Howdy,
(Continued from yesterday’s post … )
Sixth grader Jake Jones had never, in any conscious way, thought about it. Playing basketball in its many forms, Jake hadn’t ever wondered when, or if, his dad would visit him while he was out there.
His mom he did think about once in awhile as he spent time doing his own thing on the court, but, no, he didn’t daydream about his dad engaging him in the game he played while his dad worked. Or rested from working.
He’d already kind of known it, from visits, from time around Grandpa in almost any setting, but quickly after moving to town Jake could see that his dad had learned work ethic from Jake’s grandpa. And Jake’s dad working for his dad in the tire shop didn’t look like an easy day’s vacation. Even though, strangely to Jake, both his grandpa and dad did seem to enjoy it somehow. Hours and hours of basketball gave Jake a sweaty smile. In the tire shop, too many minutes made Jake ache. With waiting and watching not much better: that made him restless.
But if Jake had had to, like he was about to, with his dad leaning there, solid and sure against that chest-high chainlink fence, Jake would’ve figured he’d never see his dad on the court, watching him from the sidelines.
Without words, Jake waved.
His dad lifted his right arm up, waving back without a word in return.
And that was it.
His dad stayed there. Leaning against the fence. Just watching. Not talking.
With a couple of bounces of his basketball, Jake turned back to shooting. Toeing the free throw line again.
But Jake found it different.
Feeling eyes on his shoulders, something got in his shoulders. Jake struggled to relax. He gave himself a slight upper-body shake, hoping to get loose without showing his tightness. Jake couldn’t find it, his usual freedom, his comfort, but decided it time to shot anyway.
He missed, slid down quickly to rebound, and beelined back to the stripe. To show he could shoot. To show his dad.
Starting to feel he needed to show himself.
If he could just get himself to relax …
It took three more misses, but Jake got a free throw to fall.
Somewhere in there, the misses, his dad had slipped away, because when Jake glanced over before even retrieving his make he caught him walking at a distance.
Jake waved, in case he saw. It was a wave unreturned, unnoticed.
His dad gone. Like he came, a surprise and wonder. And silent.
(Future for use of theme: A similar scene occurring two or three times, sprinkled in, unfolding enough to where Jake gets used to his dad stopping by his play for a peek. Never a word, yet less of a shock, though Jake unable to shake the sudden freeze-up he’d feel, his connection with the ball in hand and at release numbed. An eerie shift from his growing certainty. Going to shoot the ball, but basically a fumble starting on whatever dribble was to be his last, losing his usual handle, his touch. Playing against something … like a coldness, in the ball, in himself. Himself, who froze. Not cold. But frozen. Not dropping temperature. The freezing cold set in quick from somewhere else.)
—Billy
Reading. Writing. Living.
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