There’s a part of me that’s always envied my good buddy Walter Gibbs, so whenever we played ball, I always came hard. An elbow in the lower back, a kick toward his groin on a jumper, a move to inflict a bit of pain and give me an edge. After all, Walter was a better athlete than I was. I was taller and had longer arms, but Walter had strong legs that gave him more hops than a rabbit. I knew that if I let up on Walter for even a moment, he’d win.

So whenever we were matched against each other, I found that if I beat on him enough, Walter would fold. I’d use my legs to cut off his drives. My elbows to push him off the perimeter. My whole body to keep him from spots near the basket when he posted me up. If I brought it like that, Walter would give in. Not quit exactly, but just not care as much as I did. So on this Super Bowl Sunday afternoon, I beat Walter in three games of one-on-one, not by outshooting or even outplaying him, but by making one or two hustle plays—getting my own rebound on a missed shot, knocking a ball off his leg, anything that gave me an edge. I never won by much—one point, two points tops. But it meant something to me every time.

Later, as we sat in the steam room, Walter, in his humble way, remarked, “Niggah, you ain’t shit.”

“Then why did I win the trifecta today?”

“You won three games because my mind was on ass. I was holding back for tonight.”

“Since when do you have to marshal your strength to get busy, Walter?”

“I have a special treat coming my way, that’s why.”

“I take it you’re not talking about going to Andy’s for the game?”

“Nah. But you know what, Dwayne? I’m gonna put you down.”

“You mean ‘in-there-like-swimwear’?”

“You know you’re really showing your age right now, niggah. You sound like a Heavy D record. This is the twenty-first century. It’s time for some new slang. Word?” I laughed at that. Walter was getting as old school as I was. So for effect he capped his riff with, “Yes, home slice, word.”

In a cab downtown Walter gave me the details of his postgame strategy.

“Her name is Medina.”

“As in ‘Funky Cold’?”

“Yes, yes, and you don’t stop. Met her at the Paradise Strip Club. Right as she rubbed her pussy against my dick, she realized she’d seen my picture in Vibe.”

“Wait a minute, I met this girl. Her real name’s Beatrice. Remember, we all went to the movies together?”

“Oh yeah. Beatrice. I like Medina better myself. When’d she tell you her real name?”

“I think when you went to get popcorn.”