The morning light was pale and cold when Marcus woke up. His head felt heavy. The smell of stale beer hung in the small apartment. Empty bottles sat on the table. A pile of dirty clothes covered the chair in the corner.
Marcus rubbed his face and sat up slowly. His phone lay on the floor, screen cracked. It had not rung in weeks. No one called to check on him anymore. His friends from the old team had their own lives. He was a name they used to remember, nothing more.
He stood, walked to the kitchen, and opened the fridge. There was a carton of milk, half full, and a few cans of beer. He closed it without taking anything. His stomach turned at the thought of food.
He stepped outside to get some air. The street was wet from last night's rain. People hurried past, heads down, heading to work. Marcus felt like a ghost among them. They did not see him. Or maybe they saw him and chose to look away.
Down the street was a small shop where he bought the day's first drink. The man behind the counter gave him a quick nod but said nothing. Marcus knew why. People used to stop him to shake his hand. Now they looked at him like he was trouble.
He walked back to his apartment and sat on the couch. The paper Walt had given him was still in his jacket pocket. He took it out and stared at it. Hawks – Season Schedule. He thought about throwing it away, but his fingers would not let go.
He leaned back and closed his eyes. His mind went to the night of the final again. The sound of the crowd. The ball slipping from his hands. The buzzer. That one moment had burned itself into his head. He had tried to drown it with beer, but it always came back.
The rest of the day passed in slow motion. He drank, dozed off, woke up, and drank again. The room stayed quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the ticking of the wall clock.
In the evening, he decided to walk to the park. The basketball court there was cracked and faded. The nets were torn. A few kids were playing. Their laughter filled the air. Marcus stopped to watch from the fence.
One of the kids missed a shot and the ball rolled toward him. Without thinking, Marcus picked it up. His hands knew the feel of the ball. He gave it a spin and tossed it back. The kid caught it and grinned.
"You play?" the boy asked.
"Used to," Marcus said.
"You should play with us."
Marcus shook his head. "Not today."
He walked away, but the sound of the ball bouncing behind him stayed in his ears long after he left the park.
That night, he lay awake in bed. His mind kept going back to the court, the kids, the way the ball had felt in his hands. He reached over and grabbed the paper from the nightstand. Practice was tomorrow evening. Seven o'clock.
He told himself he was only curious. He just wanted to see the place. That was all. He would not stay.
The next day, he woke earlier than usual. He skipped his morning drink, though his hands itched for it. He tried to pass the time but the clock seemed stuck. By six thirty, he found himself walking toward the address on the paper.
The sun was low in the sky when he reached the small gym. The building looked old but clean. Through the open doors, he could hear the squeak of sneakers and the sound of a ball hitting the floor. Voices shouted, shoes pounded.
Marcus stood outside for a long moment. He almost turned around. But then he stepped inside.
The court was smaller than the ones he used to play on, but the energy was there. Players in mismatched jerseys ran drills under the watch of Walt, who stood at the sideline with his cane.
Walt spotted him right away. A slow smile spread across his face.
"You came," he said.
"Just to watch," Marcus replied.
"Suit yourself," Walt said, turning back to the players. "But you might find it hard to sit still."
Marcus leaned against the wall, arms crossed. The players glanced at him now and then. He could see the whispers passing between them. Some looked at him with curiosity, others with doubt. One tall young man gave him a long, hard stare, then smirked and went back to the drill.
The air in the gym smelled of sweat and effort. Marcus felt something stir in him the old pull of the game. He watched the way the ball moved, the quick passes, the timed jumps. His fingers twitched.
Walt glanced over at him again. "We're short one man for the scrimmage," he said, loud enough for the whole team to hear. "Cole, you in?"
Marcus hesitated. The players looked at him, waiting. The tall young man shook his head with a grin that said this guy will be useless.
Marcus stepped forward slowly. "Give me ball," he said.