Michael Brick: It was our ball when the fight started, game point. Oscar was giving some unsolicited advice to Curtis, who was on his team. Curtis was describing the adequacy of his own basketball knowledge.
We were standing on an asphalt court near Interstate 35 in East Austin, not the only place where I play pickup but the one that matters most. For three years, in temperatures ranging from 30 degrees to 100, we’ve been running half court threes and fours. We start early in the morning. We pass the ball. We pick and roll. We call few fouls, usually on ourselves. I’ve been knocked down hard but I’ve always been helped up, or at least handed the ball.
The guy who started the game, Chris, grew up in the Woodlands, made some money in corporate law and dropped out to, I don’t know, follow his muse. Among his priorities, curating the purity of this weekly ball game seems to rank somewhere below raising his son, but not far.
Most of the middle-class white dudes he invited have dropped out, other than me and his brother-in-law and a real estate agent named Steve. For the last year or so, the game has been us and some guys from the neighborhood, which is called Blackland.
Leave a comment