Flying Lessons & Other Stories(2)

Wander into your cramped living room after dinner that night. Work up the guts to describe for your old man the importance of competing against the best. You’ve outgrown your local run. It’s time to put a foot in the deep end. So what if he doesn’t even know the rules of the game, if all he does is sit there silently inside the TV, working a toothpick in his teeth.

“So, what do you think, Pop?”

“About what?”

“Would it be cool if I went with you to work every morning? So I could play some ball down there?”

He’ll look at you suspiciously, then turn back to his cop show and his toothpick.

You’ll take this as a no and assume the fate of the most important summer of your hoop development now rests in the hands of the county bus system.

But you’ll be wrong.

A few minutes later he’ll mumble, “Better have your skinny butt out by the car by five, I’ll tell you that. Or else I’m leaving without you.”

He won’t even look up when he tells you this.

Doesn’t matter.

Your heart will race with excitement.

You’ll tear into the room you share with your sis and lay your hoop gear out on the chair by your bed like some kind of giddy schoolgirl—which is pretty much how you’ll feel.





There’s Only Today


Know that when your alarm starts blaring at four-thirty the next morning, you’re going to have no idea where you are or what’s happening. It’ll still be dark outside. Your sis will be snoring. When reality finally settles in, the lazy part of your brain will try and sweet-talk you back to sleep: Maybe we could, you know, skip the Muni trip today…go ball at the park instead….There’s always tomorrow.

Reach into your own skull and smack this part of your brain upside the head.

If you let it, this part of your brain will hold you back from every dream you will ever have. Trust me.

Crawl out of bed, reminding yourself that your old man gets up like this every single day for work. Rain or shine. In sickness and in health.

Your uncles, too.

Respect them for this.

Strive to be like them.

During the entire thirty-minute drive south, your old man will say two sentences to you, max. Don’t take it personally. Answer his question about the gym location and how you heard about it. Buckle your seat belt when he gives you one of his patented dirty looks. Before you even hit the freeway on-ramp you’ll be done talking, but that’s okay. Shift your focus to other details of the drive. The radio news show he turns on. The smell of his steaming-hot black coffee. The scattered cars along the dark freeway, and the subtle tick of his turn signal whenever he changes lanes. By the end of summer, these seemingly insignificant details will be ingrained in your brain.

When he parks along the street near his factory, it’ll still be a full three hours before Muni Gym opens. “Better have your skinny butt back here by quarter to four,” he’ll say, snatching his lunch pail out of the backseat. “It’s a long walk home, I’ll tell you that.”

After he disappears around the bend, turn your attention to the ancient Volkswagen Bug. You’ll wonder how the heck you’re supposed to sleep inside such a tiny car, but after a little trial and error you’ll find a way. It will involve folding your six-foot-one frame into a kind of human pretzel. Half of you will be in the backseat, while the other half is curled up into the front passenger seat, your bag strategically lodged into the center console to keep the hand brake from digging into your ribs.

By day three, this next-level yoga position will feel perfectly natural.

But let’s get something straight from the jump. This Muni Gym summer isn’t going to be some kind of continuous loop of “One Shining Moment.” There’ll be low points, too. On and off the court. Trust me.

A few weeks in, a meaty-faced cop will knock on the windshield with the butt of his nightstick. He’ll look at you through aviator sunglasses, his right hand resting on a holstered handgun.

Try not to panic.

His suspicions will be based on two simple facts:

1. This is the first time during his rounds he’s ever stumbled across a kid sleeping at a ninety-degree angle inside a VW Bug.

2. Your skin is brown.

2a. (His skin will be brown, too—maybe even browner—but don’t spend too much time worrying yourself about this. There’s a complex psychology behind this phenomenon, one you’re not yet ready to wrap your head around.)



At the end of your respectful explanation, the cop will slowly remove his hand from his gun. He’ll grab hold of your left elbow instead and steer you toward the front office of the factory. Your pop will be summoned, embarrassingly, over the loudspeaker. Two minutes later he’ll emerge from the back looking wildly stressed. This is not because you’ve done anything wrong. It’s because he has his own history with cops. Stuff that happened long before you were born. Stuff nobody ever talks about.

After the cop explains the situation, your pop will put on an uncomfortable smile and vouch for you. He’ll say you’re a good kid, that you’re just down here to play some ball at a gym in Balboa Park. He’ll shake hands with the cop enthusiastically, thanking him for his service and apologizing for any trouble you may have caused.

Soon as the cop leaves, though, your pops will transform back into himself. “Don’t worry about that power-happy pendejo,” he’ll say, rubbing your shoulder. “You didn’t do nothing wrong.”