We lobbed a ball above a rim we could not reach.Reached as though our feetcould find a rhythm rightwith summer haze and black top, bodiesyet to stretch. Afternoons,our daddies smoldered pipes on porchesplaying cards, and stacked unemployment checks.We dared not interrupt their count.Dared not take a moment’s glancefrom men who mangled skin with brassand bragged on corners filled with swagger,swooping low to sweet ladies.The things we did when no one watchedwas worrisome: acid, shrooms, pop of bottles, bongs,girls in jean skirts swaying hipslike nets in violet rain.We learned to pass how to dribble howto leap despite our average liftand lilt like something holy wholly terrified,shot clock clicking away. Years later, when the citycleared the court we knew as boysand the school no longer draped our namesour trophy trapped in glass, I watched an old friendweave through traffic, stutter my name with surprise.On his cheek a mark, one eye gone,a limp and struggle for air.He asked for a hit. Askedif I’d ever been in love.Wondered about my life my sonsif I’d lost or been slowly losing.By which he meant light,the lightness of air: the lob and lift and score.The swelling crowd.The flicker first before the bellblaring into the night.