Good basketball 

It’s never a great idea to play basketball in the middle of an August afternoon, much less at a shadeless court with pavement that hasn’t caught the attention of the Parks Department since the day it was first lain decades ago. Cracked and swollen from yearly cycles of rain and snow, an abundance of weeds scattered throughout, a conical depression in one corner that has left a permanent puddle that comes close but has never fully evaporated in the years we’ve been around. 

Lines of paint are so faded that we argue whether a strip of white is the three point line or just the aftermath of a flock of pigeons. Thomas argues the streaks are too opaque and visually consistent to be from a bird, but I point out the difference in how the white between this strip and that of the free throw line is shaded. 

This is part of the charm. We cherish this little park that—even with all its flaws—still catches a good view of the sunset and carries a meditative quiet that we hold dear. And it certainly helps that nobody with any concept of what good basketball looks like ever bothers to come here, leaving us the freedom of our mediocrity. 

I close my eyes as we stop to catch our breath. He’s dribbling and pacing around, killing time amid deep gasps and a bit of wheezing. 

Dribble, dribble, dribble. 

Dribble, dribble, dribble. 

Birds somewhere in the trees above. A warm breeze that rustles some branches. 

“So, dude. How’s life? How are things with you and Jude?” I ask.

He smiles grimly, shaking his head. “I dunno. A little weird these days” 

“With Jude?”

“No, no. Well—no”.

He pulls up for the jump shot. CLANK. The two of us, watching as my basketball rolls sadly down the gentle slope, tumbling along the grass before resting finally at the base of the hill. 

Nobody moves to get it.

“I suppose I’ve been struggling with this question. And the thing is, I don’t really know how to ask it. I don’t know if I have the words yet.”

“Well, let me help you,” I say.

“I want to. I really do.” 

He’s walked over to retrieve the ball, turning it over and revealing a bit of mud that’s collected on the bottom. 

“I just can’t figure it out. It’s this odd feeling that I can’t pinpoint enough to really explain. It’ll come and go so quickly that sometimes I’m not even sure it ever occurred. Sometimes it’s there when I’m with Jude and, yeah, sometimes my mind goes to wondering if the feeling would go away if we weren’t together, or maybe it’s the opposite and I can’t lose her or the feeling will consume me, except that isn’t it either. I know it isn’t, and maybe that’s why I don’t say anything even when I see that she sees something is off. 

“And sometimes I circle around the idea that this is my own thing, that it’s up to me to figure this out before it grows and grows into something real, something that isn’t so good. 

“Maybe it isn’t even a bad thing at all. I just feel like this one has to be mine to figure out alone and–”

“Thomas,” I begin to say, “What the hell are you talking about?” 

I pause, the words settling slowly in the thick humid air, into the sweat dripping down our foreheads. In the dull ache pulling at my knee. For a moment we are both still. He breaks into a smile and I do too. I know this face. I remember it well.

“Either way. You know I’m here whenever you’re ready”

He turns his head, asking if I want to keep playing. I do. We shoot around as the afternoon passes, until our hands are roughed up and we are tire of missing free throws and chasing the ball down that gentle slope to retrieve it once again from the patch of mud; mud that we’ve now let smear onto our fingers, because after all we spend most of our days in conditioned rooms and sitting on cushy chairs, so we ought to embrace a bit of dirt every now and then. 

It’s when he points out a family of geese a few yards down, waddling obnoxiously, that I become suspicious, and it’s after a bit of inspection that we realize it might not all be mud. And our tired smiles break out into a laughter that echoes all throughout the park, whisked away with the summer wind into the beyond but especially into the ears of the real hoopers a few parks over that can dribble left and consistently make layups. Though they know nothing of the greatness unfolding here. 

We laugh and we laugh and we marvel at the texture, the fascinating lack of a smell, we wonder about the diet that might have achieved this viscosity, and we laugh some more as we use the very last drops of water from our bottles to wash our hands mostly clean.

The sky is now a deep red, a familiar sight I’ve come to cherish with a depth I never knew I held. That same depth that holds a tremble in my voice as I hug him goodbye, as I wish him a safe drive home, as I wave off his offer for a ride. I like the walk. 

Crickets in the night. Cars in the distance. Leaves above, rustling in tune with a breeze that has finally cooled off. 

I send him a text before fatigue lulls me to sleep. 

Whenever you’re ready.