Howdy,
#NaNoWriMo (550) — Day 25
(Unedited, or only slightly)
(Editor’s note: jumping back, writing what may end up being more in the middle of a revised story, a Jake Jones novella.)
Continued …
Jake Jones, often treated as too young, or too small, to be invited in, or seemingly allowed, to participate in the ongoing competition playing out at parks or outside schools had been thrilled to join the scrimmage with the older kids, guys.
The established players of the park.
Street ballers who could hoop. And did. Sometimes all day long. Jake had watched them.
But then he received the gift of an opportunity to play in the full court game; and Jake had been excited and eager. Nervous, but ready to go.
Not touching the ball — not even once — tempered Jake’s eager excitement and toned down his expectations for his role, or realistic opportunity, in those games organically grown on concrete courts.
The fast game had blazed by him. Nobody slowed down to bring him up to speed. Everything blurred.
Jake lay in bed, remembering the blur. It made him nauseous, nearly making the room spin. It sloshed, at the edges, rather than turning full circles.
He pulled his basketball tight to his side and held on, wrapping his opposite arm across his body it cover it up with both hands: more like a football player making extra efforts to keep from fumbling.
Jake shifted to his side and pulled his knees up under the blankets. Morning making bed more comfortable.
Thinking about it, Jake lost touch of what he’d have been able to do if he had been the granted recipient of a pass. He wondered if his budding skill would have taking over, or if his whirling brain would’ve smoked with gears grinding to a shutdown slamming down on his body, motor skills locked and stealing any other skill with it.
Jake hoped at least — at the very least! — he would have found the sense and function to fling a pass back to where it came from. That he’d have completed such a simple thing without losing the ball himself or turning it over to the opposition with a telegraphed chest pass.
Jake Jones didn’t knew.
He hadn’t touched the ball in that game. The whole game.
That bothered him more than wondering how he’d have handled it.
How could he not even get the ball once in an entire game?
Did he appear that bad a player?
What would it take to change that view?
As had become Jake’s habit, his way, he geared up for going to the court. When it came to competing it was all he knew to do.
Practice.
Laying back the corner of his blanket and slipping his legs out, Jake sat on the bed’s edge and posited his basketball securely onto his pillow, sinking it into place for while he sunk his feet into athletic socks and basketball shoes found nearby on the floor.
The socks were yesterday’s; but Jake didn’t care. No. Not that morning.
Fear of freezing up on the court with the basketball in his hands pushed Jake Jones out of his morning bed.
That morning it was: socks and shoes, basketball shorts over them, whatever shirt, basketball to the kitchen for a cereal breakfast, and out the door dribbling his ball on the way to what he knew to do.
Practice on the court, for playing in the game: against them, against the blur.
For keeping cool, without freezing up.
To be continued …
—Billy
Reading. Writing. Living.
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