By the time we finished the third game of half-court basketball, we were exhausted.
It was three-on-three, shirts soaked through, jeans sticking to our legs, and a white ring of dried salt beginning to form around our faces. We played hard back then. There weren’t any basketball shorts or moisture-wicking shirts. Just jeans, T-shirts, sneakers, and enough pride to make every game feel like Game 7.
We didn’t just play basketball.
We competed.
Ain’t nobody walking back to Building 82 after getting swept.
Somebody suggested we walk over to South Orange Avenue for quarter waters.
Orange for me.
Always orange.
The walk wasn’t far, but after three games, it felt longer than usual. By the time we made it back to Bradley Court, none of us had much left. A couple of my boys leaned against the basketball pole. I found my usual spot on a bent chain-link fence that had needed fixing for as long as I could remember. It leaned just enough to sit on without falling over.
The basketball court sat in the middle of Bradley Court, surrounded on every side by brick apartment buildings. If you wanted to find us on a Saturday afternoon, you knew where to look.
Building 82.
We’d be somewhere around there.
I was halfway through my second orange quarter water, talking with one of my boys about something I can’t even remember now. Probably a girl. Half listening. Half recovering. Mostly wondering if I had enough energy for another game.
That’s when I heard it.
“Look at him walking up like he lost his horse.”
I looked up.
Southern State.
That wasn’t his real name. We called him Southern State because he’d moved to Newark from down South.
He didn’t laugh.
He calmly looked toward the voice and said, “Don’t start.”
The light laugh that escaped me wasn’t because the joke was funny.
It was because I knew what was coming next.
Everybody did.
Hiking.
The Dozens.
Basketball was over for a while. Halftime had begun. Basketball gave us our first wind.
Hiking gave us our second. Nobody called a meeting. Nobody said, “Everybody come here.”
One joke landed...
...and somehow eight dudes found themselves standing in a circle.
Some of us stayed where we were.
Others drifted toward the hoop like they were being pulled by gravity.
My boy, who had a habit of starting stuff because he thought he was funnier than he really was, was already smiling.
Southern State wasn’t loud. That made him dangerous. The quiet ones usually got straight to work. The first couple of jokes landed.
A few laughs.
Nothing special.
Then Southern State looked at my boy and said something about his breath. I smiled before he finished the sentence. Because I knew where he was headed. The second the joke landed, the whole court exploded.
Not the kind of laugh where somebody hears something funny and moves on.
The kind that starts because everybody knows...
He’s not done. People started pacing in circles. Somebody bent over laughing.
Somebody slapped the basketball pole. Another couldn’t stop repeating the punchline.
Spoiled milk.
Garbage trucks.
The jokes practically wrote themselves. My boy was getting cooked.
I ain’t gonna lie...I started wondering if somebody needed to throw in the towel.
Then, out of nowhere, he threw what I still think was the punchline of the day.
“Whatever...
...you still wearing them clothes from L.A.”
Everybody froze.
L.A.?
Los Angeles?
Without missing a beat, my boy smiled.
“Lower Alabama.”
Game. Over.
I laughed so hard my stomach hurt. “Y’all crazy!” That’s all anybody could say.
Then somebody repeated, “Lower Alabama.” Then somebody else.
It wasn’t my boy’s joke anymore.
Bradley Court owned it now. Just like that...
The show was over.
Somebody picked up the basketball. Somebody else grabbed the rebound.
Nobody apologized. Nobody needed to. Then somebody yelled the four words every kid wanted to hear.
“Same teams?”
I remember getting excited. Not because I suddenly wasn’t tired. I was exhausted.
But the alternative was going home at one o’clock. And that was wack. I was an only child.
Going home meant being alone. Funny thing is…I thought I was fighting for one more basketball game. Turns out… I was fighting for one more hour with my people.
Bradley Court.
Building 82.
A bent fence.
Orange quarter waters.
A basketball.
And somebody always yelling...
“Same teams?”
Man, you land these words with grace, levity, and wonder! I’m glad you and the pen are staying cozy cause these gems and strolls down memory lane are dope.