the range and fastened my gaze just above the rim, then let the three-point shot rip. Nothing but net.

“Whoooee,” Popop said, “10-3 hot stuff. Looks like you got the hot hand. Keep it coming.”

I took off from the line and charged the net hard. I got ahead of the ball and had to grab the ball up prematurely. I saw Popop’s giant presence and his shadow passing over my face as I sailed through the air. I got the shot off, but too hard, and it glanced off the backboard right back to Popop.

“Game point,” Popop said. “Now pay attention.” Then Popop dribbled the ball between my legs, collected it with his left hand, swirled it over my head in a curly-cue, and then took to the hardtop with vicious spins and crossovers and behind-the-back dribbling. But at length, he made his move for the basket. And I backed up to defend the shot. Popop’s whole body was pressed and bent forward at an obscene angle, stretching me way back. But as soon as I went back, he pulled himself erect as if a rope from the foul line was catching him and arresting his forward trajectory. And with a little flick of his wrists, Popop easily swooshed the four-foot jumper.

“Good game, hotdog,” Popop said, slamming the ball into my stomach.

“I can’t believe you are such a great basketball player, Popop,” I said, “I never knew.”

“It’s not important kiddo,” Popop said.

“What is then?” I asked.

“The important thing is to go for it. Go for what you want. Be what you want. Don’t listen to what anybody else says. Even your folks. Now you don’t go tellin’ ‘em I said that, you hear,” he said scruffing up my hair.”

“But Popop,” I said, “If I do my math, then won’t Mom be happy?” I asked.

“No sonny. No! Not at all. People make up their minds to be happy. Or they make up their minds ‘to don’t be.’ It has nothing to do with you,” he said.

“Really? Beause they are always saying we’re gonna do better, that we have to buckle down. That it’s up to us?” I ask.

“Hogwash,” Popop said, “They are just people that made up their minds to don’t be. And they’ll spend the rest of their days hunting for a reason why it was somebody else’s fault. Lots of people like that. You don’t take the bait—you hear? Because happy people, who made up their mind ‘to do be’—they go after what they love bout life, as long as anybody will let them, win or lose, come hell or high water, no matter the odds—and they do it with a smile, laughing all the way.”

“That takes guts,” I said.

“Nah. It’s easy. Let me tell you, when my pop was dying, he turned to me and said, ‘I don’t know what you done got to show for it, but you certainly done did it how you set out to.’ And I told him, ‘Out of nothing, I have created a strange new universe.’”

“So, what’s that supposed to mean Popop?” I asked.

“Well, if you can figure that one out kiddo, you’re as good as set. But I can’t give away all my secrets. I guess the best way to tell you what it means you could get a hold of now is this—you can live in their world—or you can create yours.”

“Got it,” I said.

* * *

Mom came over to pick me up that afternoon smoking a Marlboro 100 when I came to the door with my bags.

“Mom, look,” I said, pointing at a scab on my elbow where I’d fallen during the game with Popop.

“Did you finish your Precal?” she asked.

“Didn’t get a chance to. In fact, I don’t think I’m taking that class. See you in the car.” And I rushed past her.

“What’s come over him?” she asked Popop.

“He’s a spirited one, that Jimmy,” he said.