I never lead a group, always letting Ross handle the majority of the talking. I tend to lean toward the support, helping him demonstrate drills or technique. It's the position I'm most comfortable in.
But there's one kid here who I've taken interest in. He came about eight months ago for the first time, angry and combative. Grumbling about the fact that he was here, that he was being forced here, that it was "bullshit".
It didn't take long before he realized the majority of the time spent here was on the court and for inner city kids basketball is everything. I get it, it is for me too.
He spent weeks, showing up with a scowl, coming alive on the court and rushing out the door as soon as he could. Ross would always check in with him, ask him about his day, school, life in general. He always had some nondescript answer ready.
I watched him carefully, his loud aggression triggering for me. I'd come home tense and on edge, fighting off memories.
Which is why the two of us are such an odd pair. But in the past few months, Raf and I have learned we have more similarities than differences and that's part of the reason why I'm glad Drew dragged me here all those years ago. I hadn't been able to check the place out alone even if it had sparked my curiosity.
I'm never going to be the survivor that shouts their story to the world. Even if that's what people have wanted me to do. Unfortunately being a professional athlete is an open invitation for others to dig into your past. And they've done just that. I've had microphones shoved in my face after games asking how juvy has affected me. Or my thoughts on foster care. Or the worst one, if I'm still in touch with my aunt who let her husband beat and rape me.
Austin's files aren't sealed, neither are mine. All you have to do is request the records from the clerk of court. And people have.
I'm still trying to get away from Austin, I've been trying for years but he clings to me with a certain finality that I know I'll never shake. His inflicted damage is everlasting.
But unlike most of my other teammates, including Ross, I have the ability to connect with these kids on a different level because of it. And that's why I keep coming back. Because I get it. I get the feeling of helplessness and I know what abuse feels like and the desire to run. I know what it's like to have given up in a moment of weakness and that there's no other choice than to keep pushing on even if it all feels bleak.
Not every kid that comes to the center has a bad life. But most of these kids live in poverty, most of them at least know someone in a gang, most of them have at least seen violence.
Everyone wants to turn me into a story of hope and perseverance. I just want another lost and broken kid to know that it can get better.
I'm not free from all my demons but I've found safety and love.
I've been focused on Raf as he flies down the court, he's like an energizer bunny darting between bodies like a blur. He needs to tighten up his dribbling, slow down just a fraction so he can calculate his moves and see where all the players are. He has a tendency to get himself locked up.
But as I take note of things for him to work on I miss the ball that that's gone astray, hurtling at me until someone yells "Ball".
My reflexes are still always hyper aware, waiting for that moment of impact and my hands snap up, catching the ball. My heart thunders in my chest because for just a split second, it was Austin coming at me and not a basketball.
Gym. Ross. Kids. I'm okay. I let out a breath, grounding myself.
I stay rooted to the sidelines as Ross shouts things at the boys. Even when Ross shouts he sounds harmless, his voice a jolly rumble.
But Raf slips from the group, making his way over to me. His skin is slick with sweat, short dreads sticking up everywhere on his head.
"How was that?" He asks.
He swipes his water bottle from beside my feet, chugging some before he smacks his lips together and stares at me. I'm still trying to collect myself, my response slow.
Raf and I have talked. I know about his dad who's sitting in prison on battery charges, his stepdad who was murdered three blocks from their house the investigation still open and cold, his half brother and sister who he watches while his mom works doubles. I know that his best friend and cousin are already pledged to a gang and that Raf was on his way too until he got picked up for petty theft and sentenced to community service and probation. Part of his sentencing was coming here.
And he knows about me. Because I told him.
"Slow down." I say after a minute.
"Slow down? All you tell me is to slow down." He grumbles. "If I go any fuckin' slower I'll be goin' backward."
"You miss things, open pockets." I've explained all this before and I know he gets it.
Raf is more aware than he wants to admit. That happens when you live in fear. Hyper vigilance loves to pair itself to trauma. I would know.
Which is why I know that Raf knows what I'm talking about.
"If you would have went left you could have had a cleaner shot."
My hand reaches down, a habit I can't break even though Blue doesn't greet me anymore. Sometimes I try to imagine the softness of his fur as it pressed into my palm, his cold wet nose and the feel of his tongue as he lapped at my fingers. His absence makes everything hurt because without Blue the basement pulls at me harder.
"Chris woulda just blocked me." Raf defends.
But I disagree. If Raf would have gotten himself in the right position he could have had the ball in the air before Chris could stop him. It's all about seeing a step ahead of your opponent. Something I learned in order to keep myself alive but it's come in handy for basketball.
I don't tell Raf that, instead glancing over at him. He rolls his eyes, scuffing his shoe along the boards of the gym and says "shut up".
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I love Raf!
