Page 83 of Strays
He stands, stretches out his arms, rolls his neck. “I’m up next. You three sit this one out and watch how it goes. Pick up the flow.”
We find a spot along the wall and lean back to watch.
It moves fast. Half-court. Five-on-five. No refs. Looks like the players call their own fouls, out-of-bounds, all of it. Kind of like a handshake system: speak up if something’s off, otherwise play on. No timeouts, no whistles, just motion, clean and constant.
Jay watches footwork. Shane tracks spacing. I study how they switch on defense, how they find gaps. There’s a rhythm under all, like a current. By the time the game ends, we’ve seen enough.
Fontes jogs back over, sweat darkening his shirt. “You ready?”
“Yeah,” I say.
He nods and claps Shane on the shoulder.
We get pulled into the next round: me, Jay, Shane, a man named Chris in a faded UConn shirt, and a skinny guy who stares at us and says, “Damn, you guys are tall.”
We take our spots.
First play, Shane snags a bad pass and drives it straight in. Doesn’t dunk, but it’s close. The backboard rattles. Jay strips his guy clean the next time down and drives hard left. I set a screen without thinking; the guy behind me eats it face-first.
After that, it’s just flow. We stop trying to mimic and just move the way we always do, no words, no plan, just timing and reaction.
Jay gets called for a foul once, but even the guy who calls it looks unsure.
We win the first game. Then the second.
Nobody says much while we’re playing, but the energy shifts. Not hostile, just aware.
When we step off, one guy from the losing side grabs his water bottle and breathes out, “Next time, y’all can’t be on the same team.”
Laughter ripples through the court.
We sit out the next round, legs stretched, backs against the wall. The court noise rolls on, ball against hardwood, shouts, more laughter. And for the first time in days, the pressure in my chest eases a little. We’ll be back next week.
Sunday morning, I decide I’m done eating chunks of bread with water and make a real breakfast for us.
Since last night felt good, we decide to get our own hoop, so after breakfast, we drive to the Walmart in Bridgeport. We grab a portable hoop, a couple of sandbags, a wrench, and a socket set.
On the way home, we stop at a restaurant, the first decent lunch we’ve had inweeks.
We build the hoop in the gravel strip beside the house, just to the left of the garage. Jay holds the frame steady while I fill the base with the sandbags. When it’s done, it’s not pretty. The backboard leans slightly right. The bolts don’t sit flush, so Shane has to kick one of the braces into place. But it stands.
We don’t paint lines. The gravel’s uneven, and the ball skips weird if you don’t dribble clean, but we get used to it fast. We play all evening.
When we finally stop, drenched in sweat, I feel tired but steadier. Less broken. When we hit the nest, I sleep well.
On Monday morning, Jay cooks breakfast. I trade the same texts with Jo: I ask if she’s okay, she says she’s still in Idaho City and that she’s fine. I tell her we’re fine too.
Instead of showing up too early at the unit, we shoot around in the yard before heading to work.
At lunch, we hit the break room, but the vending machine is finally out of protein bars.
Beckett’s always eating delivery, so Jay asks where it’s from and orders for us. Chicken, brown rice, roasted veggies in a black plastic tray. It comes with a little fork and everything.
We grab takeout on the way back home, but when we get in, we kill some time at the hoop before dinner.
We’re almost finished eating when Jay says, out of nowhere, “NBA playoffs are on.”
I glance up. “Since when?”
