Howdy,
#NaNoWriMo (550) — Day 2
Continued …
(And unedited, or at least only slightly)
Mostly Jake had played basketball by himself, though. That was a way he and Basketball weren’t a weird connection, but a great fit. He and his family didn’t have much money. Really, Jake didn’t have much family. What he did, money was their concern. Ironically, because they didn’t have much to worry about.
Funny how it works that way, money. It’s worried about a lot, if a person has a little. And it’s worried about a lot, if a person has a lot. Seems to only be worried about little if a person has “enough.”
Jake treasured the gift of a couple of bills in his wallet for lunch, but Jake didn’t worry about money. Yet he didn’t dream of affording all the equipment baseball players touted around. Gloves and bats and baseballs.
Cleats and hats and catcher’s mitts.
Cups and jockstraps and sliding pants.
Batting gloves and pine tar and rosin bags.
Eyeblack and flip-down sunglasses and stirrups.
Equipment bags and gum and sunflower seeds.
Gear and equipment and stuff.
He had his ball. Jake and his basketball. He never thought of tossing it in a bag, didn’t stuff it in a backpack. He dribbled it everywhere he went.
Which was usually to somewhere with a hoop.
That was all he needed. A ball and a basket.
Basketball.
He’d head to a park, away from his house, and no one seemed to care to notice. Except his grandma; she’d say goodbye but didn’t take to stopping him anymore those days. His mom past on, and his dad always working with Jake’s grandpa in the town’s tire shop now, Jake figured he’d go shoot hoops; figured Grandma must’ve decided if his father wasn’t gonna say he couldn’t she wasn’t gonna interfere any longer.
Jake was in middle school, intermediate, really but his family called it junior high school, which sounded like high school if you only payed attention to parts.
It seemed Jake’s family had him in high school and left him to do what he did.
Jake did basketball.
He’d head to a park, dribbling toward a nearest rim with a backboard. It was a target, a destination, but he was never overly bothered if others beat him to it. Sometimes he’d try to get in on a game, but, being small for his age, often was ignored, left a shadow on the sidelines.
He’d dribble the sidelines, a slalom onto and off of the court as the action flowed back and forth, briefly using court when the offense attacked at a far goal. He’d also stray further away, dribbling. Going wherever the dribble took him, as a whole schoolyard, park, or playground became an obstacle course for crossovers, quick dribbles, spin moves, stalled dribbles, right hand, left hand, even carries; to get over a water puddle or just for effect.
Jake juked trees, bounced passes to himself off light posts, pushed his orange ball hard off the concrete and high into the air to slide sideways under it and take its arched return with his opposite hand and with style. It was a dance he did.
Hours passed, and he dribbled.
Dribbled into the dark. Enjoying park lights if they were there, and equally as willing to bounce his way home without light. His trained fingers didn’t need the crutch of cheating eyes to guide his spirited basketball home.
To be continued …
—Billy
Reading. Writing. Living.
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