Darrell felt quiet. Stillness pervaded his mind, a knowing calm. He tasted sweet sleep on his tongue, and, as his chest heaved upwards and then down, he felt good. He knew that no matter what happened outside, everything is alright. He loved sleep more than anything in the world because it was in sleep, that he felt whole.

Darrell envisioned his gray joggers. The gray joggers with the white Nike swoosh on the left thigh. Darrell had bought the joggers after he’d seen LeBron wearing them on ESPN. They clung to his athletic frame, as he dribbled the basketball between his legs. His arms swayed from side to side. He found a rhythm. Now he heard the sound of the ball bouncing on the floor in quickening succession. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. A true symphony.

J. Cole’s bars boomed in the background. Darrell opened his eyes. His mother appeared to have a keen sense for this sort of thing. “I’m glad you’re awake,” she said. “Now get up. It’s almost five-thirty.” Darrell dressed. He bounded down the steps, out of his apartment complex and onto the sidewalk. Across the road stood a basketball court, surrounded by a chain-link fence. The air was thick with moisture. It must’ve rained that night. As Darrell unlocked the fence, he heard a dog’s bark in the distance. This is the music of my life, he thought.

He smiled. This was his favorite part of the day.

Darrell ran his hands across the surface of the basketball. Seven years of pounding it against this asphalt had made it coarse, and fibers had come loose. They hung as if graying hairs on a wise old man. Darrell threw the ball off the backboard a couple times. Like a gong, it resounded through the neighborhood. An aura of stillness encapsulated the court. The world outside with its gang rapes, police brutalities, and crack addicts evaporated.

In his hometown, they called him “The Bull.” He only moved straight ahead.

*                      *                      *

Snowflake, Darrell thought. Snow Flake. He recalled his fifth-grade coach talking to him as he shot free throws after practice. “Snowflake,” the old man whispered. “Just like a snowflake.” In Darrell’s mind, there was no greater calling than this. As he stood, drenched in sweat, he could only think of one thing. Snowflake.

*                      *                      *

            This time it was Drake. The car thrummed to his smooth rhythms. Darrell, dressed in his nicest shirt and a bowtie, sat in front of the steering wheel. His mouth felt fresh. He’d brushed only fifteen minutes ago. The sky shone with the beginnings of nighttime; a darkness, teetering on edge, threatening to spill into everything. He pulled into an open spot in the parking lot and grabbed his basketball from the back seat. He glanced at his watch. Six-thirty. Two hours before game time.

*                      *                      *

            Darrell loved warm-ups. Music blared from the speakers. The sound travelled into his bloodstream. He adjusted his green Tacoma Valley jersey and looked at the posters taped to the walls of the gym. One, an image of the green Tacoma Valley bear clawing the gold Nature Valley knight, caught his eye. “This is our house!” The caption read.

It jolted him awake. The Bull was alive.

At the other end of the court, Darrell spotted his matchup. His lean, lanky frame leaped to lay the ball into the hoop. According to the ESPN 100 Basketball Rankings, Luke Balton was the best player in the class of 2017. Darrell had spent the previous night watching his highlights on his phone. In the dim light, he had held the phone under the covers. He had shut his phone off every time he heard footsteps. His mother had told him to sleep. At two-thirty, finally, he had flung his phone onto his black mahogany desk. The desk had groaned under the weight of several half-read books, homework for the weekend, and now, his phone. Exhausted, Darrell lay on his bed, looking at the ceiling.

As he had eyed the swirling plaster, the image of Luke flexing his biceps at the camera played in his mind. Hoop Diamonds, Ball is Life, and Bleacher Report had written articles on him, heralding him as the next LeBron James. They had even given him the first of many nicknames: “the Spider.” Probably after his wiry frame and spindly arms and legs. With the addition of jet black stomach and back tattoos however, this name had taken new meaning. Luke had a giant spider tattooed onto his back. Darrell eyed it now, as he reminded himself to take deep breaths. Relax, he thought. Please, relax.

*                      *                      *

The week after the game, Darrell saw his own name on the ESPN 100. “Ranked twenty-seventh in the class of 2017, Darrell Philbin is a crafty point guard with good court vision,” one began. “Although he fades in and out of games at times.”

“Some question his drive and motor,” another wrote. Darrell’s team had lost sixty-seven to sixty-two, after Luke delivered a three-pointer in the final twelve seconds. He had dunked to end the game with four seconds left, even after all of the Tacoma Valley High School players had already turned towards the locker room. The cocky bastard.

Darrell remembered the ball in his hands, smooth to the touch. Man, that boy could shoot the rock, he thought. Luke had scored four three-pointers in a row, leaving him and the rest of the Tacoma Valley defenders flailing at the three-point line. I gotta score, Darrell thought. He barreled forward, bouncing the ball against the hard gym floor. He rose up to shoot, but an arm obstructed his view as if it was an immutable force of nature. He heaved the ball to the corner with both hands. In a flash, a streaking bandit snatched the ball. He sprinted past two Tacoma defenders and dribbled, alone, past half-court. The score was tied at sixty-two. Luke rose to shoot. As the ball passed through the net, he let his wrist hang in the air.

The cocky bastard.

*                      *                      *

“Some go to high school,” the caption read, “and others go to school high.” Darrell stared at the image on his phone. Luke held a blunt in his right hand and had taken the selfie with his other. Two dopey-eyed friends hung around in the background. Darrell grunted in frustration and tossed the phone onto his bed. Goddamn you, he thought. Goddamn you.

*                      *                      *

The next morning Darrell woke up, as usual, at five-thirty. This time when his mother walked into the room she wore that stricken expression only mothers do, when they worry for their children. “I got an interesting phone call last night,” she began. “Just one hour after the game,” she added, crossing her arms. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

“Please leave,” Darrell groaned. “I just want to be alone.”

“It was an offer. To join the Nature Valley basketball team.”

“Mom, I can’t just switch schools during the school year. Don’t you know how it works?”

“Not according to their coach. He said you can transfer by next week. If you want.” She leaned in, her motherly gaze gently casting itself around Darrell’s shocked expression. “I’m fine with whatever you decide,” she added, as if that would make the decision any easier. Stupefied, Darrell sat up straight, rigid as a board. “I know this must be a lot at five-thirty. I’ll come back later.” As she departed, Darrell’s eyes fixed again on the swirling plaster on the ceiling. He closed his eyes and felt his body sink into the bed. He felt weightless. The thought of playing with Luke and sitting poolside after the games with a blunt in his hand filled him with disgust and intense longing. And he felt disgust that it filled him with longing, and he felt disgust that he longed for the touch of a blunt on his lips and he longed for his face in the videos, on the magazines, in the papers. But he couldn’t tell himself that, and so he fell back asleep.

*                      *                      *

“I fell in love with big wills and cheap thrills,” J. Cole spouted over the speakers. Darrell pounded the ball against the gym floor. His breaths were heavy with exhaustion. As he spun to his right, rose, and nailed a jump shot from twenty feet away from the hoop, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. “Someone told me I could find you here.” Darrell turned to find Luke grinning and shirtless before him.

After Bleacher Report had run a front page story on Luke Balton with the headline “The New Spiderman,” Luke had tattooed an immense spider onto his back. Its legs wrapped around to the front of his body and met at his heart. They were a part of him. The black ink wasn’t just on the outside but on the inside too, threatening to spill out if given the chance.

“Hello, Luke,” Darrell said, weighing every consonant carefully in his mouth before he spat it out. “What brings you to Tacoma High?”

“Well my coach want me to see you, bruv.” Luke chuckled. “See if you’ve got what it takes.”

“I’ve got more than what it takes.” Darrell said, angry at something he couldn’t understand. “Damn bruh, I bet I’ve got more than you’ve got.” Darrell spoke with his chest held high. Luke’s nostrils flared. “You can’t beat me! Who told you, you could beat me? Huh?”

Without a word, the match was set. Both of them knew the rules: first one to eleven, two-pointers count as ones, three-pointers count for two. Darrell bounced the ball to Luke and crouched in a defensive stance. Luke’s eyes gleamed from the light of the gym. Like a hyena, he gazed at the rim and his eyes shone bright with hunger. He took two strong dribbles to his right and with his left arm blocked Darrell from the ball. Suddenly, he turned, planted his feet, and shot a fade away from the same spot Darrell had moments earlier. He let his wrist hang in the air, as the ball passed through the rim. The cocky bastard.

Darrell’s mind felt loud and his ears hot. Luke got the ball again and drained the same shot. “I didn’t think it was gonna be this easy,” he said. In his mind’s eye, Darrell thought of punching Luke. Punching him so hard he bounced off the gym floor. Punching him so hard he didn’t get up. Punching him so hard his teeth would sweat with blood and his tears would stream like a river. Punching, punching, punching.

Darrell managed to scrape the ball away and stood at the three-point line. He eyed the rim, and Luke jeered, “whatchu gonna do, huh? This is just like when you choked against us last time! I can’t believe our coach would offer a kid like you!” Darrell faked a shot and drove into the lane. He only saw straight ahead. Luke’s eyes, his face, his mouth, even his arms faded from view. Darrell waited until the last second, and then he stepped back, rose, and fired.

Snow Flake.

Darrell watched the ball pass clean through the rim. Game on.

Darrell got the ball again. This time he dribbled to his left. He faked as if he was about to take a shot, then drove past Luke and laid the ball into the hoop. “Two – two,” Darrell grinned as he jogged back to the three-point line. “You ain’t ready for this. You ain’t never been ready.”

Luke took the ball now and came back with a flurry of dribble moves: behind the back, between the legs, crossover, spin move. He skated past Darrell and laid the ball in. “Three – two,” Luke said, as the beginnings of a heavy sweat formed on his brow. Five plays later and it was tied at five. Both of them gasped for air, and their mouths tasted like chalk. Luke nailed a three. “Seven – five.” Darrell missed a three. Luke flashed his hyena smile and nailed another three. “Nine – five. One more and you’re done.” Darrell wiped the sweat off his forehead and crouched down again. “Not gonna happen,” he said. Luke dribbled slow, as if he had all the time in the world. Darrell lunged for the ball, but Luke pushed it out of reach. His left arm still obstructed Darrell. His arm an immutable force of nature.

At last he turned and, leaning on one foot, pushed the ball with both hands. Darrell watched in desperation as it arced through the air. He gulped as the ball neared the rim. It struck the rim with a clang, and Darrell leaped to grab it. He breathed easy knowing the heavens were not so indifferent after all.

“You know I was thinking about joining your team,” Darrell said, as he dribbled back to the three-point line. “But I’ve realized I could never be like you.”
            “Damn right.” Luke responded. “We’re champions.”

“No.” Darrell said. “I could never be like you.” He dribbled back towards the half-court line as he pushed the ball through the fleeting space between his legs. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. He gathered himself and fired.

Snow Flake.

When Luke turned around, Darrell was nowhere to be found, and only the swing of the door hinge punctuated the silence.

*                      *                      *

Darrell’s mother walked into his room. “Darrell,” she began. “I got another call from that coach.” Darrell’s head perked up from his book. She held the phone in her right hand and began gesturing with her left. “I just don’t know what happened, but they’re saying they just don’t have enough space for you anymore.”

“That’s okay, mom”
“I just don’t know what’s happened.”

“It’s okay. I couldn’t have played there anyway.”

Darrell dressed in his grey joggers and grabbed the ball from under his bed. As he bounded down the steps and crossed the road, he caught the cool winter breeze and let it run across his face. He took the court and hurled the ball at the backboard. The gong sounded, and Darrell was at peace again.