“Are you suspended from school too?” I pass the ball to Jayson. It’s twilight at the apartment complex where we live. Two dudes, two moms, no dads, and one dream to get out.
“Nah, I just didn’t feel like showing up.” Dribble. Dribble. Step. Leap. Layup.
“Lex was trash-talking you,” I say. Jayson passes the ball back to me. I go to the foul line. Bounce. Bounce. Shoot. Swish. Here, with no coach to yell and no plays to run, everything goes in the net. “He was talking about how he took your minutes and he won’t give ’em back.”
“How many minutes? How many points?” Jayson asks.
“Fourteen minutes. Four points. Two rebounds.”
“And no assists,” Jayson adds. “Ball never leaves Lex’s hands except toward the hoop.”
We go back and forth trash-talking Lex until my phone rings. “Fight the Power”—an old song Lucy loves—is my ringtone for her. She picked it out. I didn’t disagree. “What’s up?” I ask. Jayson dribbles, dunks. It’s what he does.
Lucy goes on about studying for Mr. Austin’s civics test. She doesn’t need to study, I do—but she holds back from saying that. Usually, she’s got a big mouth, which I like. Sometimes it gets her in trouble with some teachers, but not Austin. I hear Austin’s AP class is hard, but he’s soft on Lucy because he sponsors the debate team where Lucy and Ashley shine, like Jayson shines on the court. Maybe I’m not the best at anything, but I’m plugged into the power. I listen to Lucy for a while, which is something I never tire of, until I end with, “Later, Luce.”
I bury the phone in my jeans. Jayson’s throwing up shots that miss to practice rebounding.
“Jayson, can I ask you something?” He moves toward me, dribbling all the way. I point at the numbers on his sweaty, blue practice jersey that he must have worn home after Coach kicked him off the team. “How come you wear number 45?”
“Coach doesn’t like it,” he says. “He has rules that centers wear certain numbers, but I told him I wanted 45. We had our first stare-down over it, and I’m not sure why, but he let me have it. And that’s the last time Coach ever listened to what I had to say.”
Jayson’s the best player on the team, but Coach treats him like he’s the worst. “So, 45?”
“Everybody back in the hood is always bragging about their 45s.”
I nod. Like Jayson, I grew up in Birmingham, but I left there in junior high.
“So, I never wanted that life,” Jayson continued. “I decided that the first time I got a uniform, I’d want number 45 to remind me that if I don’t play hard and study, I won’t get a college scholarship and I’ll be back in the hood.”
Jayson’s so focused on basketball most of the time, most people wouldn’t guess that basketball’s not his end goal. He’s got dreams beyond the court too.
“So what’s Coach’s deal with you?” I ask. Jayson bounces the ball hard against the pitted pavement. “I wonder if it’s because you’re a transfer student. Maybe because you took Lex’s minutes.” The ball bouncing sounds like a gunshot. “Or maybe it’s because you’re black.”
The ball stays in Jayson’s hand. “You think?” he fires back.
“Coach doesn’t like it,” I say, “but he plays you, A.C., and Gerald.”
“The way he coaches, limiting our freedom, I wonder why. Who does this old, angry guy with no game think he is, telling me how to do it? What gives him the right? Because he’s old?” Jayson hands me the ball.
“Or wait, maybe it’s because he’s white.”
“You think?” Jayson cracks again. I drop the ball from laughing too hard.
“You gonna get some minutes now?” Jayson asks. I shrug. “Cody, out here you got game, but you get all caught up in the coach’s bull, trying to do it his way. Shoot, don’t pass.”
“That’s not my job,” I remind Jayson, who can shoot and pass and rebound.
“Then what is your job?”
I motion for Jayson to run toward the hoop and toss him a perfect alley-oop that he slams home for two points. There is the answer: making others look good.