I rejoin Nehemiah. “We good here.”

“Learn anything?”

“I’m not sure.” I swat him in the gut and nod toward the court. “But I’d really like to play basketball.”

“We’re coming in.” Nehemiah shucks his jacket as we jog over, stopping the action on the court.

The teams switch around so that Nehemiah, me, and Twon can be on the same squad. Kutter and RaShawn are on the other side.

A few times up and down the court has me pouring sweat. Some kids still cling to hoop dreams, running across the court like LeBron James commanding the floor—their eyes full of cool indifference when we join the game—oblivious to the fact that most of us are weak ballers. That some are chubby or that some are scrawny. That some are tall while others could not reach the bottom of the net no matter how hard they leaped. It doesn’t matter how much skill you have: playing the game is the point.

I grab the rock at the top of the key. I dribble with a wary trot, allowing the teams to get used to one another while I study how they move. With a hot spin to my left, I bring the ball back right. Twon undercuts his man, finding some space.

“I’m open,” Twon yells.

I wave him off and fire a pretty fadeaway jumper. I know I look like Steph Curry stabbing a dagger in the heart of the opposing team with a last-second shot.

“Check it up top.” I raise my hands in anticipation of the ball.

“How come?” RaShawn asks.

“We’re playing make it, take it.”

He skulks over to set Kutter up to drive. I intercept a sloppy bounce pass. Spinning around past Kutter, I evade the sea of elbows and smacking hands, leaving the other team behind. I rush the backboard without dribbling, blasting off to the rim, flying as high as my body manages. Though falling three feet short of touching any part of the rim, my imagination fills in the rest. I act like I’d just dunked on someone. Today is my show.

“I’m out, man,” Twon says.

“No one likes a quitter, Twon,” I remind him.

“No one likes a no baller either. You never pass the rock.” Twon waddles off the court, toward the playground equipment in search of a game of tag or something to jump in on. He doesn’t bother to turn around. Waggling my head back and forth, I imitate him saying, “No one likes a no baller either.” I kick a pebble from the court in his general direction.

His words sting, though. No one wants to be seen as a black hole: where once the ball goes in to him, it never comes out. Nor do I want Twon to leave. I just want to win. When the ball isn’t in my hands, when I’m not in control, I’m helpless. I can run around all I want, make screens, confuse the defense, but the reality is that whoever has the ball determines the action. Plus, I don’t particularly trust my teammates. Tucking the ball to my side, I watch in silent protest. This is as close as I’m going to get to apologizing. It’s not like I can announce in front of the other team that I’d pass the ball more.