“Don’t choke, white boy.”
I feel the basketball being shoved into my gut. The ref raises two hands to signal a one-and-one.
“Box out! Rebound a missed shot!” the opposing coach yells.
The scoreboard reads Clifton 51, Roosevelt 50.
Shaking like a leaf, I grip the ball tightly and move it into shooting position. Suddenly, I hear a voice from behind me.
“Want me to shoot it for ya?”
I turn. There stands Lionel Coombs, the man from the soup kitchen. He’s dressed in short, butt-hugging basketball shorts from the ’70s as part of his blue-and-gold Harding uniform, and he’s got a bushy Afro that makes him look two inches taller.
“Lionel! I just read about you online. You were a great player,” I say to him.
“Of course I was. Think I was lying?”
“No, no, but, uh, I didn’t really know. I fou
