The Whale Belly

I’m shooting baskets at the park near my house. The sky is winter blue, cloudless and unmoving. The sun burns obliquely, wrapped as it is in cold air. My body is lighter than usual as I bob, hop, and toss. The reminders are there, the faint burn in my knees, the tightening in my forearm just above the wrist. But it’s been a long time since I fell into the rhythm of bouncing ball, the flicking backspin, the suspension of an arching shot, the clanging response of the rim on a bricked shot. I really suck at this game, but I used to be sort of good at it, and I slowly perceive the memory flowing back to my fingers, the slight fade, the sweep of an arm. What if I got good at it again?

Some kids arrive, first two, then three, then five. They play three-on-two on one side of the court while I take the other to myself. A few years ago they would have invited me to round off their game, but I’m too old now. When I catch a loose ball from their side and toss it back to the kid chasing after it, he doesn’t look me in the eye, mumbles thanks. It’s okay. I kind of suck now anyway. I even miss layups.

Eventually two older teenagers arrive and they begin shooting on the same basket as me. We wait patiently as the other takes a shot and clears the key so as not to crowd them. We occasionally will catch a rebound when it is convenient. But they avoid eye contact, too. I should get back to work, I think. And, because I’ve never been good about not acknowledging other people, I tell them goodbye and to have a good day. One of them mumbles bye back.