I Could Tell

you a lot about this game. . . .

How a dark gym like Lincoln Rec is a different world. Full of theft and dunk, smooth jumpers and fragile egos. Full of its own funky politics and stratification. Music bleeding out of old rattling speakers from open to close. Old rhythm and blues. Stevie Wonder. Aretha Franklin. Funk. Motown. Marvin Gaye. Sometimes Jimmy gets talked into hard-core rap on weekends. Or Trey sneaks in his three-year-old demo tape.

Always music.

There are fat rats that scurry through the lane on game point. Beady eyes on the man with the ball. There are roaches congregating under the bleachers.

There is so much dust on the slick floor that sometimes a guy will go to stop and slide right out of the gym. Every time there’s a break in the action, ten guys put palm to sole for grip.

There are a hundred different ways of talking and a thousand uses of the word motherfucker.

There are no women.

In the winter there are so many homeless bodies spread out across court two you can hardly see the floor. There are leaks when it rains. Rusted pots are set out to collect heavy drops. Sometimes a guy will track in mud and delay the games. Jimmy sets out a twenty-five-dollar heater and everybody puts their hands up to it before they play.

In the summer you can hear the foundation cracking. The walls, the ceiling. Like the old gym is stretching out its stiff arms and legs.

There are faded bloodstains and tooth marks in the wood. Arguments that end with a gun being pulled. Like a year ago when Old-man Perkins couldn’t get his call one crowded Saturday. Guy laughed right in his face. Perkins calmly walked over to the sideline and pulled a forty-five out of a gym bag. Now, whose ball is it? he said, holding the gun limp at his side. Drips of sweat running down his wrinkled forehead.

Your ball, old man, the guy said, backing up with his hands in the air.

And everybody shows up for a different reason. A potpourri of ballers:

Some guys come because they’re regulars. Used to seeing all the fellas on a daily basis.

Some show for the first time on a tip from a friend. Try their skills in the best pickup around to see if they can hang.

A couple NBA cats roll through when it’s their off-season.

Some jokers walk through the doors looking for nothing more than a sweat. They come in wearing wet suit–looking wraps around bulging stomachs. Keep love handles away without hopping on a treadmill. They get run out of the gym after one game.

Some guys come to drop rainbow jumpers from deep.

Some come to throw their bodies around down low. To bang with the big boys.

Some guys pull in every day because they love talking trash. Barbershop talk in high-tops. They always have something to say when they score. They have something to say when anybody scores.

Some guys show up because they have nothing better to do.

Some guys come because they didn’t play much in college. Get the sour taste out of their mouth by busting somebody up.

Some cause they didn’t play much in high school.

Some guys show up drunk. High. Tweaking.

Some of the best ballers roll in wearing a work shirt and jeans. Some of the worst have top-of-the-line sneakers, top-of-the-line gym shorts, the most effective and smooth-looking knee braces. Basketball runway show.

Some guys come to dunk on somebody. They come to hype up all the loudmouths on the sideline with a rim-rocking two-hand bash.

Some don’t mind being one of the loudmouths that gets hyped when the guy who comes to dunk on somebody, dunks on somebody.

Sticky shows up cause the game’s his life and the guys are like family.

Some guys stay behind when the gym closes, curl up on their spot on court two with the rest of the homeless.

Some come to score enough junk to soothe junky bones. Chronic. Ups. Downs. Meth. Crack. X. Or to score shiny watches. Gold bracelets. Platinum hoop earrings. Heavy ropes.

Some come to sell.

Some feel like they’re part of something. Like a book club or church.

Some show up because they just got off work. Doing all-night security or hustling on the streets.

Sometimes a cop is guarding a robber. Everybody has a joke when that happens.

Some guys roll in because they’re addicted to competition. Gotta beat somebody in something to get happy.

Some cause it’s the only place in the world they get respect. The only place they have any real control.

But no matter who they are, or why they come, every one of them squints their eyes when they step foot out of the dark gym and back into the bright world that waits outside.