The ball felt heavier than Marcus remembered.It had been years since he held one in a real game. His hands knew the shape, but they did not have the same quick confidence they once had.
The players lined up for the scrimmage. Walt split them into two teams. Marcus found himself with three young guys who barely looked at him and one older player who gave him a small nod. The tall young man who had been smirking earlier was on the other team. He stood at center court, spinning the ball on one finger, eyes fixed on Marcus.
"First to eleven," Walt called out. "Play smart."
The whistle blew. The tall player's team won the tip-off and rushed forward. Marcus jogged back on defense, watching their moves. The ball swung around quickly, then came to the tall player. He drove past one defender and scored with ease.
"Too easy," the tall player said loudly. His teammates laughed.
Marcus stayed quiet.
When it was their turn on offense, the point guard dribbled up and called a play. Marcus moved into position, but no one passed him the ball. They ran the play without him, ending in a rushed shot that bounced off the rim.
The other team grabbed the rebound and scored again.
Walt's voice echoed in the gym. "Move the ball, Hawks! Everyone plays!"
On the next possession, the ball finally came to Marcus. He dribbled once, testing his footing. His body felt slower than his mind. He took a shot from mid-range. The ball hit the front of the rim and rolled away.
"Nice try, grandpa," the tall player called out.
Marcus bit back a reply. He told himself it was just rust. He could shake it off. But the game moved fast, and the others did not trust him with the ball again. They were younger, quicker, and eager to prove themselves.
By the time the other team won eleven to six, Marcus had scored only once a simple layup after a broken play. Sweat dripped down his face, but it was not from hard work. It was from frustration.
The players headed to the bench for water. Marcus sat at the far end. The tall player walked past and muttered just loud enough for him to hear, "Thought you were supposed to be good."
Marcus looked at him but said nothing.
Walt walked over and leaned on his cane. "How do you feel?"
"Like I should have stayed home," Marcus said.
"You are out of shape," Walt replied, "and your timing is off. But you still read the floor better than most of these kids. That does not go away."
Marcus shook his head. "They don't want me here."
"They don't know you yet," Walt said. "And right now, all they see is a man with a bad reputation. You can change that. Or you can let them be right."
The words stung because they were true.
Walt blew the whistle again. "Another game. Switch teams."
This time, Marcus ended up on the tall player's team. The change did not help much. The tall player avoided passing to him. When Marcus called for the ball, it came late or not at all.
Still, he kept moving. He cut to the basket, set screens, and grabbed loose balls. His legs burned, but the movement stirred something inside him.
Midway through the game, the ball rolled to him after a scramble. Without thinking, he took a quick step back and fired a three-pointer. The ball sailed clean through the net.
For a moment, the gym was quiet. Then someone on the bench let out a low whistle.
Marcus did not celebrate. He just ran back on defense. But inside, a small spark had caught flame. His body remembered.
The game ended with his team losing again, but Marcus felt different. He was not good yet. He was not ready. But he was not gone.
When practice ended, most players left without a word. The older teammate from earlier walked past Marcus and said, "Good shot out there. You just need more of them."
The tall player glanced at him, smirked, and left without speaking.
Marcus stayed behind, sitting on the bench as the others filed out. The smell of sweat and dust filled the emptying gym. Walt came over and handed him a bottle of water.
"You came here to see the place," Walt said. "Now you have seen it. Will you be back on Thursday?"
Marcus looked down at the floor. "Maybe."
"That's better than no," Walt said with a small smile. "See you then."
Marcus left the gym slowly. Outside, the evening air was cool and the streets were quiet. He walked past the park where the kids had played the other day. The court was empty now, the nets swaying gently in the breeze.
For the first time in years, he felt the urge to practice. Not for anyone else. Just for himself.
He knew the road back would be hard. The team did not trust him. Some hated him already. His body was weak. His habits were worse.
But as he walked home, he realized something important. For the first time in a long time, he wanted to try.