Howdy,
#NaNoWriMo (550) — Day 23
(Unedited, or only slightly)
Continued …
“Not much,” Jake said, making the effort to push his words across court, “just shooting.”
“What do you say we team up?”
Jake stopped his dribble.
“I say we start the action when guys show. You, me, and the next three,” Jake’s friend Mr. Muscle Shirt was saying, “against the next five.”
“Yeah.”
You, me. Jake didn’t care who the next three would be. He and Muscles teaming up, foundation of the First Five. Jake didn’t care who the following five would be either. He and his man, Mr. Muscle Shirt. Against the world. Bring it.
Jake swished a shot, the ball rotating nicely into a bounce back at him. The rare kind of perfection aimed for while shooting by oneself. Outstanding on occurrence.
Jake snatched the bounce he’d gifted himself and spun opposite, facing full court. He kicked his right knee high on an exaggerated dribble, head bobbed, then crossed over with a short power dribble to the left.
He kept going. Ball through the legs, behind the back in a weave left, and then slowing down inside the three-point arc on Mr. Muscle Shirt’s side.
“You look ready to go.”
Jake smiled.
Then, to give himself something to do as he felt himself turning red, Jake took a shot.
He kept shooting.
Mr. Muscle Shirt and Jake shooting together.
They kept shooting.
MMS missed one that came Jake’s way. Jones tucked his ball in his left and grabbed the loose basketball right handed and bounced it back the best he could to his teammate-to-be.
“Thanks.”
Jake swished his next shot.
So did his partner.
“What’s your name?”
“Jake … Jake Jones.”
“I’m Cody.” Mr. Muscle Shirt was Cody, and he offered a handshake. “Nice to meet you, Jake.”
“Nice to meet you, Cody.”
The next shot his friend missed, Jake dropped his own basketball into a soft bounce at his feet and chased down Cody’s in the corner and fired back a two-handed chest pass.
Others started to show, one, two, or a few at a time, filtering onto the other side of the court. As utterly excited — jittery — as a boosted Jake was for five-on-five action with a team, he juggled the competing feeling that he didn’t want his half court time shooting with Cody to end. Not at all.
Cody had driven up and parked a cool car near the court when he’d come. Jake didn’t know old cars the way his dad and gramps did; of course he didn’t have the age advantage they did for it. Besides, that they were “greasy monkeys,” as Grandpa called them. Nonetheless, Jake thought Cody’s ride was a Mustang. It was red, like old Mustangs were meant to be. That much he knew. That, and that he’d take Cody’s car when he was his age. Everything thing about him was muscle.
Then Jake needed to know. “How old are you?” He’d wondered from the beginning, but hadn’t pictured himself asking.
“Seventeen.”
“Cool,” Jake said, not sure where his question led or what to say next. Except that seventeen had obviously meant he could drive. “Cool car.”
“Thanks.” Cody rattled in from deep. “Ready to play?”
“Yes.”
Barring the whole of him which never would’ve wanted his exclusive shooting session with his Mr. Muscle Cody to wrap and vanish into never happening again — like having never happened — Jake was completely ready to play.
What could be better than shooting hoops with Cody?
Nothing.
Except balling on the same team. Together.
“Then let’s rock this place, little man.”
To be continued …
—Billy
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