On these blocks, it’s different. The numbers in official box scores? Sure, those matter. Those let you leap to college. To the L. But they don’t count the same way as skills on the blacktop. That’s the real proving ground.
My Uncle Kid for example. Never scored a D-I deuce. Flamed out in Juco. And now he’s middle-aged and crashing at our house because he doesn’t have the scratch for his own place. But he can still get out there on that Fall Creek court and bring it. So he can strut all summer because he can run off ballers half his age.
It’s early August, the threat of school staring us in the face. And it’s brutal hot. So after a few games, the crowd thins. Now it’s just a three-on-three battle on the other end, while Kid feeds me on this one. My boy Fuller—locked in at the three spot for Marion East this fall—watches us while he unlaces his kicks and takes big swigs from a Gatorade.
I catch baseline, rise in a smooth motion. Bucket. Then to the wing behind the stripe. Wet again.
“I’m telling you, D,” Uncle Kid says, “don’t sweat this Gibson guy. I’ve seen him run. Nothing special.”
“He’s got a little burst,” Fuller chimes from the sideline.
I catch the rock at the top of the key, then stop mid-stroke. I stare at Fuller. “What you trying to say?”
He holds his hands up apologetically. “Nothing, man. He’s got quicks. But no real J to respect. Too small to finish at the rim. Just quicks.”
I nod at Fuller to let him know it’s cool. Then I go back to my work. Next shot’s back rim, the rebound soaring so high that the rock arcs across the sun in the distance. Kid chases.
Burst. Quicks. That’s the last thing I need to hear. I’m still lugging around this brace on my knee. Still feeling that old tightness after my step-up exercises. Still have to wait until the court clears so I can come work on my J—the only hoops I can have until I get clearance. And I’ve still got the scar from the surgery—a reminder that one wrong step can wipe out a season, a career.
I spent the summer entertaining home visits from coaches and setting up official visits to high majors. I’ve got the stars next to my name. Got the scholly offers. Got the stats from three seasons of tearing it up at Marion East. But quicks is the one thing I’m still missing.
Fuller polishes off the last of his Gatorade. He arcs the empty at a trash can fifteen feet away. True. He smiles. Doesn’t matter if it’s trash in the garbage or leather through the nylon—finding bottom is always good. “Later, D-Bow,” he tells me, then starts hoofing it toward home. I finish my workout with Uncle Kid in silence, then we hit it, too.
For a while the only sound is the traffic. It’s thick on Fall Creek, then dwindles to a couple creeping cars once we’re into the neighborhood. A thumping bass here. A squealing tire there.
“You can’t seriously be sweating Darryl Gibson,” Kid finally says.
I shrug. “Nah. You kidding? Everyone always hypes the new kid just because. No worries.”
Kid bobs his head in agreement. We’re a block from Patton now. My knee’s just the littlest bit tight after the workout. “That’s right,” Kid says. “Gibson’s flavor of the day. But I mean, he had two years to prove himself down in Bloomington, and he barely made a dent in the stat sheet.”
We keep talking as we walk. We spill out all the reasons not to worry. I’ve still got a couple months to get right. No way Coach Bolden would hand over my starting spot now, not after all we’ve been through.
“And let’s face it,” Kid says as we open the door. “Ain’t no white boy gonna transfer to Marion East and steal minutes from you.”
He gives me a playful punch on the shoulder and laughs. But it’s short-lived. There’s Mom on the couch, sending a severe frown his way. “What kind of mess are you putting in Derrick’s head now?” she asks.
“Oh, let it go, Kaylene,” Kid says. “I’m just making a little noise at him.”
She rises up a few inches from the cushions. “Don’t you tell me to let it go. Not in my house. Not about my son.” Then her focus snaps to me. “And don’t you go listening to some garbage about white-boy-this or white-boy-that. Racist nonsense.”
Kid can’t take this. “Oh, come on. It’s not racist. I’m not saying he’s evil. Just saying Darryl Gibson can’t be much of a baller.”
Mom stops him with another look. “You think I’ve lived a black woman’s life in Indianapolis and don’t know racism? But I am not letting my son think turning that kind thing around on white people helps him one single bit.”
And that’s the word in this living room, true as if it’s chiseled in stone. One, because it’s my mom’s living room, and it’s best not to mess with Kaylene Bowen. Two, because she’s nearing the end of her second trimester. And she’s thirty-eight. And it’s swamp-ass August outside. She gives a little humph then settles back into the couch, wincing with the effort.
Thing is, it makes a difference. Gibson being white, that is. I know my mom’s right. I mean, we’ve talked about this since I was a kid. There are plenty of things to be bitter about—the way the city lets our schools drown and our streets break into a million potholes. Or the way they press on a kid from the neighborhood who steps out of line while teenagers up in Hamilton County run pharmacies out of their bedrooms. Or how they stitched the Monon Trail right over our neighborhood, so rich people could bike or walk their dogs across our patch of land without actually having to see us. But resenting white people won’t change a thing. Makes it worse, my dad says, but I still only halfway believe him on that.
Still. It matters. Getting pushed by a new kid would hurt no matter what. But when a white person shows up at Marion East they’re either lost or logging community service hours. So I can’t lose minutes to a white kid. I just can’t.
“Dinner’s almost ready!” Jayson calls. And for the first time I snap out of my train of thought and take in the chaos behind Mom.
Dad and Jayson are whipping together dinner, but that means a circus of water boiling over and dirty spoons scattered on the counter and strands of spilled spaghetti squashed on the floor. Meanwhile, my girl Lia is setting the table, as serene as my dad and little brother are chaotic. She glances up at me and smiles, quickly blows a little kiss before anyone else can see. Then she goes back to smoothing out napkins and arranging glasses. My head swims at the sight. Mainly because she’s as fine as a girl can be, and she’s cool to hang with, and she’s been there for me every step of the way on my rehab. But it’s that last part that has a troubling little undercurrent—she’s been there all the time. When I met her she made me chase a little, kept me off balance. Now she hovers like we’re married. But what am I supposed to tell her? Stop being so nice to me?
Everyone crowds in. Reaching. Grabbing. Slopping pasta on plates. Mom clears her throat, just once, and then everyone settles down while she says a quick prayer. She’s never been real religious. She hits up church out of habit but doesn’t Jesus you to death. But she’s been insisting on prayers before meals lately. Mostly, I think she’s hoping for divine intervention so she can feed the extra mouth that’s coming in a few months.
“Amen,” she says at last. Then there’s the briefest pause before everyone dives into their food. It’s a flurry. And with six of us squeezed around our little table, I can barely get enough elbow room to grab a fork.
“You okay, Derrick?” It’s Lia, her eyebrows pinching down at me like I just spit on the salad.
“Fine.”
“You’re quiet,” she says. “You sure you’re okay? Workout go all right?”
“Good,” I say.
“Okay,” she says, clearly not believing me. In terms of couple drama, this isn’t even a blip. I just start to dig in, but my right elbow keeps bumping Dad every time I take a bite. We go through a few rounds of Sorry and No problem, before I sigh and let my fork clank down on my plate.
“You sure you’re okay?” Lia asks again.
“I’m fine,” I snap. Lia looks away, simmering. Mom stares at me like she’s about to climb across the table—belly and all—and smack some manners into me. “I’m sorry,” I say, trying to undo as much damage as I can. “I didn’t mean to be a jerk.” I look back at my plate. “I just can’t get any room.”