Thursday evening came quicker than Marcus expected.He had told himself he might not go back, but by six o'clock, he was already lacing up his old sneakers. They were worn and scuffed, but they still fit. He left the apartment without a drink for the first time in weeks.
The gym was half full when he arrived. The players were running warm-up drills, the sound of bouncing balls echoing off the walls. Walt stood at the side, his cane in one hand and a clipboard in the other. He nodded when he saw Marcus.
"You're here," Walt said.
"Yeah," Marcus replied. "Figured I'd give it another shot."
"Good. We're doing something different today. You're with me."
Marcus frowned. "Not in the game?"
"Not yet," Walt said. "We're going to work on your legs and your shot. The rest will come later."
He led Marcus to the far end of the court where a single hoop stood. The paint on the floor was faded, and the net hung loose.
"First," Walt said, "I want you to run the length of the court and back. Ten times."
Marcus almost laughed. "That's it?"
"Do it," Walt said simply.
By the fourth run, Marcus's breath was heavy. By the eighth, his legs burned. By the tenth, sweat dripped down his face, and his chest heaved.
"You've lost your wind," Walt said. "No shame in that. But we'll get it back."
Walt then tossed him a ball. "Now shoot. Start close, move out after every five makes."
Marcus began near the basket, dropping in easy shots. Then he stepped back. The farther he went, the more his misses grew. His arms ached from the repetition.
"Your form is still there," Walt said, "but your body's not used to it anymore. We'll fix that too."
They worked for nearly an hour. Walt spoke little, only giving short instructions. When Marcus missed, he didn't scold him. When Marcus made a good shot, he just nodded.
Finally, Walt said, "That's enough for today. Go drink some water. Not beer. Water."
Marcus gave a small smile. "You're really going to watch what I drink?"
"I'm going to watch what you become," Walt said. "You can't change the past, but you can choose what's next."
The words stayed with Marcus as he left the gym. He passed a small shop on the way home. He thought about buying beer but kept walking.
The next morning, Marcus woke up sore. His legs ached with every step, but it was a good kind of pain. He found himself stretching without thinking. He poured a glass of water and sat by the window, watching the sun rise over the city.
He still had hours before practice, but something in him wanted to do more. He went to the park. The cracked court was empty. He set down his jacket, picked up the ball, and began shooting. The rim rattled on some shots, but others went in clean.
A man walking his dog stopped to watch. "You used to play pro?" he asked.
"Something like that," Marcus said.
The man nodded and kept walking. It was a small thing, but it made Marcus stand a little straighter.
By the next practice, Walt had a new routine for him. More running, more shooting, and now some passing drills with the younger players. They still didn't talk to him much, but they no longer ignored him completely.
The tall player, however, still seemed to have a problem with him. During a drill, he threw a pass too hard, the ball hitting Marcus in the chest.
"Catch up, old man," he said with a smirk.
Marcus caught the next pass cleanly and fired it right back, hitting the young man square in the hands. "Maybe pass like you mean it," Marcus said.
Walt's whistle cut the tension. "Enough. Save it for the game."
After practice, Walt pulled Marcus aside. "You're not here to fight with them," he said. "You're here to show them you belong."
"I know," Marcus said. "But he's not making it easy."
"That's not his job," Walt replied. "It's yours. The best way to win over a doubter is to outwork them."
Marcus nodded. "So what's next?"
Walt smiled. "Next, we see what you can do under pressure."
The next few days followed the same pattern. Marcus woke early, went to the park to shoot, and showed up to practice on time. His body began to adjust. His shot grew smoother, his passes sharper.
One evening, as practice ended, Walt told the team they would have a friendly game against another local club in a week.
"Think of it as a test," Walt said. "I want to see how you handle playing together."
Marcus felt a rush of nerves. It had been years since he played in front of more than a handful of people. This was his chance, but it could also be another failure.
That night, he sat in his apartment with a bottle on the table. His hand hovered over it, but he didn't open it. Instead, he went to bed early.
The road back was still long, but for the first time in years, he felt like he was on it.