When the knocking eventually stopped, Ga Jeh and I remained still, worried it was a trap. Silence offered no comfort.
courtyard
I was fourteen when I started hanging out with the neighborhood kids. I concocted a scheme to get them to invite me to play basketball.
One afternoon, I heard what sounded like a basketball game in the courtyard—strange because there was no basketball court there. I moved to the kitchen to get a better listen. I turned on the television in the kitchen and lowered the volume.
“Don’t sit so close to the TV,” my mother said. She picked up the plastic-wrapped remote and raised the volume.
I slid open the window and heard the dribbling of the ball, then a clank. The voices I recognized. Jim, Rob, and ’Dullah. I’d gone to middle school with Jim and Rob. They were a year younger, still in middle school. We’d say, “what’s up” to each other, but that was it. These three were among the few kids in North Beach I knew on a first-name basis. I’d gone to a mostly Asian and white elementary school, and although my middle school had been more diverse, I’d arrived scared of Black kids. Ga Jeh, who was going into her last year at that middle school, had warned me that Black kids were bullies. I opened her yearbook and searched for Black faces. “Is he a bully? How about him?”
“Stop being dumb,” she said. “I don’t know all of them.”
Three years of middle school, and I had few friends, of any color, to show for it.
I eavesdropped on Jim, Rob, and ’Dullah for the length of two cartoon episodes. If I was another type of kid, I would’ve just sauntered over and joined their game, but I was a freshman in high school who ate lunch by himself, out in the bleachers by the track. I’d hide in the bathroom during passing periods because I didn’t want to be seen roaming around alone. Living a loser life was one thing—coming straight home from school because I didn’t have shit else to do—but I liked to think that I still had scruples. I was not about to make a fool of myself and beg to be down. No thanks.
I opened the fridge and moved the milk to the back behind the jug of OJ. “Look,” I said to my mom, “we’re out of milk. I need to go to Safeway.”
She went to her purse for money.
I stepped out into the courtyard and counted the coins, though I knew my mother had given me exact change. I kept my head down until I got close.
“What’s up,” I said. There were three of them, and I thought they might need an extra player to make teams.
“Hey,” they said but continued with their game.
Rob was already six foot. I’d heard him claim he was part-Asian, that his uncle was Bruce Lee. Jim’s real name was Jesús—he was Filipino—but to avoid being made fun of, he went by Jim. He was puny. Could’ve passed for an elementary school kid. Definitely had the squeaky voice of one. ’Dullah wasn’t any taller, still in the sixth grade.
Hung over the railing of the staircase landing between the first and second floor was a shopping cart pointed downward. The back side of the cart dangled, and they had a hoop, one short enough to dunk on. I climbed the staircase watching their game as though it was the final play.
“If Dickson plays, we can get a game going,” Jim said.
Rob and ’Dullah turned to me for a response.
“I’ll be back in ten.” I still had to buy the milk we didn’t need.
“Hurry up, blood,” Rob said, dribbling the mini-basketball between his legs.
I turned the corner on the walkway and sprinted to Safeway and back. I slowed as I returned with the gallon of milk in a plastic bag over my shoulder. I had to stop panting.
“About time,” Rob said.
I dropped the milk off at home and told my mom I was about to play basketball in the courtyard.
“Me and you versus Rob and Jim,” ’Dullah said with a light stutter.
“Shoot for takeout.” Rob shot the basketball, but it clanged off the shopping cart.
I grabbed the ball and inbounded it to ’Dullah. They double-teamed him, and he lobbed it back to me. I dunked the ball through the metal cart, picked it up, and jogged back to the spot that was the top of the key.
I’d learn later the correct etiquette for dunking. Scream after a dunk, preferably in the face of your opponent. Call them a “punk” or a “bitch.” Or you could play it nonchalant. Pretend to autograph the ball, then hand it to the dude you dunked on as a charitable souvenir.
We played until dark. ’Dullah’s father, Mansur, emerged from their apartment in front of the staircase. He wore a kufi on his shaved head and had a thick moustache. He’d come home dressed in a security guard uniform. My mom had told me he was also a minister. (She didn’t have a problem making friends with the neighbors. Whatever social awkwardness I had, I didn’t seem to get it from her.) Mansur was the only father of ours who lived with his kids. “As salaam alaikum, my brothers,” he said.
Rob chuckled out the greeting, “Wa alaikum salam.”
’Dullah, without his father saying a word, went home, slipping underneath his father’s arm that was propped against the doorway.
“’Dullah’s in for the night, my brothers,” Mansur said.
“Sihk faahn!” My mother called me for dinner.
“Aw, Dickson’s got curfew too,” Rob said and exchanged daps with Jim. He pulled a wave brush from his back pocket and brushed his hair.
“Come here,” Mansur said to us.
“Oh no, here we go,” Jim said.
He straightened up and clasped his hands together. “Playing basketball doesn’t develop your most important tool, my
