One kid’s crying is so piercing that it injures my ears. There’s nothing I can do about it. I’m still stuck in the lobby at Jefferson County Jail with Mom. As fast as I move on the court is as slow as I move in this long line. I study the other visitors and realize I know a lot of them.
The jail, unlike Holman State Prison where Josh last did time, only allows visiting one day of the week. For one hour. Two people at a time. One pane of glass. Two phones.
“Hey, Luke, how’re you doing?” Josh asks when he picks up the phone. “How’s basketball season coming along?”
I tell him about the state tournament. He wants all the details because inside, there’s no news. It is like he lives on Mars, until Mom and I or his wife and four kids visit.
“You play hard and you’ll get yourself a college scholarship like Mark. But unlike him, maybe you won’t blow it.” The bitterness in Josh’s voice feels like sandpaper on my skin.
“I’ll try to do my best,” I say, trying to stay humble. “The next team we play is—”
“Listen, little brother, you don’t try anything. You do. You’re it.” He points at Mom. “You’re Mom’s last chance out of crummy apartments and off of government handouts.”
Mom looks as if she’s embarrassed for herself and proud of me at the same time.
“You can make some real money,” Josh says. “Not what you can make on the corner or even in a corner office, but NBA money. Buy her a house, a car, all the things I never could do.”
I try talking about something else, but like on the court, Josh stands his ground. He never was as good of a player as Mark or me because he never took the game seriously. “Josh, don’t—”
“One other thing, Luke.” Josh cradles the phone. “You got to make me a promise. No matter what happens to kick you back, you always push forward.”
“I’ll do my best, Josh.”
“I said that’s not enough!” He points at his blue county jumpsuit. “You’re gonna wear an NBA jersey, not one of these. Promise me.” I promise him. Mom watches us both, her eyes filled with tears.