I SEE ERIN IN THE HALLS of our school and in the gym. We pass and she always tries to catch my eye or rub elbows, pretending it’s an accident, but I keep walking with my eyes straight ahead, like I don’t notice her.

Coach names Terrell and me this year’s captains during a team meeting. The team celebrates by eating a dozen or so pizzas.

The day before our first game, Coach announces the starting lineup, and I get the nod at point guard.

All is going as planned, and I sort of forget about Boy21’s ability to take away my starting position.

I’m playing organized basketball again.

On the court it’s all adrenaline and sweat and movement and leather and cheering and squeaking sneakers and high fives and the feeling that I can and am accomplishing something.

Off the court it’s all anticipation, hunger, counting down the minutes until the next practice or game, drawing plays in my notebooks, visualizing myself on the court: seeing myself diving for loose balls and feeling the scabs on my knees burn; defending so closely my mark’s knees and elbows leave bruises on my legs, arms, and chest; passing creatively, finding the open hands of my teammates; even making a few layups; Coach telling me I did well; Dad and Pop smiling proudly.

It’s all sweaty practice and daydreaming until I’m suddenly playing our first real game against weak Rockport, and I’m actually doing all the things I visualized, which feels so amazing, I wonder if it’s real—like maybe I’m sitting in science class just daydreaming.

But I’m not daydreaming in science class; I’m playing basketball.

I rack up fifteen assists while Terrell scores thirty-two points.

We’re up by forty at the end of the third quarter, and so Coach puts in the second squad.

On the bench I notice my heartbeat slowing, my muscles cooling, and I begin to feel a wonderful sense of having completed a task.

I watch Boy21 play and again I can tell he isn’t really playing. He doesn’t make any mistakes, but he just looks to get the ball to the other backups so they can try to score. He’s running at three-quarter speed; he doesn’t shoot when he’s open; there’s no intensity.

He’s playing very unselfishly, which is nice to see, but it also makes me feel as if he’s hiding in broad daylight—like he’s afraid to show the world what he can really do.

We win the game 101–69.

Dad is proud.

So is Pop.