On Sunday evening, Trip and I hit the Y. It’s our final chance to run before practice starts Monday and we’re back to a straight week of drills and fundamentals. And running until we puke.
We step into the gym and find multiple games going already, which is what we were hoping for—we can shoot around on an empty basket at home. Trip immediately gets the scoop on who’s got next while I head to one of the side courts to get some shots in. It’s fun to watch the look on older guys’ faces when Trip asks if they’ve got five guys together yet—like, they don’t want to hurt a little kid’s feelings, but they didn’t come to babysit someone’s middle schooler, either. Then they see the little bastard play.
We have to wait out two full games before we take our turn on the center court. The Y gym is really one regulation-size court, split into three full courts by these giant hanging vinyl dividers. So the courts are short and fast, like street ball on hardwood. I recognize most of the guys on the center court as we step on to play. Some are varsity guys from Eastern Adams, a neighboring school district. Their team’s not very good, but they’re still varsity, and they’re nice guys. Some are older gym rats who can’t necessarily sprint up and down the floor, but who have mastered the art of short-court Y-ball. They can and will make you look stupid if you play careless against them.
I love these games, because it’s one of the few times I can play without thinking. No coaches watching. No parents in the stands. No peers in the student section who have no idea that you practice all the time, shooting for hours by yourself. I know I shouldn’t need them to care how good I am, but I can’t handle having people think I’m not good, that I don’t belong out there. One of the joys of having my brain, I guess.
None of that comes with me to the Y, though.
Six games in, Trip and I have yet to leave the court. Winner stays in Y-ball: games to eleven, ones and twos, win by two. I’m draining long twos and short turnarounds at will, and Trip is slashing through the lanes like a fucking madman. We don’t speak during the hour and a half we’re on the court. Communication travels through occasional fist bumps, nods, and simply knowing where the other’s going to be at any given moment, our other three teammates along for the ride.
Damn, it feels good. You don’t get tired when you’re winning.
About a half hour before closing, three of our own varsity guys walk into the gym: Branson, point guard Elijah Leppo, and Trevor Lighty, an absolute behemoth. I’ve never seen any of them in here before. All three play football, and it looks as though they’ve just wandered in after lifting, planning on a quick tune-up before basketball season starts tomorrow.
They grab two guys standing against the wall behind a basket and saunter out onto the floor, right after Trip’s drive ends our seventh straight win. Branson and crew take a few lazy jumpers, swinging their arms between shots, trying to get loose, while Trip and I grab a quick drink from the fountain in the hall outside the gym.
Trip looks up after a long drink and lets out a long breath. “Fuck.”
“Yeah,” I say, and we bump weak fists before heading back onto the court.
Leppo’s at the top of the key, ready to start. “What do we play to?” he asks. One of our teammates, equally drenched and exhausted, but still smiling, gives him the rundown.
It’s not at all what I expect. The three of them are slow and stiff, their moves almost mechanical, like they’re trying to figure out their bodies again in this new arena. Lighty still puts each of us on our ass when we try to box him out, and they’re all damn good athletes, so they’re by far the toughest competition we’ve had all night. But they just aren’t in sync the way we are.
Trip and Leppo are evenly matched, Trip’s intelligence and ultracompetitiveness making up for what he lacks in size and strength. Lighty bashes through everybody, but luckily a few of the older guys on our team are bigger than I am, so I’m not stuck trying to guard him. Despite his advantage in size, he’s really rusty, missing more easy shots than he makes, and the other guys are able to score a few cheapies on him just by being in better position.
Branson’s clearly the best player on the court, and it’s hard as shit to stay with him on defense, especially after seven straight games, but I’m still locked in on offense and stick a couple of long-range jumpers over his outstretched hand. And he gives me props after each one, like he’s coaching me or something. It takes everything I have to ignore the fact that this means absolutely everything to me and absolutely nothing to him.
So when I float a turnaround fadeaway over a lunging Trevor Lighty for the game-winning point, it’s hard to contain my glee. I can tell Trip is beside himself, too, when he comes over and gives me a hand slap that numbs my fingertips. In my head, I’ve ripped my soaking shirt off and I’m airplaning around the court. On the outside, I’m hanging on to my shorts, giving everyone on the court the obligatory high five and “good game”—except for Lighty, who immediately slammed through the doors to the lobby.
Trip and I are sitting against the wall, cooling off and packing up our stuff for the night, when Branson and Leppo sit down on the floor in front of us.
“You guys looked good out there,” Branson says, pulling off his shoes.
“Thanks,” I say. “I think you guys are just still in football mode.”
Lighty returns, his bag over his shoulder, and stands behind Branson and Leppo, looking down at us. “You got that right,” he says. “That weak shit’s not gonna work this week.”
Leppo laughs to himself and shakes his head. But Branson says, “Shit, Light, I’ll take shooting like that any day.” He gets to his feet and reaches down to help me up. Leppo does the same for Trip. This is weird.
“You’re Matt, right?” Branson says as we walk out through the lobby toward the parking lot. “Tabby’s neighbor.”
“Yeah,” I say, which is all I can think of to say, so I say “yeah” again.
“I thought so. That girl’s pretty cool,” he says, and for whatever reason, it seems unnatural coming out of his mouth.
“Yeah,” I say yet again. “We’ve been friends since we were little kids.”
He doesn’t say anything to that. Just lets it hang there before turning back to Trip, walking behind us. “What’s your name again, man?”
“Trip.”
“Trip?” Lighty booms from behind him. “What the fuck is that?”
“Uhh, it’s a nickname,” Trip replies, looking back at Lighty like he’s the biggest dumbass on the planet. Which, well. Trip does not get intimidated by many people. When everyone’s bigger than you, I guess you don’t really give a shit how much bigger they are.
I smile and point to Trip’s feet as he walks. I’ve never seen anyone as severely pigeon-toed as my boy Trip. “His mom started calling him that when he was little,” I explain, more to Branson and Leppo than to the giant douche bag in the back. “Every time he’d take off, she’d think he was going to trip over his feet and bite it.”
“No shit.” Lighty laughs. “I keep waiting for you to fall on your face.”
“Thus the name,” Trip replies, not bothering to look at him this time.
When we get outside, Lighty heads straight to his pickup without saying goodbye.
“See ya, Light,” Branson calls from the curb. Lighty flips us off without turning around and hops into his truck.
“Douche,” Branson says under his breath, and Leppo laughs and shakes his head. Branson turns to us and asks, “You guys need a ride?”
“No, my mom will be here in a minute,” I say, feeling like a little kid. “Thanks, though.”
“No problem,” he says as he and Leppo head for his black Accord. “See you guys at practice tomorrow.” When he gets to his car door, he looks back and says, “Tell Tabby I said hi.”
“You bet,” I say. He waves and climbs into his car, and all I can think is how he’s probably going to see her before I do.
We get the hand-on-the-steering-wheel peace sign as they drive by us out of the parking lot.
“Lighty’s a total dick. But those guys are all right,” Trip says after they pull away.
I nod, watching Branson’s taillights disappear down the street as Mom’s car pulls up in front of us.
“Branson seems really cool,” Trip adds, staring at me a little longer than I appreciate before climbing into the backseat.
Yes. Yes, he definitely does. The bastard.