Howdy,
A check in on our Jake Jones story: here’s the start’s first revision, about doubled in length from before …
CHAPTER ONE
It was odd, really.
Odd the way the game of basketball grabbed young Jake Jones’ attention. And held it.
Grasped, like a jump ball certain to happen. A tangle and strong hold. No way either side would let go. Not before the whistle blew.
It hadn’t taken long for the game to wrap itself around Jones, and Jake was constantly active in getting ahold of it. Working — if it could be called that, as the idea of work never crossed Jake’s mind with basketball — to cultivate skill in the game.
A lot of it to do with handles. Dribbling the basketball, keeping it close and to himself.
Close and handled until he was ready to shoot it.
Shoot, and score.
The year before, Jake had been sucked in. Fifth grade for him, the summer before fifth, really. In his open hours. In his time to grieve, the way he was learning how: bounce, bounce, heave to the hoop.
His mom had never seen him play basketball, and never would. Not outside of being a part of the great cloud of witnesses. Those gone on before.
In way, because of his deeper introduction to it at his mother’s departure, basketball become a connection for Jake to his loved mom from whom he’d been forever disconnected in a snap.
A snap of time, a snap of surprise, a snap of health, a snap of family, a snap of life, a snap of pain, a snap of loss: a loss lasting long, its snap sharp and complete.
Young Jake sensed, before he’d even entered junior high, that he and the game he loved, with a longing, made for an unusual union.
He lived aware, of course, that he stood shorter than a majority of the other boys his age. Not terribly short, but shorter than average for sure; and the rules and regulations, essentially even the object, of basketball favored players taller than average. Way taller.
Way taller than average, which was WAY taller than Jake Jones.
Average height would’ve had his head in the clouds. Such that (and as only he and a privileged narrator of his story would know) Jake tiptoed, at times — nighttime, in the dark, unseen to others — down his hallway. Bathroom to bedroom trips. Tiptoe trips. Strengthening height, by the only option he could concoct. Hard to figure when he’d use his tiptoe trick, but Jake built up his balance and stamina.
Nowhere near considering reaching, or even jumping, for door headers, Jake’s perspective remained anchored. Grounded. And going for his boost from the floor up. The “growing” boy sought to rise from the floor, though not yet ready to stretch and touch anything up. Deep in old carpet, tiptoes, pressing down hard for everything he could get. For a look at another level and wondering what it be like with a basketball, outside his hallway.
He knew, also, he moved slower than the athletic kids, older and his age, who zipped in bursts on the courts he could find: parks, schoolyards, even a friend’s driveway slipping under and behind a garage door marked in streaked dusted dimple marks, a basketball skimming down, gripping what it touched.
Even playing wherever, and whenever, he could, Jake hadn’t discovered a place to play ball where he had a first step on anyone. His body remained a step slow to competition. Also a step slow to his mind. Which he wasn’t always sure how to take. A positive little guy, however, Jake typically tried to believe he could ride his basketball brain to better play. Raise his level. Get himself ahead of some others somehow. He willed his muscles and reflexes move him quicker, but still, to that developing point, Jake’s mind played ahead of him, his brain lugging his body best it could.
That body of Jake’s was strong, though.
Yes, young Jones had muscles to will, sound stuff for an active mind to work with, to flex, to fire fast, to win. Whatever shape he was, inside, Jake had that: will to win. Solid and stocky outside, it was true Jake was slower than he wanted to be. But he wasn’t slow. He wasn’t un-athletic. He just didn’t zip. His height put him in a guard position, but he’d never play as a blazing jitterbug, jetting and side-stepping and being back in a spot just vacated, flashing like a flickering phantom to defend. Even so, stocky didn’t mean fat and solid not a euphemism for anything flabby or unflattering either. Jake had a strong body. He had a strength. Sort of a hidden strength on the court.
Jake Jones had some meat on him, as some might say. Made for a good match with his hustle. He didn’t understand it yet, but Jake could be a bull. This grounded base and balance to serve as his best chance in a fight to hold his own against … the giraffes, if in analogy he were a bull.
His game was going to look different. If he could find it. When Jake would find it.
He was putting in the time: crafting solid skill, tailored to fit his body. Basketball players want to have game. Jake had his game. It was growing faster than he was. Which he couldn’t always see. What the mirror showed him was short.
Getting a good perspective showed itself a challenge. Jake spent most of his hours hooping alone, practicing by himself.
Note: It’s still a work in progress, but that’s a little of what I’ve been doing.
Have a wonderful evening. For us, the boys are about off to AWANA’s, which they enjoy.
—Billy
Reading. Writing. Living.
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