Pressing the hardwood, the spindly-armed descendant of Sharman,
spinning with hard turns, flips his wrist with the rim as a target.
Splash. Buckets. Jack tucks his hair behind his ear
and faces up his defender with a stare, refined and fierce.
He's tougher than them. He's got to be.
The white kid with the shot from three who often seems
athletically outmatched by kids with melanin and fast-twitch
who aren't even impressed when he runs drills better than them — backwards.
Low to macadam, the sweat drips off his shoulders and backbone,
sizzling when it hits the blacktop mid-dribble. Cross over and pass them.
Tyrone soldiers with madness, head down as he scoops through the lane
and flips a teardrop over the outstretched arms consuming the paint.
He's quicker than them. It's his only hope.
The broken-home short kid with the chip too wide for his shoulder's slope.
The smallest at 5-1 but balling like Iverson. His anger was managed;
failing in math class but sees the court as a series of angles and tangents.
With the sight of his reach, the envious gasps run rife in the bleachers.
Grown men sidle next to him, perplexed at the size of his T-shirt.
Chisulo speaks four languages and prefers "Malawian" to "African."
His favorite players? Shaq and Tim. But he's new to organized practices.
He's bigger than them. It's how he got this gig.
From a Bamako soccer pitch to the dishonest grips of AAU promises.
Two years in the sport. But they say if he can block these kids,
they'll send him to a first-rate U.S. college on scholarship.
The court's buzzing. Talent overflowing in Springfield Hoophall,
where ESPN cameras soar over the rims, track every loose ball.
College coaches and NBA scouts sit, scribbling thoughts,
when in comes that blue-chip 6-10 forward with the skills of a guard.
He's better than them.
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