During the annual Bulls playoff frenzy we come under pressure from the youth of our neighborhood to repair our alley’s basketball facilities. A phalanx of neutered backboards flank the alleyway, the rims slam-dunked and hang-timed to twisted wreckage by dreamy-eyed kids working through growth spurts.
“Good idea,” I agree.
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
We set the ladder and haul the backboard up. I mark the holes and chew through the tar paper and wood with a brace and bit. We’re ready to mount it when Cindy’s across-the-alley neighbors pull up in their car. A bald, pink man gets out, shielding his eyes from the sun. He looks at me like I am a mushroom cloud in the distance.
We say nothing, but we know already that this is not going to work. For one thing these two garages are not situated face-to-face but staggered so the hoop would stand across from a waist-high fence. Behind the fence is a carefully tended garden, abloom with cosmos, roses, gladiolas, marigolds. Even with the kids’ most earnest promises not to let the ball fall on the flowers–once play starts the fury of wild three-point shot tries, misdirected passes, and frustrated slams of the ball on the ground–those flowers are doomed. Jamal sits on the peak of the garage and I tell him to fetch the tar bucket. His eyes roll back. Cindy is sorry. I am sorry too.
She coos and nods, letting me know that she means yes.
He shrugs. “My auntie said No.”
“As soon as we get a chance. Steve says this weekend.”
