September Fridays have guys showing up by 11:35. Everyone wants to be first, no one wants to wait. Shane arrives late but somehow he has beat the rush and jumps on right away with Alex and Dragon and Finesse. And Jimmy.
“I got some information,” his brother says as they walk out to the court, his enormous feet flapping like clown shoes. Rex likes to call him Sasquatch, although everyone else just sticks with Jimmy.
“Save it,” Shane says. “Let’s get these guys.”
Shane hits the first shot of the game, brushing his defender off an excellent pick from his brother. He slips past Jimmy’s shoulder and the pass from Finesse is waiting for him at the rendezvous. The orange ball comes spinning into his hands, the knees bend and the toes flex and in one easy gentle wave the body ripples up, the right hand firm behind the ball, the left relaxed as guide. The elbow straightens, the ball goes off, the wrist flops like the Palmolive lady dipping her fingers in a regenerative salve. Spinning backwards, the ball slices through the still air, and Shane lands on the ground with his wrist still flopped and takes a step forward, moving toward the hoop to follow his shot. But the shot is going in. He knows it, he watches the ball hit the back of the rim and the backspin sends it down, buh-chu, dropping briskly into the net like someone stepping through a door for an appointment. He starts backpedaling for defense, arms loose, jaw relaxed, and Jimmy is there beside him, not looking but putting his fist out for a bump. Bump bump.
“All day,” Jimmy says quietly, and slides off to guard his own man.
A dynasty. Some of the big-time players are missing today—Mac, Skeletor, D-One—and Alex owns the boards, Dragon and Finesse are hitting, there’s no one to stop them from winning five straight games except maybe the heat. The heat almost gets them, too, dropping their hands to hips and knees, forcing them to breathe conscientiously and complain. Goddamn. Finally they slump smugly to the pavement, slick with sweat, congratulating one another on all those whuppings in a row. Shane stares at his shoe, exhausted, his face stretched out in a smile by some happy pressure in his head. The fibers of his shoelace seem distinct and visible.
“Wife cooked my peas last night,” Finesse is saying. They laugh. They all use frozen peas to ice their parts: ankles, knees, elbows.
“How that ankle?”
“Ah, you know, for shit. Every time I sprain it I think, time to hang it up.”
“Nah.”
“I don’t know, it gets so I’m afraid to go home. I walk in that door with a limp? and my wife starts yelling at me so loud she has to put her hands on her own ears. The neighbors must think I’m beating her silly.”
“The neighbors don’t hoop.”
“They never do, do they?”
Shane closes his eyes, his sweat-soaked shirt balled up beside him, bare skin roasting in the sun. On these rare hot days, there’s nowhere to hide. The guys have talked about planting a tree up here to get some shade. A tree: like they’ll all keep coming up here long enough to wait for a goddamn tree. It cracks them up. It’s one of their favorite conversations. What tree and when, irrigation, growing cycles. Live oak versus hybrid laurel.
He finds his cell phone and glances at the time. He’s already late for his afternoon appointment. Afternoons after ball, he is always late.
“So you want the news or what,” Jimmy says.
“What’s that, you got a job?” Some of the other guys are getting up, reluctantly, collecting their stuff, moving on.
“Me? Now what would I do with a job.”
“I don’t know. Stick it up your ass.”
“Oh yeah, in da butt, Bob, definitely. In da butt.”
“What.”
“Sam,” Jimmy says, nodding slowly. “Rex says he still goes over that gym where they all used to go.”
“Which?”
“You know, that people’s gym went over the dark side? Where all these dudes went. Over in Potrero.”
They turn east and for the
“I got some information,” his brother says as they walk out to the court, his enormous feet flapping like clown shoes. Rex likes to call him Sasquatch, although everyone else just sticks with Jimmy.
“Save it,” Shane says. “Let’s get these guys.”
Shane hits the first shot of the game, brushing his defender off an excellent pick from his brother. He slips past Jimmy’s shoulder and the pass from Finesse is waiting for him at the rendezvous. The orange ball comes spinning into his hands, the knees bend and the toes flex and in one easy gentle wave the body ripples up, the right hand firm behind the ball, the left relaxed as guide. The elbow straightens, the ball goes off, the wrist flops like the Palmolive lady dipping her fingers in a regenerative salve. Spinning backwards, the ball slices through the still air, and Shane lands on the ground with his wrist still flopped and takes a step forward, moving toward the hoop to follow his shot. But the shot is going in. He knows it, he watches the ball hit the back of the rim and the backspin sends it down, buh-chu, dropping briskly into the net like someone stepping through a door for an appointment. He starts backpedaling for defense, arms loose, jaw relaxed, and Jimmy is there beside him, not looking but putting his fist out for a bump. Bump bump.
“All day,” Jimmy says quietly, and slides off to guard his own man.
A dynasty. Some of the big-time players are missing today—Mac, Skeletor, D-One—and Alex owns the boards, Dragon and Finesse are hitting, there’s no one to stop them from winning five straight games except maybe the heat. The heat almost gets them, too, dropping their hands to hips and knees, forcing them to breathe conscientiously and complain. Goddamn. Finally they slump smugly to the pavement, slick with sweat, congratulating one another on all those whuppings in a row. Shane stares at his shoe, exhausted, his face stretched out in a smile by some happy pressure in his head. The fibers of his shoelace seem distinct and visible.
“Wife cooked my peas last night,” Finesse is saying. They laugh. They all use frozen peas to ice their parts: ankles, knees, elbows.
“How that ankle?”
“Ah, you know, for shit. Every time I sprain it I think, time to hang it up.”
“Nah.”
“I don’t know, it gets so I’m afraid to go home. I walk in that door with a limp? and my wife starts yelling at me so loud she has to put her hands on her own ears. The neighbors must think I’m beating her silly.”
“The neighbors don’t hoop.”
“They never do, do they?”
Shane closes his eyes, his sweat-soaked shirt balled up beside him, bare skin roasting in the sun. On these rare hot days, there’s nowhere to hide. The guys have talked about planting a tree up here to get some shade. A tree: like they’ll all keep coming up here long enough to wait for a goddamn tree. It cracks them up. It’s one of their favorite conversations. What tree and when, irrigation, growing cycles. Live oak versus hybrid laurel.
He finds his cell phone and glances at the time. He’s already late for his afternoon appointment. Afternoons after ball, he is always late.
“So you want the news or what,” Jimmy says.
“What’s that, you got a job?” Some of the other guys are getting up, reluctantly, collecting their stuff, moving on.
“Me? Now what would I do with a job.”
“I don’t know. Stick it up your ass.”
“Oh yeah, in da butt, Bob, definitely. In da butt.”
“What.”
“Sam,” Jimmy says, nodding slowly. “Rex says he still goes over that gym where they all used to go.”
“Which?”
“You know, that people’s gym went over the dark side? Where all these dudes went. Over in Potrero.”
They turn east and for the
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