Howdy,
#NaNoWriMo (550) — Day 22
(Unedited, or only slightly)
Continued …
Jake Jones recognized the first person bringing his own ball to the schoolyard court that Sunday afternoon.
Didn’t know him, didn’t even know his name, but he’d played against him before.
A baller. And probably high school.
And he’d nodded at Jake then.
Jake called him Mr. Muscle Shirt.
To himself, Jake call him that. He hadn’t really said much out loud to him at all when they’d both been there together on the sidelines, both ready to jump into the flowing, full court action.
Last time Mr. Muscle Shirt hadn’t brought a basketball. No, he simply showed up with an expectation to play, and a rip in his shirt so long down the side that others would have the same expectation of him.
Arriving early today, MMS entered the same mode as Jake: get some shots up ahead of others arriving, before the court transitioned from sanctuary to street ball scrimmage, open to all. Sort of.
Jake experienced mostly difficulty in the past when attempting to get in when the others had showed and started.
“Hey.” High School Muscles put up an arm in additional hello, offering armpit hair with his greeting.
Jake noticed it as he released a distracted shot. Jake finished tracking down his errant attempt, pretty sure he’d heard it. Hey.
Jake rebounded with a “Hey,” and nodded back — happy to connect with his shooting partner.
“So what’s up, little man?”
Used to it, but not, Jake smiled anyway.
Little man. He supposed he was. But he didn’t need to hear about it. No, he didn’t particularly need to have that pointed out; he knew it.
He was well aware.
It felt like it was him. When introduced to friends of parents or grandparents, Jake never once in his lifetime heard what basketball players hear, “Well, hello, Jake, and you must be a basketball player.” That happened to the tall guys. Even those who weren’t players: whether not good or never playing — those annoyed at the assumption, one Jake would’ve nourished on for months.
Oddly enough, being remarkably short may have been what drove Jake to the basketball court. It might just have been. He’d conquer the world of the remarkably tall. Those that got such remarks.
The blind ones, who seemed to notice he was short as a revelation, over and over.
Being the little man drove him not only to this least obvious game — the sport he’d easily fell in love with — it dictated much of what he did on the court.
Practiced on the court.
His height and overall slight size gave him his practice plan: it locked in his practice on the court. His skill building, weapons for shooting down the stars and cutting down the sequoias.
Jake meant to master a shifty dribble and deadly shot.
He wasn’t a big man who could so deceptively stray into temptation; one who should be honing precise footwork in post moves on the block but constantly floats out to shoot from 3. Jake soaked up any footwork he could catch onto but he didn’t fantasize about a shimmy shake in the post the way power players chucked up outside shots to be part of the action without having to do their work of bumping, bruising, and burning opponents under the basket. No, too many bigs shrugged off getting chip shots for chuck shots.
Jake put in more time thinking what he could do. What would keep in on the court.
Tall guys did whatever they wanted, but not always what was winning.
Anyway, Jake smiled. “So what’s up, little man?” Though annoying in word, it’s action drew him in, its acknowledgment of Jake. On the court. A stretch, but he counted it, since he stood on the court, holding down his end.
To be continued …
—Billy
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