Flying Lessons & Other Stories(5)

You rip Dollar Bill near half court and race down the floor for a little finger roll over the rim. And as you retreat back down for defense after that one, you can hear the gym erupting.

Now you’re buried deep inside the folds of the game.

The outside world slinks off and hides, and all you know are the choreographed movements around you. The dance. The beautiful symphony of squeaking sneaks and grunts and the thud of body meeting body. Each man’s heavy breath and his eyes like a portal to his mind.

You bury two more deep jumpers, followed by a game-winning scoop shot in the lane, which results in the other team’s big man tripping over his own feet and falling on his face.

The guys on your squad mob you near midcourt.

“That’s right, young buck,” they say.

“That’s how you let fools know,” they say.

A few go on about how they’ve been meaning to pick you up all summer, they just never got a chance, blah, blah, blah.

But just as you’re starting to feel yourself, Dante will be back in your grill. “What, you make a couple jumpers, and now you supposed to be somebody?”

“No, I just—”

“Get off my court, kid.”

“But—”

He’ll grab you by the arm and fling you toward the bleachers, barking to everyone else, “Yo, I got my spot back! Check ball!”

You’ll consider putting up a fight here, but don’t.

Trust me.

What matters is you’ll have proven you can play. What matters is every head who saw what you just did will see you differently now. As proof, not thirty seconds later a guy who goes by the name of Slim will wander over and say, “Yo, young buck, I got next. Wanna run with me?”

“For sure.”

Rob will overhear this exchange and bark, “Yo, Slim, I thought you already had five. Who you dropping?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“You just seen this boy’s skills, right? I gotta get me a point guard.”

“But you said I was down, Slim. Don’t play your boy like that….”

In the middle of this debate, a stray jumper will roll out of bounds toward you, and Dante will give chase. He’ll grab the rock and kneel down, not five feet from you, to tie his shoe. “Hey, kid,” he’ll say in a quiet voice.

“Yeah?”

He’ll look up at you, mid–double knot. “You wanna get in games, you don’t just sit there like a punk, right? You stand up and challenge the baddest dude in the gym. Someone like me. Then you do your thing. Understand?”

His intense eyes will be like knives inside your chest. “Yes, sir.”

He’ll stand up and nod, then jog back onto the court, shouting, “Yo, check ball! Let’s go!”

You’ll think this is the beginning of some meaningful mentorship, but it won’t be. In fact, Dante won’t say another word to you the rest of the summer. Not even when you ask him a direct question. But over time you’ll begin to see the power of his silence. And surprisingly, it will remind you of your old man’s silence.

A few months into your ninth-grade season, you’ll actually spot Dante in the stands at one of your games. He’ll be alone, eating popcorn, watching. You’ll be the starting point guard on the varsity squad—which is pretty legit for a freshman. And you’ll be having your best game of the young season. You’ll wave as you jog past him at halftime, but he won’t wave back. He’ll continue eating his popcorn. After the game you’ll climb the packed bleachers looking for him, but he’ll already be gone.

Your old man will be there, though.

And on the drive back to your apartment that night you’ll realize something important. Your old man is always there. And he always has been. And so what if he doesn’t say anything about how many points you just scored. How many assists. So what if he turns on his radio news show instead of breaking down the big win.

Maybe words aren’t what’s important.

Maybe words would just steal away your freedom to think for yourself.





What You Did This Summer


Your first class, on your first day of ninth grade, will be English with Mr. Howe.

Shuffle into the room with everyone else. Locate the desk with your name tag and take a seat. After Mr. Howe goes around the room, having everyone introduce themselves, he’ll ask the class to pull out a sheet of paper. And he’ll give you the first of the seventeen thousand writing prompts he’ll assign over the course of the semester.

“This one’s easy,” he’ll say. “All I want you to do is describe one thing you did this summer. And one thing you learned. You have fifteen minutes. Go!”

You’ll moan and groan with everyone else, but once you start writing, the summer will come pouring out. You’ll write about sleeping in the VW Bug and the cop knocking on the window and all the vendors you passed on the long walk and the way the old gym walls actually creaked on especially hot days and how the second half of the summer you got in all the games and the guys started calling you Mexican Buckets and fighting over who had to guard you. But the time you spent on the actual court, you’ll realize, was nowhere near as important as the time you spent in the bleachers. And you’ll devote all your remaining time to describing one seemingly insignificant moment.