That I didn’t cower due to her symbolic, headphoned unapproachability and instead said what I wanted to.

“You played in college, innit,” I said, ball under my arm, panting, returning from retrieving an airball that had squirted off the court’s edge, all the way to the bathrooms a homeless dude was shaving in the outdoor sink of.

“What was that?” she said, removing a bud.

“I said you played in college, huh?”

“I did.”

“Got that FORM. That DISCIPLINE.”

“I don’t know about that,” she said, smiling. “Just getting back into it.”

“Yeah? Me too.”

“You played?” She seemed surprised. And I didn’t blame her—I looked busted af.

“D3! But yeah.”

She nodded like OK, giving me a once-over.

“Literally my first week back at it even touching a ball since,” I said.

We shot in silence some.

I switched to baseline Js, bricking one off the side of the backboard but immediately chasing after it.

Tryna get my heart rate going like the pod the ole man sent to me said to, to reduce inflammation and promote better circulation.

To get all this swelling down.

“Still not on your level of all that running!” she said outta nowhere, grinning surprisingly friendly. “But trying.”

I laughed and just went Nahhh, sorta laughing with her at myself.

At how ostentatiously hard I was going.

How extra I probably looked.

“I’m trying, too!” I said, doing a James Harden double-step back on three-pointer number ninety-seven of 100 and airballing another.

But it counted.

I didn’t say 100 makes. Just 100 shots.

“Two more!” I yelled to myself, chasing after it.

The homeless dude was carving out a sweet shaving cream Fu Manchu for himself, hitting that water fountain button over and over to keep the rinse going.

6

THE MA

New Year’s Eve 2018

Walking oceanward with the ma.

Firework-ward.

Along California since it was mellower.

One off the thoroughfare.

Close enough for amenities access, if needed, but without the thoroughfare-stress.

She told me about the Murakami she was reading.

It was about a portrait painter.

She told me other plot lines, and I nodded like I was following. And I sorta was.

But mainly I was thinking about writing as portrait painting.

That Murakami was exploring writing as portrait painting was mainly what I heard.

“What other types of painting are good writing analogies?” I cut in, when I could no longer follow the plot.

My mama went quiet, thinking on this.

Maybe affronted by how bluntly I’d cut in, although probably not since she did this all the time.

She who taught me to.

To prioritize no-bullshit over good manners. To, when it came time, quickly move on to and consider the next, more interesting thing.

She started listing painting types.

In Philly it was arctic; we had light jackets on. Hoods though.

When she got to Impressionism.

Coming up on Ocean Ave, first traces of NYE chatter.