Miguel had always loved basketball courts—the open air, the thump of the ball against the asphalt, the way the game could pull him out of his head, away from everything that had been weighing him down. In Manila, he spent countless hours hooping with friends, sometimes until the streetlights flickered on. But here in Philly? It was different.
The park was busy, full of teenagers and men in their twenties, all wearing oversized jerseys and scuffed-up sneakers. The court was surrounded by chain-link fences, with the faint smell of fried food drifting over from a food truck parked nearby. It was a humid afternoon, and Miguel had just gotten out of school, his mind still buzzing from Ms. Johnson's talk about joining the team.
He watched the guys on the court, mostly Black kids, dominating the game. They were fast, physical, talking trash with every shot, their voices loud and commanding. Miguel knew how to handle himself on the court, but he couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't his territory. He was the outsider, the new kid, the one nobody knew. But he couldn't just stand there and watch.
After a few minutes, the game broke for water. Miguel spotted an opening and made his move. He dribbled his ball over to the sideline, took a deep breath, and called out, "Y'all need one?"
The group of players turned to look at him, sizing him up. There was a moment of silence, followed by snickering.
"Nah, we good," one of them, a tall guy in a black hoodie, said dismissively. He glanced at his friends, smirking.
Miguel didn't back down. "I'm serious. I can play," he insisted.
Another player, a kid with short dreads and a sleeveless jersey, laughed. "Yo, this little dude think he Kobe or somethin'," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "You even know how to play ball, or you just tryna clown?"
Miguel felt the heat rising in his cheeks, but he stood his ground. "I can play," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. "Let me run with y'all."
The guys on the court exchanged looks, a few of them shrugging as if they didn't care. Finally, Hoodie spoke up. "Aight, whatever. Let's see what you got, lil' man. But don't cry when we bust yo' ass."
They tossed Miguel the ball, and he caught it, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling in his gut. He had been laughed at before, doubted before, but something about this felt worse. It wasn't just the usual shit-talking—there was something else, something sharper.
The game started, and from the first possession, Miguel felt the eyes on him. Every move he made, every pass, every dribble, it was like they were watching, waiting for him to mess up. And then came the words.
"Yo, why you runnin' like that? You got no legs, shorty."
"Look at this little Chinese dude, tryna hoop. Go back to kung fu, fam."
Miguel tried to drown it out, focusing on the game. He was quick, weaving in and out of defenders, using his speed to slip past them, but every time he got close to making a play, one of them would body-check him, sending him stumbling.
"Where you goin', Bruce Lee?" one of them barked after shoving him hard.
Miguel clenched his teeth, biting back the frustration. He kept playing, even though every missed shot or turnover came with more insults. And it wasn't just the jabs at his height or his skills anymore—it was racial slurs, the kind that cut deep.
"Man, what you even doin' here? This ain't no place for no Filipino. Go back to the rice fields, yo."
Miguel felt his chest tighten. He had heard slurs before, back in the Philippines, but never like this, never with this kind of venom. It was like they didn't just want to beat him—they wanted him to feel small, like he didn't belong on that court, in their space.
He pushed harder, trying to focus on the game, but it was no use. Every time he made a move, they shut him down. Every time he tried to take a shot, they knocked him to the ground. And every time he got back up, they had something to say.
"Yo, why you still here? Thought you'd be runnin' by now, scared ass."
"You think we just gon' let some Asian kid come up in here and show us up? Fuck outta here."
Miguel's vision blurred with rage, but he couldn't let it out. He couldn't swing at them, couldn't shout back—there were too many of them, and this wasn't his place. So he just kept playing, his legs feeling heavier with every step, his hands shaking as he dribbled the ball.
Finally, after what felt like hours, the game ended. Miguel's team had lost, badly, and the guys on the court were still laughing, still throwing insults his way.
"Yo, don't come back here unless you wanna get schooled again, you hear?" Hoodie called out as they walked off the court, slapping hands with each other.
Miguel stood there for a moment, clutching the ball tightly. His whole body was trembling, his jaw clenched so hard it hurt. He wanted to scream, to punch something, to make them understand that he wasn't some joke, that he was good enough to be here.
But all he could do was stand there, watching them walk away, their laughter echoing in his ears.
As he started walking home, his body ached—not just from the physical knocks, but from the sting of the words they'd thrown at him. It wasn't just that they beat him on the court; it was that they made him feel like he didn't belong in this world at all.
By the time he got home, his dad was already at work, and the apartment was empty. Miguel sat down on the couch, the weight of the day settling in. He thought about what Ms. Johnson had said, about joining the school basketball team, about proving himself. But after what had just happened, it felt impossible. How could he prove anything when everyone was so quick to tear him down?
