Even still he talks smack: I broke them ankles; you can’tguard me; come and get it. Things will progress, and you’ll haveto really try to win. You invite him to shoot the three, give himspace to practice his handle: the crossover, the between the legs,the jab step. He gets better: the jump shot, the layup, the floater.More and more shots find the net. He’s faster, or you’re slower.You chase him around half court, his 10-year old body dartingtoward the basket. You’re too tired to drive to the paint, too tired to posthim up. You settle for threes, watch the high arc fall. You keep itclose to keep the game going. You let him win until one day he doesthe same for you. Twenty one starts a new game until it’s time for supperand baths and help with homework, until it’s time for his first job, first kiss,first vehicle, until it’s time for the first road he finds that doesn’t circle backto this town, back to this yard full of propane bottles and turned overbicycles, his basketball’s last dribble that comes to rest in the crab grass.