You’ll ask the overweight knee-braced dude if you can run with his squad. He’s still three games away, but you got all day. He’ll nod and say in a deep smoker voice, “You down, young buck. I got you.” But an hour later, when his team is finally set to take the court, he’ll drop you for a balding big man.
At first this basketball blackballing will tear you up inside. You know you can hang. Your jumper is as pure as anyone’s in the gym (except maybe this guy they call Dante, who never misses). Sure, these dudes are bigger and stronger and more aggressive, but at the very least you could be a dependable distributor. You know where to put a lob on the fast break so your big man can mash it down with a guttural growl.
You plead with the guys standing on the sidelines. “You gotta let me play, man. I can ball. I swear.” But these outbursts of self-promotion will fall on deaf ears. All you’ll do that first day is hoist a few jumpers between games, then retreat back to the bleachers to watch.
The next day it’ll be the same thing.
The day after that.
Those first two weeks you’ll participate in a grand total of one run—if you can even count the end-of-the-day, three-on-three debacle you spend guarding a homeless man wearing soleless Timberlands.
One afternoon it’ll hit you especially hard on the long walk back to the car.
You’ll keep quiet on the drive home, then retreat to an overturned bucket in the alley behind your building, where you’ll have a serious heart-to-heart with yourself. Sure, it’s the best pickup you’ve ever seen, but they don’t even let you play. They’re prejudiced against Mexicans. Or soon-to-be ninth graders. Or both. Why wake up before the crack of dawn, sleep folded up in a VW Bug, just to sit in the bleachers all day?
Nah, man, this won’t work.
You’re a baller, not a spectator.
At least at the court down the street you can work up a sweat.
On your way into your room that night, you’ll break the news to your old man. “Just so you know, Pop, I’m not driving down with you anymore. Thanks for taking me all those times.”
He’ll look up from his beer with a frown. “What happened?”
You’re a pretty tough kid. Nothing much gets to you. But for some reason his question will put a lump in your throat. “It’s just…I don’t even know why, but they won’t let me play.”
Secretly you’ll be hoping for a little piece of fatherly advice here, but you won’t get it. He’ll chuckle instead and turn back to his beer.
You won’t set your alarm that night. You’ll sink into bed, excited by the thought of sleeping in. Relieved to be downshifting back into the old routine.
But something odd will happen.
The next morning your body will instinctively wake up at four-thirty. You’ll sit up, rubbing your eyes, confused. Your hands will unconsciously reach into the dirty clothes for your hoop gear, and your feet, against executive orders, will carry you out to the car a few minutes before five.
When your old man sees you standing there, he’ll chuckle again.
But he won’t say anything.
Don’t Just Sit There Like a Punk
It won’t be until week four that you finally get into a meaningful game.
By this time you’ll know most of the guys by nickname. And you’ll know how they play. At some point your focus will have shifted from wanting to play, to breaking down their various skill sets. There’s one guy in particular you’ll study.
Dante.
He’s six four and thin. In his early thirties maybe. He’s the only guy in the gym who’s never said a word to you. He walks right by like you don’t even exist. But he can seriously play. Not only does he knock down almost every jumper he takes, he hardly ever grazes the rim. He has this sweet little fadeaway in the post, and whenever someone tries to challenge him on the break, they get mashed on, posterized, and guys on the sidelines fall all over each other, laughing and stomping and pointing.
After burying one particular game winner from the wing, two guys draped all over him, he’ll turn to you suddenly and bark, “Hey, kid, why you still coming here?”
You pause your dribble, stunned. “Who me?”
“Nobody thinks you’re good enough to play here, comprende? Why don’t you go on back to the barrio, esé.”
Your whole body will freeze up from the shock of his words.
Everyone in the entire gym inching closer, waiting to see what happens next.
Dante strides over and points a finger in your face. “What, are you deaf, kid? I said leave!”
No words form in your brain.
No thoughts.
Dante spins to the rest of the guys. “Someone get this scrub out my face before I do something stupid.”
A couple regulars will lead you toward the bleachers, but your legs aren’t quite working yet. You’re confused almost to the point of paralysis. Because what did you do wrong? Why does he hate you? Your heart thump-thump-thumping inside your chest. Doubt setting in. Maybe he’s right. Maybe you really are a scrub. Maybe you shouldn’t be allowed to show up like this every day, uninvited.