Home.

When Mickey was on the court, like his uncle before him, he was home. The court made sense. You could control life on the court. You had friends; you had enemies; you had the ball and those two hoops. You had rules. You had consistency. You were yourself. You were safe.

You were home.

Coach Grady spotted Myron and came over. Some things might change. Others didn’t. The coach still wore a polo shirt with an embroidered logo on the pocket and shorts that were a hair too tight. He gave Myron a handshake and followed it with a hug.

“Been too long,” Myron said to him.

“Yeah.” Coach Grady spread his hands. “What do you think of the new gym?”

Myron looked around for a moment. “I kinda miss the old one, you know?”

“I do.”

“Then again, maybe we are just being old and grumpy.”

“Could be that too.”

“Maybe I should stand on the porch and yell for the kids to get off my lawn.”

They both turned to the court and watched. Mickey faked a three-pointer, drawing the defender toward him, and then threw a pass down the middle to his teammate for an easy layup.

“He’s special,” Grady said.

“Yep.”

“I think he may be better than you.”

“Hush, now.”

Coach Grady laughed and blew the whistle. The game stopped, and for the first time, Mickey let up on his focus and spotted his uncle. He didn’t wave. Neither did Myron. The coach called them into the circle at center court, said a few words of encouragement, told them, “Hands in.” They all put their hands in and shouted, “Team!” before breaking for the showers.

Mickey jogged over to Myron. He had a towel around his neck. Myron stood. Mickey was sixteen years old, a little taller than Myron, maybe six five. He didn’t smile often, at least not around his uncle, but, then again, their relationship, brief as it was, had been strained until recently.

Mickey was smiling now.

“You got the tickets?” Mickey asked.

“They’re at will call.”

“Let me just quickly shower. I’ll be right back.”

He jogged off. The gym emptied. Myron picked up a stray basketball and headed out onto the court. He stood at the foul line. He bounced the ball three times. His fingers found the grooves without conscious thought. He released the ball with perfect backspin. Swish. He did again. And again.

Time passed. Impossible to say how much.

“Myron?”

It was Mickey.

They headed outside toward the parking lot. Mickey stopped when he saw the limousine.

“We’re taking that?”

“Yep. Problem?”

“It’s a little showy.”

“Yeah, it is.”

Mickey looked around to make sure none of his friends was in sight. When he was sure the coast was clear, they both slipped into the back. Mickey leaned forward and stuck his hand out to the driver. “I’m Mickey.”

“I’m Stan,” the driver said. “Nice to meet you, Mickey.”

“Same here.”

Mickey sat back and fastened his seat belt. The car started up. “So I thought you were traveling and we weren’t going tonight,” Mickey said.