Flying Lessons & Other Stories(4)

At least at the court down the street you can work up a sweat.

On your way into your room that night, you’ll break the news to your old man. “Just so you know, Pop, I’m not driving down with you anymore. Thanks for taking me all those times.”

He’ll look up from his beer with a frown. “What happened?”

You’re a pretty tough kid. Nothing much gets to you. But for some reason his question will put a lump in your throat. “It’s just…I don’t even know why, but they won’t let me play.”

Secretly you’ll be hoping for a little piece of fatherly advice here, but you won’t get it. He’ll chuckle instead and turn back to his beer.

You won’t set your alarm that night. You’ll sink into bed, excited by the thought of sleeping in. Relieved to be downshifting back into the old routine.

But something odd will happen.

The next morning your body will instinctively wake up at four-thirty. You’ll sit up, rubbing your eyes, confused. Your hands will unconsciously reach into the dirty clothes for your hoop gear, and your feet, against executive orders, will carry you out to the car a few minutes before five.

When your old man sees you standing there, he’ll chuckle again.

But he won’t say anything.





Don’t Just Sit There Like a Punk


It won’t be until week four that you finally get into a meaningful game.

By this time you’ll know most of the guys by nickname. And you’ll know how they play. At some point your focus will have shifted from wanting to play, to breaking down their various skill sets. There’s one guy in particular you’ll study.

Dante.

He’s six four and thin. In his early thirties maybe. He’s the only guy in the gym who’s never said a word to you. He walks right by like you don’t even exist. But he can seriously play. Not only does he knock down almost every jumper he takes, he hardly ever grazes the rim. He has this sweet little fadeaway in the post, and whenever someone tries to challenge him on the break, they get mashed on, posterized, and guys on the sidelines fall all over each other, laughing and stomping and pointing.

After burying one particular game winner from the wing, two guys draped all over him, he’ll turn to you suddenly and bark, “Hey, kid, why you still coming here?”

You pause your dribble, stunned. “Who me?”

“Nobody thinks you’re good enough to play here, comprende? Why don’t you go on back to the barrio, esé.”

Your whole body will freeze up from the shock of his words.

Everyone in the entire gym inching closer, waiting to see what happens next.

Dante strides over and points a finger in your face. “What, are you deaf, kid? I said leave!”

No words form in your brain.

No thoughts.

Dante spins to the rest of the guys. “Someone get this scrub out my face before I do something stupid.”

A couple regulars will lead you toward the bleachers, but your legs aren’t quite working yet. You’re confused almost to the point of paralysis. Because what did you do wrong? Why does he hate you? Your heart thump-thump-thumping inside your chest. Doubt setting in. Maybe he’s right. Maybe you really are a scrub. Maybe you shouldn’t be allowed to show up like this every day, uninvited.

Maybe the whole summer has been one big mistake.

You grab your stuff off the bleachers and start toward the door, but for some unexplainable reason you stop. You turn around. You glare across the court at Dante, mumbling, “I just wanna play.”

“What?” Dante shouts back. He picks up a ball and fires it at you, narrowly missing. “Speak up if you got something to say!”

“I wanna play,” you repeat, louder this time.

“What?”

“I wanna play!”

A few of the guys start toward you again, wanting to get you out of the gym before you get hurt, but Dante puts a stop to that. “Get away from him! This is between me and the kid!”

The whole gym silent aside from your heartbeat.

Your short, nervous breaths measuring the time.

“Check it out,” Dante suddenly announces. “The kid’s got my spot this game.” Then he turns back to you. “After you get smoked, you walk out them doors and never come back, you hear?”

You stand there studying him for a few extra beats, searching for his angle, trying to decide if it’s some kind of trick, if you’re still in danger. Before your ruling is in, though, you find yourself being shoved out onto the court.

“You got Dollar Bill,” someone is telling you.

It takes a minute to realize what’s happening.

They’re letting you play.

And if you mess up, it’s over.

As fast as your heart was beating when Dante got in your face, it slows back down once the ball is in play. Because this is the one place in the entire world where you’re truly alive. Where your brain shuts off and every move is made on instinct.

It only takes two trips up and down before you shake off the cobwebs and slip into the flow. First time the ball gets swung to you out on the wing, you skip past your defender and spin into the lane for a little ten-foot bank shot off the glass.

A few guys on the sideline oohing and aahing.

A few plays later you bury an open twenty-footer, nothing but net, Dante style.