Brian had heard the rumors for years. He couldn’t remember the first time he’d heard them. To him, they were an intrinsic fact of life. The sky is blue. The ocean’s salty. The dog that played Air Bud haunts the basketball court at Port Moody Public Park. 

Brian, a scrawny 12 year-old with a face perpetually obscured by his shaggy, matted hair, hadn’t even been born when the first Air Bud movie was filmed, but everybody who grew up in Port Moody had heard stories about the Summer of Air Bud. People talked about that summer as if Michael Jackson came to town and started handing out $100 bills. 

Of course, not all the stories were nice. Brian had also heard rumors about an on-set tragedy, one that was quickly swept under the rug by the film’s producers.

“You know that scene where Buddy runs off into the woods? Well, he actually did run off into the woods. When the trainers called for him to come back, he never showed. Rumor has it that he was mauled to death by a bear or a hungry pack of wolves. They had to get a different Golden Retriever to finish the movie.”

Adam Prescott wasn’t talking to Brian. Adam was surrounded by his friends, a feral collection of hangers-on and suck ups desperate to soak in just a droplet of Adam’s social relevancy. If Adam liked you, everyone in the sixth grade liked you. If he didn’t, his disapproval hung around your neck like a scarlet letter. Adam didn’t like Brian. 

“They say his ghost still haunts the basketball court at Port Moody Public Park. That’s why our parents tell us never to go there at night. If you do, you’ll hear the growling first. Then, a swish of a phantom basketball flying through the hoop. After that… he rips out your throat!”

Adam lunged toward his gasping audience, and even Brian flinched. Brian was seated on the opposite end of the bleachers, but Adam was loud enough that he could hear every word. Adam’s posse laughed as the tension of the story faded, just in time for Coach Moore to blow his whistle.

“Line up!” shouted Coach Moore, and the young boys filed down the bleachers and aligned themselves in a messy row on the edge of the basketball court. 

“Good, we’ve got a solid crop of young Wolves this year. As you all know, the Timber Wolves took home the gold in regionals last year, and we’re aiming for a repeat this season.”

Coach Moore walked down the line like a drill sergeant inspecting a troop of unseasoned maggots. Brian stood out in the lineup. He was about a foot shorter than his peers, and thick, Coke-bottle glasses magnified his eyes to a cartoonish degree.

“Not all of you are going to make the cut, but if you give these tryouts 110%, you could end this season with a five ounce medal hanging from your neck.”

Brian loved basketball, but he was not a natural baller. He had sprained his ankle during last year’s tryouts, drawing jeers and hyena-laughs from Adam and his friends. But Brian was determined – he wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

He kept up the pace with the rest of the boys during sprints. He dribbled as well as the rest of them. He had even been practicing his free throws, as he knew they could be the difference between playing on the team and cheering them on from the sidelines.  

He had been alone whenever he practiced, but now that all eyes were on him, he was beginning to feel the pressure. The coach called him up for his first free throw. Brian took a deep breath, steadied himself, and let the ball fly. He missed. The ball kissed the rim, bounced up high, then fell behind the backboard.

“Nice try, Hernandez. Good warm up. Keep focusing on your breath and you’ll sink the next one.”

Brian dribbled the ball once, twice, then launched it. This time, he over corrected and the ball whizzed past the hoop altogether, catching nothing but air. 

Adam laughed, triggering a wave of snorts and chortles among the boys.

“Little too much power on that one, champ. Let’s try one more.” 

Tears welled up in Brian’s eyes. His confidence was shattered, and his heart was telling him that he wasn’t good enough. Still, he steeled his nerves and lined up one final shot.

“Air ball,” Adam half-masked with a cough. 

Brian threw the ball hard. Not at the hoop, but at Adam’s face. A punch of rubber boomed through the gymnasium, accompanied by a loud crack. Adam tumbled over, a stream of blood running from his nose. 

“Brian!” shouted Coach Moore, but Brian was already sprinting out of the gym. 

…

Brian ran from the school, down the street, and kept going until he reached the lake. He slowed down, shuffling along the waterfront and passed the “Port Moody Public Park” sign that welcomed locals and tourists alike. The sun was setting, sending beams of orange and purple light skittering across the glistening surface of the reservoir. 

The basketball court came into view, and Brian lumbered to the center. He sat down, legs crossed, and let out deep, choking sobs. After a painfully long moment, Brian caught his breath. He wiped the tears from his eyes with his basketball jersey, and took in the beauty of the sunset. 

He had spent hours practicing at this park, preparing for a moment that came and went with the furious speed of a car accident. He sat in the wreck of his failure, contemplating his suspension – or worse – when he heard it. A brief rustle in the bushes, not unlike a raccoon scuttling through the brush. Brian looked toward the tree line and did not see a raccoon. 

Instead, he saw a black basketball rolling out of the foliage. He scanned the area, but saw no one and nothing that could have rolled the ball out of the woods. “Had it been there this whole time?” he wondered quietly to himself. He pressed his palm onto the cold concrete of the court and pushed himself to his feet. As he walked toward the ball, he was suddenly struck by how creepy the woods looked in the darkness. Twilight was gone, and the cold black of night had settled in.

Brian bent over to pick up the ball, but stopped. A faint growl rumbled from deep within the forest. He froze.

“Hey, loser!”

Brian turned, horrified to see a posse of five tween basketball players led by a bandaged Adam, who cradled a bright orange ball in his hands. His head was wrapped like a mummy but, to Brian, he was far more frightening than an undead pharaoh. 

“That was a bitch move, Hernandez. We’re going to show you what real Timber Wolves do to little bitches like you.”

In an instant, the mob sprinted in unison toward their prey. Brian fled toward the forest, but twisted his ankle on a gnarled root and fell hard to the ground. He cried out in pain as the boys descended on him like jackals. 

They grabbed each of his limbs as if to draw and quarter the boy. Brian bucked and screamed as they dragged him to the center of the court. Adam was waiting at the free throw line, a deranged grin smeared across his face. He dribbled the ball menacingly as the boys splayed Brian out before him, holding down his wrists and ankles.Brian struggled helplessly, screaming as the boys cackled like rabid foxes. 

Adam dribbled harder, harder, harder with each successive motion, the ball making contact with the pavement just inches from Brian’s head. Each dribble rung out with a sharp, rubber squeak. Adam caught the ball, then paused. Brian watched his knuckles turn white as he gripped the ball with all his might. Adam raised the basketball high over his head.

“Let’s see how you like it.”

Brian shut his eyes tight, ready to feel the crunching mass of the basketball pound into his face.

Instead, he heard a distinctive swish.

Puzzled, Brian opened his eyes. Adam and his posse turned toward the sound. The net of the basketball hoop swayed like leaves caught in an autumn gust. Below the net, the black basketball rolled slowly for a few inches, then stopped dead. 

The boys stared at the ball, terror freezing their lanky, pre-teen bodies.

“Who’s there?” Adam said, voice cracking with feigned confidence. No response. Then suddenly from behind them, a cacophony of gnashing teeth and childlike screams. 

The boys turn around in time to see one of their own being dragged into the bushes, his fresh SHAQ™ Devastators kicking wildly before being absorbed into the brush. 

“What the fuck was that-“ another boy shouted before being suddenly and violently interrupted. The boys turned turned toward him, but did not see his attacker. What they saw was the boy’s mangled body suddenly plop into the basketball hoop. It landed with a metallic thud, stuffed unnaturally into the hoop like the victim of some grisly slam dunk accident.

“Holy shit!” Adam exclaimed in amazed horror. Brian took this momentary distraction as an opportunity to skitter to his feet. 

Adam turned to Brian. “You’re doing this, aren’t you?” Adam accused with a finger stretched toward Brian. 

Brian wasn’t looking at the finger. He wasn’t even looking at Adam. He was looking above Adam. The three remaining bullies looked up to see the floating specter of the dog that played Air Bud hovering above them, teeth bared and muzzle dripping with fresh blood. Pale blue light emanated from his body and cast ghostly shadows across the court. A weathered Timber Wolves jersey hung loosely from his gaunt, skeletal frame.

In an instant, the specter descended on one of the boys, eviscerating him with practiced ease. The hell hound shook the boy’s bowels in his teeth as if they were a chew toy. Brian watched as the boy’s hands curled like dead spiders as the life left his body.

Adam’s final goon had seen enough. He took off screaming toward the street, leaving Adam and Brian alone in the dark. A warm trickle of urine pooled around Adam’s feet as the ghost-dog lifted its nose from his friend’s open chest cavity. 

“G-g-good dog,” squealed Adam through stuttering lips. He raised his palm toward the beast as he slowly backed away. The dog that played Air Bud growled as it took short, deliberate steps toward Adam. Adam froze, and the dog froze. They stared, each waiting for the other to make the next move. The sound of Adam’s shoes squeaked as he pivoted to run. That was all the permission the phantom needed. In a frenzied burst, it pounced on Adam. The boy fell backwards, and the dog landed on his chest.

Adam looked into the creature’s glowing white eyes, and the dog looked back as if ingesting the corruption deep within the boy’s soul.

“Brian, help me!” he pleaded. Adam heard footsteps approaching, then stop by his ear. He looked up to see Brian looming over him, eyes as dead as a doll’s. He stared, expressionless, at the quivering, piss-soaked bully beneath him. 

“Please, you can’t let him do this!”

Brian’s lips peeled into a sinister smile. He spoke softly.

“Ain’t no rules says that a dog can’t play basketball… or kill bullies.”

With that, the ghost of the dog that played Air Bud sunk his fangs into Adam’s neck. He gurgled and choked as the beast ripped his larynx, crushed his trachea, and finally tore his esophagus from his throat. Brian watched the light fade from Adam’s eyes, and he was gone.

Brian felt a rush of joy he hadn’t felt since he watched his first basketball game with his dad. He looked over to his blood-soaked savior. The dog looked back at him, tail wagging. The snarl faded, replaced by the iconic smile of a Labrador Retriever. Brian pet the dog, cold to the touch but invitingly fluffy. “Good boy,” he said with a smile.

Brian confidently strode over to the black basketball and picked it up. He approached the dog that played Air Bud, still panting with a job well done. He held out the basketball to his new friend. 

“Want to play for a bit?”

A wagging tail was all the confirmation he needed. He got into stance, and started dribbling.