Well here's what i have so far. I'm afraid it doesn't have enough substance and focus.
The air is quiet, glowing orange from the shine of streetlights. The stillness is broken by an intermittent breeze, blowing with the warmth that only a summer night can bring. We see this place from the opening of a fire exit; a window to a distant place. The gym closed hours ago, but we still play. Our world exists only in the confines of the court. The padded walls insulate us from the outside. We are held up by the hardwood and capped down by the ceiling. However, we are free to fly. When we play basketball, we exist in our most natural forms: flowing, floating, gliding.
That evening, Big Bird pulled up on my driveway in his 1993 Mercedes-Benz 300E. Rapper Saigon's screams of "When I spit the room temperature change. I am what many consider a spitter of flames," were dotted with explosions from Big Bird's new sub-woofers. As we drove down Bailey Avenue, towards the basketball courts we played at, trees transformed into cement buildings. Grass covered lawns were interrupted by stone covered vacant lots. Each bump of the bass cracked away another piece of our tired existence, exposing fragments of new backdrop into which we would escape.
Growing up in one of the safest communities in America, I had loving parents, and money was never an issue. However, I had always felt the need to take refuge from this "perfect" world. Although my parents had found a spot in middle class America, they retained the mindset of poverty stricken Cultural Revolution era China. I did not come in contact with American people until I was five years old. My first years of school were filled with feelings of separation and confusion. At first I longed to be like everyone else, but eventually a part of me grew to reject their mainstream ways. After school I would run to the basketball courts, alone, and shoot for hours. A separate world existed inside the painted lines of the basketball court. When I stood at the hoop, the trees around me blacked out. The cars passing by meshed with street into an unrecognizable blur. I would dribble hard to my right, step back, and shoot. Each time I heard the ball rip through the net, I became a little cockier. Basketball gave me an escape from "the law of the bluest eye." It helped me build a shell of pride that got me through much of my school years. Nevertheless, the fear and awkwardness that I felt remained. When others challenged me, I would revert to my small, scared self in fear of confrontation. When an opportunity for greatness presented itself, I would shy away.
I followed Big Bird as he walked around the back of the apartment complex, through the rear fire exit. The people in the gym gave blank stares as we walked in. All of us were scared, but no one dared to show emotion. However, upon the first "check", the gym exploded. "Ball!" my man yelled. My shoes screeched as I moved to defend him. Big Bird screamed, "Pick left! Go over!" As my opponent rose up for a jump shot, I mirrored his leap in an attempt to contest. The ball floated past my fingertips and into the hoop. "Oh son that was butter! He got mouthed," someone yelled from the sideline. That night, the façade of pre-rehearsed politeness we created in our jobs, schools, and homes, was broken by passion. We played for love and did not possess the extra effort to maintain any false appearances. The emotions of the game peeled back a layer of me. I couldn't continue life maintaining a crust of fake confidence that broke down whenever a challenge arose. When my opponent's friend yelled, the world paused. I reminisced of my childhood days on the pavement when I had felt like a king. I couldn't back down. Right as the ball hit the ground from his shot, I called for it immediately. I dribbled, and stopped just short of the three point line. The feeling of the leather in my hands consumed me. I lowered myself, and stepped hard to my right. As he shuffled backwards, I hit the ground hard with my right foot, stepping backwards. He reached to block my shot, but I jumped, releasing the ball into the net. No one said a word.
That night, we played until the city fell asleep. As the gym lights shut off one by one, we twisted the sweat from our shirts into puddles on the ground. There were no words spoken on the ride home. Any thoughts on our minds were irrelevant, drowned out by the thumping of the bass. From the speakers, Fat Pat recited, "Love it man, love it man, love it man..." as the beat rode out.
The air is quiet, glowing orange from the shine of streetlights. The stillness is broken by an intermittent breeze, blowing with the warmth that only a summer night can bring. We see this place from the opening of a fire exit; a window to a distant place. The gym closed hours ago, but we still play. Our world exists only in the confines of the court. The padded walls insulate us from the outside. We are held up by the hardwood and capped down by the ceiling. However, we are free to fly. When we play basketball, we exist in our most natural forms: flowing, floating, gliding.
That evening, Big Bird pulled up on my driveway in his 1993 Mercedes-Benz 300E. Rapper Saigon's screams of "When I spit the room temperature change. I am what many consider a spitter of flames," were dotted with explosions from Big Bird's new sub-woofers. As we drove down Bailey Avenue, towards the basketball courts we played at, trees transformed into cement buildings. Grass covered lawns were interrupted by stone covered vacant lots. Each bump of the bass cracked away another piece of our tired existence, exposing fragments of new backdrop into which we would escape.
Growing up in one of the safest communities in America, I had loving parents, and money was never an issue. However, I had always felt the need to take refuge from this "perfect" world. Although my parents had found a spot in middle class America, they retained the mindset of poverty stricken Cultural Revolution era China. I did not come in contact with American people until I was five years old. My first years of school were filled with feelings of separation and confusion. At first I longed to be like everyone else, but eventually a part of me grew to reject their mainstream ways. After school I would run to the basketball courts, alone, and shoot for hours. A separate world existed inside the painted lines of the basketball court. When I stood at the hoop, the trees around me blacked out. The cars passing by meshed with street into an unrecognizable blur. I would dribble hard to my right, step back, and shoot. Each time I heard the ball rip through the net, I became a little cockier. Basketball gave me an escape from "the law of the bluest eye." It helped me build a shell of pride that got me through much of my school years. Nevertheless, the fear and awkwardness that I felt remained. When others challenged me, I would revert to my small, scared self in fear of confrontation. When an opportunity for greatness presented itself, I would shy away.
I followed Big Bird as he walked around the back of the apartment complex, through the rear fire exit. The people in the gym gave blank stares as we walked in. All of us were scared, but no one dared to show emotion. However, upon the first "check", the gym exploded. "Ball!" my man yelled. My shoes screeched as I moved to defend him. Big Bird screamed, "Pick left! Go over!" As my opponent rose up for a jump shot, I mirrored his leap in an attempt to contest. The ball floated past my fingertips and into the hoop. "Oh son that was butter! He got mouthed," someone yelled from the sideline. That night, the façade of pre-rehearsed politeness we created in our jobs, schools, and homes, was broken by passion. We played for love and did not possess the extra effort to maintain any false appearances. The emotions of the game peeled back a layer of me. I couldn't continue life maintaining a crust of fake confidence that broke down whenever a challenge arose. When my opponent's friend yelled, the world paused. I reminisced of my childhood days on the pavement when I had felt like a king. I couldn't back down. Right as the ball hit the ground from his shot, I called for it immediately. I dribbled, and stopped just short of the three point line. The feeling of the leather in my hands consumed me. I lowered myself, and stepped hard to my right. As he shuffled backwards, I hit the ground hard with my right foot, stepping backwards. He reached to block my shot, but I jumped, releasing the ball into the net. No one said a word.
That night, we played until the city fell asleep. As the gym lights shut off one by one, we twisted the sweat from our shirts into puddles on the ground. There were no words spoken on the ride home. Any thoughts on our minds were irrelevant, drowned out by the thumping of the bass. From the speakers, Fat Pat recited, "Love it man, love it man, love it man..." as the beat rode out.
