The installation morning had been a humid Saturday morning, the kind of Georgia morning when the air felt thick before the sun had fully risen and a shirt stuck to your back by the time you had carried anything heavier than a glass of water. Marcus Johnson had been up early, working with a patience Malik had not yet learned to appreciate, tightening bolts and checking the level and stepping back to look at his work with his hands on his hips.
Malik had waited impatiently beside him with a brand-new ball tucked beneath his arm. The ball was still stiff and bright, its surface untouched by concrete, its smell new in a way that made him want to use it immediately and also want to keep it perfect forever. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He watched his father's hands. He counted, silently, how many bolts were left, and then he stopped counting because his father kept finding one more thing to adjust.
"All right, young man," Marcus said at last, tightening the final bolt and giving the rim a firm shake to test it. "Let's see what you've got."
Malik did not wait for a second invitation. He stepped back, set his feet the way he thought they were supposed to be set, and threw the ball toward the hoop with all the confidence of a nine-year-old who had watched basketball on television and believed that watching was almost the same as knowing.
The ball struck the backboard, bounced off the rim, and rolled into the bushes.
For a second, Malik stared after it, stunned by how quickly a perfect plan could fall apart. Then he heard his father laugh β that deep, sudden laugh, beginning in his chest and spreading through the yard β and something hot rose in his own chest that was not quite anger and not quite embarrassment, but felt like both at once.
"What's funny?" Malik demanded, turning around with his hands on his hips.
"Nothing. Absolutely nothing." Marcus said, still laughing, holding up both hands as if to prove his innocence.
"You're laughing at me," Malik said. He could feel his face going warm. The ball was still in the bushes. The new hoop was still above the garage, gleaming and indifferent. The morning, which had felt so important a minute ago, now felt like a joke he was not in on.
"I'm laughing because you look like you're about to declare war on that basketball." Marcus said, this time more steadily, though his shoulders were still shaking.
Malik opened his mouth to argue, and then, against his will, he felt the corner of his own mouth twitch. He tried to hold his glare. He failed. He retrieved the ball from the bushes, brushing leaves off it, and tried again.
He missed again. And then, on his third attempt, he missed a third time, the ball clanging off the rim and skittering across the driveway. Each miss made his shoulders climb a little higher. He was not playing anymore. He was fighting, and the harder he fought, the worse his shots became.
Marcus watched him for a moment without saying anything. Then he walked over, knelt beside him on the concrete, and put the ball gently back into his hands. He did not lecture. He did not take the ball away and show off. He simply adjusted Malik's position with the calm of a man who had all the time in the world, moving his feet a little wider, a little straighter toward the hoop, and then tapping his own knees.
"Feet like this," Marcus said. "Knees bent. Not locked. Not stiff. Bent, so you've got somewhere to go from."
Malik bent his knees, feeling awkward and unbalanced, as if he were about to sit down in midair.
"Now the ball," Marcus said. "Don't palm it. Don't push it. Guide it with your fingertips. Let your fingers do the work at the end."
Malik looked down at his hands, at the ball resting against his fingertips, and then up at the hoop. He felt foolish and hopeful at the same time, which was a strange combination for a nine-year-old to hold.
"Don't fight the shot. Give it somewhere to go." Marcus said quietly.
Malik stared at him, uncertain what that meant. It sounded like advice about basketball, and it sounded like something else at the same time, but he was nine, and the ball was in his hands, and the morning was still humid and bright, and he did not have the words yet for the second meaning. So he nodded, as if he understood, and took his place beneath the hoop again.
Years later, he understood that his father had been talking about more than basketball.