Howdy,
#NaNoWriMo (550) — Day 18
(Unedited, or only slightly)
Continued …
CJ was a hack, that’s all Jake could think. In all event, that was merely the one thing he could think clearly.
“A hack” … Give me a break; that was ridiculous. And to say, “I didn’t tackle you,” like that was some sort of thing to be celebrated. Good grief. CJ looked like a football player, sure: played like one, too. But, yet again, good grief, a tackle?
Were it not for the fact and order of events that Jake Jones and his team were to be rewarded the ball back for the obvious — and flagrant — foul, Jake would be going nuts. He wasn’t in the least bit sure what he’d be doing, but he’d but upset. Inside, if nothing else.
He’d been talking back — even rapid and loose in mouthing challenges himself on his own emboldening initiative — but this confident aggressiveness counted as new clothes for Jake to try on.
Part of him willing it a nice fit, snug, tight, and right, but it’d been a wild bit of “basketball” the last few swapping of possessions, and aggressions — physical and verbal assertions and assaults — and it nagged him that he hadn’t stepped out of the dressing room for any second opinions or advice.
Advice: like his mom used to give.
Actually, his mom, back then, used to straight up tell him Yes or No; and Jake pretty much knew what he’d get from her as far as answers before he asked. Kind of reassuring, really. Not that he always appreciated the denial he received from her when he wanted something, when he risked walking out of the boys side to the middle entry for his mother’s look of unlikely approval. He never did like that denial. But he take it now, to have Mom back. It wouldn’t even bother him. She looked after him.
And it never hurt to ask.
Confidence fit real-well, he knew that, without a doubt, without authority’s confirmation. Aggressive confidence mixed with trash talking bordering, if he must admit it, cockiness, he looked past the bagginess he saw in a mirror’s reflection of that.
He’d give it another spin, to be sure.
Getting the ball back, he’d be giving the whole thing another go.
“I’ll throw it in,” Jake said, shrewd on the idea that maybe it’d be to the surprise of some of the other five players, since the lunch period three-on-three had completely morphed into a one-on-one battle between Jones and CJ, like only those two in the beef should handle the ball inbounds and ram it down each other’s throats: and hammer each other on potential shot attempts.
“What, scared now?” CJ taunted.
“Team player.”
“Huh, okay. When you get the ball, bring it on.” In his scoff, CJ waved both hands inward toward himself. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
“When it comes my way …” Jake paused after a pump fake, then throw it in to Michelle.
Michelle dribble to the right, away from the lunch tables side of the half court. Jose continued playing her straight up, conceding space to operate while tending instead to sag into her passing lanes. Michelle handled the ball quite well, though, Jake observed, and with no trouble she promptly threaded a pass over to Mike in the right corner, out deeper than Jake would’ve suggested he stray. He’d have hollered it verbally if the coach, ‘cause there wasn’t anything good Mike was likely to do out at that distance against Marcus. Marcus, so quick, and patently a guard, should have been guarding Jake, if not for all the extracurricular hubbub.
Down low Mike mighta had advantage. Might’ve. Marcus showed himself a good athlete and may just have held an edge against Mike anywhere on the court, or in any position in any sport. Jake liked Marcus’ game.
Jake appreciated Mike helping him off the floor, extending a hand and continuing his good attitude and upbeat team spirit. But if a better basketball player, who’d fought harder for and held better defensive positioning against CJ in the first place, as was Mike’s assignment, Jake might’ve not been in this testosterone tangle.
To be continued …
—Billy
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