A fictional story I wrote inspired my grandfather and published in The Streetcar, Mississippi State's Creative Arts journal.

For Grandpa T

A cracked concrete driveway and a shitty orange hoop – that’s how it started. The kind of backboard where after every shot, a ten second break was needed until the post stopped swaying.

And a shitty little me, emotionally cracked already – that’s how I started. The kind of kid that every time he wasn’t picked for kickball would slap himself in the face to “man-up” until tiny handprint bruises started to form.

I wasn’t even strong enough to throw the ball to the rim. Even for a five-year-old, I was miniature. I bounced the ball best I could, my awkward hands attempting to dribble. But no matter what I did, I couldn’t help from bouncing the ball on the chat rocks that overflowed from the gravel road and shot my basketball in a random direction. I’d huff and puff as I chased the bouncing ball into the yard, blaming myself for not being better.

My grandpa eventually came out to watch; I had to impress him. No man in the world did I respect more than Grandpa T. He could make a free throw, he was good at basketball, he knew everything. He sat in his favorite chair and it groaned under his massive frame. He slowly stroked his red beard, watching intently. I grabbed the ball, mustered my strength, and launched it as high as I could. Not even close. Stupid me.

“It’s alright Alex-boy!”

I chucked another pitiful attempt. The basketball landed on a pebble and flew into the grass. I couldn’t help it. Hot tears ran down my cheeks. I’ve always hated that about myself – the fact that I cry when I get frustrated. I covered my eyes as Grandpa retrieved the ball, I couldn’t let him see me.

But he didn’t care when I missed.

~

“I wanna play college basketball!”

Eleven-year-old me ran into the kitchen, clad in Duke basketball gear, proudly wearing my new high-tops that matched Grandpa T’s. At sixty-five, he still played basketball. He laughed and stroked his now-grey beard. He told me my shoes were “slick.” I liked that word. I was eager to use it.

Grandpa T retrieved his college yearbook and opened it. For the first time in my life, I saw him not as I knew him, but as a young man: handsome, strong, yet somehow, exactly as I knew him already. Vividly, I remember the yellow pages that detailed his incredible basketball career. Massive numbers, scoring records, undefeated seasons. I was amazed. I knew that I had to be like that.

~

A year later, kickball still remained the dominant elementary school sport. I was never picked; eventually, I stopped trying. I didn’t care anyway. I had basketball.

The blacktop was always mine for the taking since nobody else wanted to play. My recesses were devoted to form shooting and layups, somehow alone on a full playground.

One day the kickball popped. Run over by a bus of all things. Ten kids wandered over to me.

“We want to play.”

Okay, whatever. I’ve practiced, I’m good. I can beat them anyway.

A game started and ended quickly. I lost terribly. As a victim of late-puberty, I couldn’t help that they were bigger, stronger, and faster than me. But that excuse wasn’t good enough.

I took off my high-tops and threw them over the fence. Immediately, I felt ashamed and imagined the hurt I would cause Grandpa T when I told him where my new shoes had gone. But I shrugged off the pain. I didn’t deserve them. I had to be better. Grandpa T would be disappointed.

~

“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?”

Spit splattered my face and my red-faced coach decided he’s yelled at me enough. At seventeen years old, I contemplated the apparently horrible crime of shooting (and making) an open three-pointer, considered sinister enough to be benched in a game in which I had already put up twenty-five points: the district championship.

Standing six-four, lean, and strong, age had finally blessed me with the makings of a basketball player. As fate would have it, though, my coach thought differently.

The season had started with so much hope. A summer of training, basketball camps, and weight rooms had turned me from decent to fantastic, the scourge of pick-up games and open gyms across the county. Every coach in the conference knew my name. Yet, here I was, cursed with a dictator who decided that, no matter what I did, I was always somehow wrong.

We won a whopping four games that year. My teammates didn’t care. They sniggered and laughed and basked in the awfulness -- drinking before games, practicing hungover, because who gives a shit? Look at Alex, they said. What a faggot. He actually tries. He thinks he’s better than us because he got lucky on the ACT and is going out of state. He’ll be back soon anyway. Nobody ever leaves this town.

I put my head in my hands as the final seconds of my basketball career ticked to a close. I had never even met a college scout. My heart sunk, and I resolved to never play again.

The buzzer sounded. I couldn’t look up.

Grandpa T was in the crowd. He always was. It didn’t matter that he lived two hours away, he made every game anyway. I couldn’t look at him. I had failed.

~

“I’m home safe. Sorry about the game. Your coach is an idiot. Keep playing, for me.”

A text dinged at 2 AM. I rolled over, still wearing my sweaty jersey. I sighed and looked at the hole in the wall I had left a few hours before, at my still bloody hand. With a feeling of duty, I set my alarm for 5 AM. The guys at the YMCA play for a few hours on Fridays before school.

~

“That coach is a damn idiot. You’re a great player. Don’t let him stay in your head.”

I had never heard Grandpa T curse before. I was beyond shocked.

Even more surprising, though, was that Grandpa T had driven two hours just to watch me play pickup at 5:30 AM, and to play horribly at that. Every time I stepped on the court, I remembered the laws imposed on me during high school, I thought of my former teammates jeering, and I relived my old coach telling me I was awful.

The bright lights hurt my tired eyes. I even still had to go to school after this. Nonetheless, I grabbed the ball from him and stepped back on the court. I wasn’t going to let him down.

~

“Holy SHIT! White boy can PLAY!”

I sunk another three and jogged down the court. I smiled – this was just too much damn fun. Even though I played every night, they’re always shocked by me. The college rec center had become my palace.

I opened my duffel bag, retrieved my phone, and texted Grandpa T: an update on my latest test, a video of me successfully dunking, and a play-by-play of the intramural championship game the night before.

My phone rung, Dad’s contact popped up. I answered and listened.

Nausea rushed over me. My legs shook, and I fell back against the wall. I got up, sprinted to my car, and sped home.

~

I called Dad for an update on Grandpa. He was forcibly taken back home again. It was the third trip to the hospital that week.

“Dad he’s not safe there.”

He knew.

Nobody could figure out what happened. One day, Grandpa T was Grandpa T. Happy, energetic, excited as always; cutting wood and shooting hoops at over seventy years old. One night involving a pistol and a note later, he’s a hollow shell. A stroke? Alzheimer’s? Dementia? Eventually, they settled on massive depression.

A quadruple dosage of anti-depressants is all they allowed him. He told the nurses that he’s suicidal, that he’s scared. They listened, but his family didn’t.

Grandma was convinced that they were going to fix him, that these doctors couldn’t help. They were all just idiots anyway. He’ll snap out of it, he’ll be fine. He doesn’t need help, he’s best at home.

I sent Grandpa T another text, but I knew I wouldn’t get a response.

I didn’t know what to do.

I grabbed my basketball.

~

“Grandpa it’s time to open presents!”

Grandpa T stared at me blankly. I brought the box to him and opened it, then acted surprised at the new basketball shoes that I already knew I was getting. Snowflakes fell outside, covering the crappy hoop that had been there as long as I could remember.

Grandpa T got a present as well: the exact same pair of shoes.

For a brief second, he smiled. I stared at him as long as I could, soaking in the expression I hadn’t seen in so long.

I blinked, and the smile was gone.

In that moment, I knew that I had just said goodbye to my Grandpa T.

~

I had been playing for six hours, and there was no stop in sight. Maybe I’d eat dinner, or maybe even do homework that night. But hey, I was too hot to quit right then.

I checked my bag. Twelve missed calls from Dad. One of my teammates yelled at me to get back on the court.

“Alex...I need you to sit down.”

I had never heard my Dad cry before. I broke my hand punching the wall.

~

The funeral was large. After all, Terry was known throughout the whole town. He had coached and taught for almost thirty years.

They did the best job they could preparing the body. He had lost almost all his weight. His once mighty build looked like a cancer patient.

There were still a few bruises on his neck. Still a little rope burn. Nobody ever thought to lock the tool shed.

I excused myself to the restroom. Hot tears flowed down my cheeks. God I fucking hate that.

I raised my hand on myself. Why didn’t I lock the shed?

Slap

Why didn’t I text him more?

Slap

Why didn’t I come home more?

Slap

Why didn’t I play better?

Slap

Blood dotted from the fingernail marks on my cheek. My ears were ringing, and my entire face stung. Good, I decided. I earned it.

I washed my face. I figured they were probably wondering where I was and stepped back into the parlor.

It was my turn to speak. I walked to the podium.

“Grandpa Terry loved his family, but quite possibly, he loved basketball even more.” – the crowd laughed respectfully – “As a coach and lifelong educator, he often told his players that basketball was more than a sport, or even a lifestyle. To Grandpa Terry, it was comfort. It was hope. It was fellowship. It was learning and, today, it is his legacy.”

~

And so here I am, writing a story about a man that I can never do justice to, no matter how hard I try.

I’m mad at myself -- I wish I could write better for him. I wish I could truly tell you what he was like. I wish I could make you feel like I do about him.

But, I think back to the gravel chat on his driveway. To the bigger kids at my school. To my terrible coach.

To Grandpa’s depression. To his battle. To the help he never received.

And I realize that some things cannot be controlled, no matter how hard I try.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t find hope. Grandpa T taught me that.

“I love you Grandpa.”

I’m going to go play basketball.

~