Mess You Made

5.

Miguel.

I didn't watch basketball as much when I was young. I wish I could sit here and say to you that I was destined from the moment I was born — I wasn't. It ceases to matter now, though, because the sport's become everything.

I remember it. The moment I thought about wanting it even if I didn't come back to it for a while afterwards. I was seven. Still in that place. Reeked of misery because what else do you expect when kids that had nobody are packed together? Certain my brain just wants to forget what it is to live in a place like that.

They had one small TV everyone had to share. My brothers, naturally, would fuck with anyone that tried to take their screen time so they would hog the TV like assholes. And though Luca liked to watch the boxing games, he switched to a basketball channel once. It was replaying highlights of the NBA's most iconic plays.

That's when I saw Micheal Jordan's shot. 'The Shot' — it's literally called because it's the fucking shot. He hit the game winning basket over Cleveland's Ehlo. 1989, I think and yes, the shot was fucking insane. It was his celebration that made it as iconic as it became though.

Power, and victory, and triumph and fucking exhilaration — it bled off him through the screen and I was seven, small, underweight as shit with nothing going for me then. Orphans don't know what to do with concepts of the future once it's stripped away from you as hard as it had for us, so I just never thought of it, never came back to basketball until it became tangible. A possibility.

And now, all I want is that triumph. Breathe for it on the court. They ask me what makes me so good and I don't know — for real, I don't know, but if I had to say, it'd be that. I wanted it when I had nothing. I still want it even though I have everything, I'll want it even if it doesn't want me. But they're smart. They want me.

Basketball. It's top priority, and it'll continue to be.

The air's a bitter morning cold in Manhattan as I slip on a hoodie in the front seat of my car. Try to wake myself up and not look as hungover as I feel before slipping out and towards the high-rise building towering above.

Coach is waiting in the lobby.

Big, jacked black guy — terrifying as shit when he's mad at you and he looks mad at me and fuck me, it feels like everyone and their mom's mad at me nowadays.

I stop, sigh, "What?"

"What?" He echoes back.

"What'd I do?" I shut my eyes, want to sleep somewhere. Debating just slipping back into my car, "I'm sorry, for whatever it is—"

Jesus take the wheel, I'm sick of the word sorry.

"What in God's name are you talking about—"

I sigh even heavier, hold my head, "Just don't kick me when I'm down, Coach—"

He stares at me, arms crossed with that navy blue jacket he always wears accentuating just how massive the guy is.

"Had a rough day." I throw my hands up, "Rough morning, rough evening, rough week—"

"Oh, it's rough for you, is it?" He counters, eyes all pinched, "Rough when you got yourself expelled?"

My eyes fly up to his because I was praying he hadn't heard about that.

"Throwing a pity party for himself all the time when he causes all the problems." He mutters, turning around, "My star player, and the boy's more of a drama queen than my wife."

His wife's hot, by the way. Thought I'd mention because I can't say it aloud because he'll wring my neck like he almost did last time. And then I remember he just insulted me and I pull an offended face.