I'm watching my son play basketball. The music of dribbling balls, the squeak of shoes on shiny gym floors. Coaches yelling, boys yelling, moms giving advice from the sidelines, it all blends together into a kind of music, a song I have listened to for years now.
I've watched my son's limbs stretch up to meet the basket, his hands expand around the contours of the ball. His feet in specially selected, gorgeous basketball shoes look like strangers. The little boy goofing on the court is now streaming through the drills. He is graceful and fluid one moment, awkward and lanky the next. In the first quarter he sulks about bad calls, but by the end of the game he shakes the ref's hand and looks him in the eye.
There is he is across the court. A man's cheekbones starting to jut through a little boy's face. Faking, sprinting, crossing over.