Game 35

​CHI 107               ATL 120

James was the best athlete in our class.

Grabbing rim in sixth grade
And dunking in seventh.

Good at everything--
Seemingly naturally.

Tall,
Fast,
Handsome
Black kid.

Mad swagger--

The first boy I saw
Put his hands on a girls ass
At a school dance.

And she let him.

Alex seemed his opposite.

A short,
Squirrely,
Weird looking
White boy

Best known for his froggy voice
And his crooked mouth.

Late middle pick.
Tough but unexceptional.

Wound tight.

The first boy i knew
Who had surgery
To correct his cleft lip.

A visible scar
Drawn diagonally down
The middle of his mouth,
Nose to chin.

So--
Some days in school,
In those more meaningful minutes
Not wasted by adults,

In the quiet crevices
Where truth hides,

Boys wrestle arms.

A primal ritual.
A magical teacher of secrets.

This day,
Apparently,
Alex had surprised some people.

And James,
Of course,
Heard about it.

A showdown was inevitable.

Walking home from school,
It happened.

There was very little fanfare--
Nine or ten of us
Crowded around some stranger’s car.

Alex and James,
Each on one knee,
Elbows on the hood of a powder-blue Cadillac.

The whole thing
Took about three seconds.

James took the loss well--
The first one
Any of us
Had ever seen him take.

He smiled his handsome smile
And shook his handsome head
And was like:
Damn Alex,
You’re strong.

And he laughed
And patted Alex on the back.

And Alex was gracious--
Never bragging.
Just smiling his crooked little
Scar-crossed smile.

Yeah, thanks,
He croaked.
I lift weights with my dad.

And with that exchange,
This intimate group
Learned something big.

This changed nothing--
Not really, anyway.

And that was okay.
More than okay.

This event--
These few seconds on Hinman Avenue--
Did not turn the world on its head.

And maybe
If something like this--
Something that feels so gigantic
And uncomebackable
Doesn’t shake us off the Earth,

Maybe nothing will.

Maybe we’re safe

Even if we’re more Alex
Than James.