this year?” Kid asks. He’s corralled a rebound from one of my shots and is spinning in lay ups on alternating sides of the rim. Even at his age and even without taking great care of himself, he’s an agile guy. Give him a month to get in shape, and he could still crack any starting five in this state.
“That’s the question,” I say. “It’s trouble no matter what.”
“Shoot,” Kid says. “Ain’t gonna matter.” He zips a behind-the-back pass my way. I loft up a deep fade that falls short. Not exactly a game shot, but this is time to just kick it with Kid. “You got the core. You, Devin, and Moose. Bolden’s half as smart as he thinks he is, you’ll rip right through Regionals.”
I almost say, At least Sectionals, but I stop myself. I know that’s messed up thinking. The only reason I’d say that is because I know Vasco and Hamilton Academy are lurking in Regionals. But if I don’t at least believe we can take them down, then there’s no way we’ll actually do it. “I feel you,” I say, trying to act confident. When Kid rifles me another pass, I grab it and rip it to the rim, just to shake off that touch of doubt.
Nobody else is at the park this time of day. It’s near dusk in the second week of November so you’re only on a court if you’re a hoops junkie. When the wind kicks up, you can feel the full bitterness of winter lurking in it. If you don’t keep moving, it’s like you can feel that temperature dip down a little bit more by the minute. The trees just have a few dirt-brown leaves clinging to them so you can see across Fall Creek toward downtown. For most people, these are depressing days. Just a hard stretch until the holidays. But for me, all of this means live action—real basketball—is just over a week away.
“All right, Derrick,” Kid says. “Level with me. Is Bolden still as much of a hard-ass as he always was? I hear the guy’s softened up a little.”
I smile at Kid. I can’t tell if he’s just messing with me or not. “All I can tell you is if Bolden’s softened, I’d hate to have played for him before.” I think about Reynolds. “I mean, you should have seen Bolden the other day. Just made some freshman quit.”
“No shit,” Kid says. He swipes the ball out of my hands and chucks up a quick jumper.
I realize I’ve touched a sore spot. Nobody besides Kid really knows all the details of why Bolden ran him off all those years ago, but that’s because nobody talks about it. I chase down his rebound and figure I better change the subject quick. “Game of Horse?” I ask. I’m deep in the corner, one foot out of bounds, so when Kid nods Yes, I say, “This starts it.” I fire, a rainbow to clear the backboard, and it just scrapes off the iron.
Kid chases it down. “Ahh, little nephew,” he says, “you should know better than to give me a freebie. That’s all I need.” He squares up from the shallow wing. “Bank,” he says, then kisses one home. Just like that, it’s all good again.
We match each other shot-for-shot, getting a letter here and there. Soon we revert back to trick shots, over-the-shoulder flips and long hooks, the kind of things you’d try when you were a kid. And that’s what a session at the Fall Creek park with my uncle does—takes me right back to being ten, working up a sweat with him while he teaches me the game.
My mom’s wary of me hanging with Kid. Always has been. But she squints just a little more after the whole drama with Hamilton Academy last year and how Kid tried to squeeze a job out of it. I don’t care. Kid’s my man, and he hasn’t said squat about Hamilton since last year.
“Now tell me, D,” he says while knocking home a twenty-footer, “how come a baller like you is hanging with your uncle. You don’t have some honey hanging on you? Where’s that girl? What’s her name? Jayden?”
“Jasmine,” I say. “She’s busy.” I square up from Kid’s spot, but just the thought of Jasmine rattles me. I miss to the left, bad.
Kid senses my weak spot and stays after it. “Man, when I was your age I was drowning in girls. And, remember, girls were tighter with it back then. Not like now.”
I try not to let it get to me, but it does. I know Kid’s talking nonsense like every other guy who’s ever yapped about how much he’s getting. Same as Wes talking noise about him and Iesha. My next shot still rattles out, and Kid has me at S.
He scoops up the board, steps to the deep corner, buries a J. He doesn’t say anything this time, not while I dribble over to the spot, not while I take a rhythm dribble, not while I set my feet. But just as I’m about to release, he leans over. “Don’t think about the girl,” he says.
I barely scrape iron. I wheel toward Kid to protest—it’s just wrong to heckle a guy like that—but he’s too busy laughing to even hear me if I did. “Ah, D,” he says. “You can’t let a girl in your head that easy.”
It makes me mad at first, but when Kid sees that, he starts laughing even harder. I have no choice, I guess, but to let it go. I relax, let him have his fun. “Two out of three,” I say.
“You’re on,” he says, then sprints over to scoop up the rock.
As he does, out of the corner of my eye I see a figure approaching the court. When I turn, I see it’s someone on a bike, a basketball pinned in one elbow. Reynolds. On his bike, he seems oversized, like he’s stolen it from a younger kid. His elbows and knees stick out awkwardly, and he looks every second like he’s about to fall. He recognizes me too and hangs a quick u-turn. I’m almost offended. First I think, Let him go. Let him just ride his sorry ass right back across Fall Creek Parkway if he’s gonna be that way. I turn back to see Kid bank home a J from the wing, and I chase down the rock and head to his spot. Then I stop. I check back toward Reynolds, who’s waiting for traffic to clear so he can make his getaway, and I remember what Murphy said to me after that first practice.
I bounce the ball back to Kid. “Reynolds,” I holler. “Come on, man.”
He doesn’t even turn around, just keeps swiveling his head to check traffic. I sprint to catch him before he has a chance to cross. I grab onto the back of his seat just before he starts to move. He pedals a couple times, dragging me forward with him, but at last he gives in. He gets off the bike and turns to me. “What?!” he shouts.
“I just want to talk to you, man.”
He refuses to meet my eyes, looking down at his shoes. That amber face of his looks almost tender, like a little kid’s or a girl’s. “Nothin’ to talk about.”
The kid makes it hard. But I stick with it. “You gotta come back to practice,” I say. “You had a rough start, but you can’t just quit.”
He gives this expression like he just tasted something rotten. “Come on, Derrick! I don’t even want back at this point.”
“That’s not true,” I tell him. I’ve seen him at this court enough to know he wants to suit up for Marion East.
“Well, it doesn’t matter. Bolden won’t ever take me back now,” he says.
“Look, man, I’m trying to be solid with you. Bolden will take you back. I swear it.” I steal a peek back at Uncle Kid who buries a twenty-footer, easy as waking up, and I wonder how true my promise is. I mean, if Bolden didn’t make any exceptions for Kid back in the day, he’s not cutting slack for Reynolds.
He snorts at that, aware that I’m laying it on a little thick. “Whatever,” he says. He turns to go again. He’s still not
