Posted by Os Davis in basketball, fiction by Os Davis, Sports | 0 Comments
Short fiction: Crow’s Feet
“That was the best game we’ve ever had.”
“If you say so,” I gasp staccato between hard-fought breaths. I idly wonder if I’ll ever be able to pick myself up from the sun-baked asphalt feeling cool against my overheated body. Damn, I’m getting old.
And meanwhile Marcel shoots, swishes, grabs the ball, dribbles past an imaginary defender, shoots, misses, snags it before it bounces again, shoots and again the snap of the net cuts through the dry summer air.
Was I ever this young?
“Seriously, that was awesome.” Awesome. I haven’t said that since I was his age.
“Why? Because you ‘schooled’ me?”
“Yeah,” he grins slyly and shoots again, swish. He’s taller than me and blocks my shots with regularity. After a decade and a half of looking down to address him, he now throws a shadow over me. Funny what a divorced dad can miss in a few months…
I’m out of practice, I tell myself. I’m out of shape, I haven’t played hoops in a year. And I try not to repeat the dread three words inside.
Dribble, dribble, fadeaway shot, off the backboard and in. “Let’s play again.”
“In a minute, in a minute. Give this old guy a break.”
“Y’know what you told me about playing hard? Like that guy Berkley?”
“Barkley. Charles Barkley.”
“Yeah.” Shot, carom off the backboard, in. Rebound, shoot, swish. “Coach said I made the team ‘cause I hustled so good.”
“So well. ‘I hustled so well.’”
“Yeah. So he asked me who taught me and I said ‘my dad.’ You’re real smart.”
My knees crack as I bring myself to my feet; I can feel the grin growing across my face and I don’t bother to try and hide the crow’s feet this time. Not old, then, I think, wise, maybe.
“All right, one more.”
And my son schools me again and again until the sun goes down.
— Os Davis, March 2006
