let's get to it, nasty.
Neighborhood.
Neighborhood.
let's get to it, nasty.
-
chosenone58
- Posts: 4532
- Joined: 28 Nov 2018, 19:06
Neighborhood.
Alright, I'm back.... Yeah, Angela is definitely a problem.
That boy Keshawn finally letting his nuts hang a lil bit. But let's not get beside ourself, young fella.
That boy Keshawn finally letting his nuts hang a lil bit. But let's not get beside ourself, young fella.
Creator of Derek Baldwin da Gawd
Neighborhood.
he can't win with y'allchosenone58 wrote: ↑13 Dec 2024, 21:39Alright, I'm back.... Yeah, Angela is definitely a problem.
That boy Keshawn finally letting his nuts hang a lil bit. But let's not get beside ourself, young fella.
all part of the journey
Neighborhood.
Summertime '06 - Episode 1
The aroma of sizzling bacon and freshly brewed coffee filled the homely kitchen as Eleanora bustled about, her plump hands expertly scrambling some eggs in the griddle. Loraine sat at the small kitchen table, her thin fingers wrapped around a chipped mug, savoring the familiar comfort of her sister's home.
"He couldn’t wait to run out that door," Loraine remarked, her gaze lingering towards the door, as if half expecting him to come back any minute.
Eleanora turned from the stove, spatula in hand, and gave her sister a reassuring smile. "All they do is play basketball. Wake up, go to the church, come back here, eat all the food in the house and go right back out.”
Loraine nodded, a mixture of relief and surprised etched on her face. "The coaches used to have to beg us to get him to play. They always told us that he could get a scholarship playing but, I don’t know, I never thought he was into it like that.”
Eleanora scooped up some eggs onto a plate and set it in front of Loraine. "You know how Vic is, it’s always basketball with him and I’m sure that rubbed up on Ke. From what Vic been telling me, it’s only a matter of time before the scholarships start coming in.
"I really appreciate what you did for me, Elly. I don’t know what we would have done without you.”
Eleanora chuckled, shaking her head. "Oh, honey, that’s what family is for. Besides, that boy's an angel. I ain’t never met another teenager like him, doesn’t even talk unless you talking to him. He cleans up after himself, gets good grades, ain’t bringing no dirty ass hoes inside the house.”
“Don’t you got Quincy for that?” Loraine teased.
“Don’t even get me started,” Eleanora scoffed, “I’ve been calling his ass all week telling him your release was this morning and he said he was going to come but…”
“It’s fine with me,” Loraine waved her off, “I got enough problems on my plate right now.”
Loraine took a few bites before placing her fork down, “And don’t you worry, I already got a job lined up from when I was inside and as soon as that first paycheck comes…”
“It ain’t no rush, girl,” Eleanora reminded her, “Like I said, this family, this what we here for.”
…
The sun beat down mercilessly on the cracked concrete of the basketball court. Keshawn and Vic sat on the bottom step of the nearby bleachers, their shirts drenched in sweat, chests heaving as they caught their breath. The rest of their teammates sprawled around them, some lying flat on their backs on the hot pavement, others leaning against the chain-link fence.
Vic, despite his exhaustion, was still running his mouth. "Don’t get quiet now, bitch! Niggas was talking all that talk just to get fucking ran of their own fucking court!"
Keshawn just nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He was never one for trash talk, but he had to admit, it felt good to win after the contentious start to the game.
One of their teammates, a regular they played with called Damian, scooted closer to Keshawn. "Come on, bro. If you run with us this summer, we might not lose a fucking game.”
Keshawn's smile faded slightly, his eyes dropping to study the scuffed toes of his sneakers. "I don't know, man. I'm still thinking about it."
Damian pressed on, “We got another big that’s damn near seven feet so you don’t even have to play in the paint or nothing like that. I’ve been seeing you work on your handles and shit out here with Vic, you could damn near run point for us.”
Keshawn shifted uncomfortably, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. "I feel you. I’ll let you know, for sure.”
Vic stood up, stretching his arms above his head and letting out a groan. "Alright, Ke, we better bounce if we're gonna get some good runs at Cienega."
Keshawn nodded, rising to his feet. The two cousins said their goodbyes to their teammates and started walking towards Vic's beat-up Corolla, parked under a scraggly tree at the edge of the lot.
Vic glanced at Keshawn, his brow furrowed. "Just tell that nigga you ain’t running with them. Motherfucker always begging and shit.”
“I don’t know,” Keshawn shrugged, “Maybe it’ll be good for both of us.”
Vic shook his head, his voice taking on a serious tone. "Nah, man. Look, you need to be working on your game this summer, not just playing in a bunch of meaningless tournaments, sitting in hotels not doing shit just to play two, three games.”
They reached the car, its faded blue paint peeling in places. Vic leaned against the driver's side door, keys jangling in his hand. "Trust me, bro. I did that shit two years ago and that was the worst shit ever, just a waste of fucking time.”
Keshawn hesitated, his hand on the passenger door handle. The setting sun glinted off the windshield, momentarily blinding him. When he could see again, he met Vic's gaze. "I feel you but you don’t think it’ll help recruiting? Shit, your recruiting too.”
Vic's laugh was short and bitter. "Eyes on me? Bro, I'm 5'8". Ain't no D1 school looking at me unless I'm dropping 40 a game against top competition. I already know where I’m going. But you?" He gestured at Keshawn's towering frame. "Nigga, you already got the size and you one of them motherfuckers that actually wants to play defense. A college coach don’t need to see you in no fucking circus tournament to realize what you got.”
…
The small bedroom was dim, lit only by a single lamp on the nightstand. Keshawn sat on the edge of the bed hunched over, elbows resting on his knees. Loraine perched beside him, her fingers absently smoothing the patchwork quilt beneath them.
"So, how was your day, baby?" Loraine asked, her voice gentle, probing.
Keshawn shrugged, his eyes fixed on the carpeted floor. "It was alright. Just played some ball with Vic and the guys."
Loraine nodded, waiting for more, but Keshawn remained silent. The air in the room felt thick, heavy with unspoken words.
"You know," Loraine began, her voice faltering slightly, "I start my new job in a couple of days and pretty soon…”
"It's cool, Ma," Keshawn interrupted, finally looking up at her. His eyes seemed distant, guarded. "Don’t feel like you have to fix everything all at once.”
Loraine's breath caught in her throat, her heart aching at the maturity in her son's voice. When had he grown up so much? She reached out to touch his arm, but he stood up abruptly, towering over her.
"Look, you should take the bed," Keshawn said, gesturing to the narrow twin bed they'd been sitting on. "I'm cool with sleeping on the couch. It's probably more my size anyway."
Before Loraine could protest, Keshawn had grabbed his pillow and a thin blanket from the foot of the bed. He paused at the door, his hand on the tarnished brass knob. "Night, Ma," he murmured, not quite meeting her eyes.
"Goodnight, baby," Loraine whispered as the door closed behind him with a soft click.
For a moment, she sat perfectly still, listening to Keshawn's footsteps fade down the hallway. Then, like a dam breaking, the tears came. They rolled down her cheeks, hot and relentless, as she buried her face in her hands.
The bedroom suddenly felt cavernous, too big and too small all at once. The walls seemed to close in on her, the faded wallpaper a mocking reminder of better times. Loraine's shoulders shook with silent sobs. She thought of their old house in Baldwin Hills, with its spacious rooms and manicured lawn. How had they ended up here? In her sister's cramped house, sharing a bedroom meant for one, her son sleeping on a couch because there wasn't enough space?
The aroma of sizzling bacon and freshly brewed coffee filled the homely kitchen as Eleanora bustled about, her plump hands expertly scrambling some eggs in the griddle. Loraine sat at the small kitchen table, her thin fingers wrapped around a chipped mug, savoring the familiar comfort of her sister's home.
"He couldn’t wait to run out that door," Loraine remarked, her gaze lingering towards the door, as if half expecting him to come back any minute.
Eleanora turned from the stove, spatula in hand, and gave her sister a reassuring smile. "All they do is play basketball. Wake up, go to the church, come back here, eat all the food in the house and go right back out.”
Loraine nodded, a mixture of relief and surprised etched on her face. "The coaches used to have to beg us to get him to play. They always told us that he could get a scholarship playing but, I don’t know, I never thought he was into it like that.”
Eleanora scooped up some eggs onto a plate and set it in front of Loraine. "You know how Vic is, it’s always basketball with him and I’m sure that rubbed up on Ke. From what Vic been telling me, it’s only a matter of time before the scholarships start coming in.
"I really appreciate what you did for me, Elly. I don’t know what we would have done without you.”
Eleanora chuckled, shaking her head. "Oh, honey, that’s what family is for. Besides, that boy's an angel. I ain’t never met another teenager like him, doesn’t even talk unless you talking to him. He cleans up after himself, gets good grades, ain’t bringing no dirty ass hoes inside the house.”
“Don’t you got Quincy for that?” Loraine teased.
“Don’t even get me started,” Eleanora scoffed, “I’ve been calling his ass all week telling him your release was this morning and he said he was going to come but…”
“It’s fine with me,” Loraine waved her off, “I got enough problems on my plate right now.”
Loraine took a few bites before placing her fork down, “And don’t you worry, I already got a job lined up from when I was inside and as soon as that first paycheck comes…”
“It ain’t no rush, girl,” Eleanora reminded her, “Like I said, this family, this what we here for.”
…
The sun beat down mercilessly on the cracked concrete of the basketball court. Keshawn and Vic sat on the bottom step of the nearby bleachers, their shirts drenched in sweat, chests heaving as they caught their breath. The rest of their teammates sprawled around them, some lying flat on their backs on the hot pavement, others leaning against the chain-link fence.
Vic, despite his exhaustion, was still running his mouth. "Don’t get quiet now, bitch! Niggas was talking all that talk just to get fucking ran of their own fucking court!"
Keshawn just nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He was never one for trash talk, but he had to admit, it felt good to win after the contentious start to the game.
One of their teammates, a regular they played with called Damian, scooted closer to Keshawn. "Come on, bro. If you run with us this summer, we might not lose a fucking game.”
Keshawn's smile faded slightly, his eyes dropping to study the scuffed toes of his sneakers. "I don't know, man. I'm still thinking about it."
Damian pressed on, “We got another big that’s damn near seven feet so you don’t even have to play in the paint or nothing like that. I’ve been seeing you work on your handles and shit out here with Vic, you could damn near run point for us.”
Keshawn shifted uncomfortably, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. "I feel you. I’ll let you know, for sure.”
Vic stood up, stretching his arms above his head and letting out a groan. "Alright, Ke, we better bounce if we're gonna get some good runs at Cienega."
Keshawn nodded, rising to his feet. The two cousins said their goodbyes to their teammates and started walking towards Vic's beat-up Corolla, parked under a scraggly tree at the edge of the lot.
Vic glanced at Keshawn, his brow furrowed. "Just tell that nigga you ain’t running with them. Motherfucker always begging and shit.”
“I don’t know,” Keshawn shrugged, “Maybe it’ll be good for both of us.”
Vic shook his head, his voice taking on a serious tone. "Nah, man. Look, you need to be working on your game this summer, not just playing in a bunch of meaningless tournaments, sitting in hotels not doing shit just to play two, three games.”
They reached the car, its faded blue paint peeling in places. Vic leaned against the driver's side door, keys jangling in his hand. "Trust me, bro. I did that shit two years ago and that was the worst shit ever, just a waste of fucking time.”
Keshawn hesitated, his hand on the passenger door handle. The setting sun glinted off the windshield, momentarily blinding him. When he could see again, he met Vic's gaze. "I feel you but you don’t think it’ll help recruiting? Shit, your recruiting too.”
Vic's laugh was short and bitter. "Eyes on me? Bro, I'm 5'8". Ain't no D1 school looking at me unless I'm dropping 40 a game against top competition. I already know where I’m going. But you?" He gestured at Keshawn's towering frame. "Nigga, you already got the size and you one of them motherfuckers that actually wants to play defense. A college coach don’t need to see you in no fucking circus tournament to realize what you got.”
…
The small bedroom was dim, lit only by a single lamp on the nightstand. Keshawn sat on the edge of the bed hunched over, elbows resting on his knees. Loraine perched beside him, her fingers absently smoothing the patchwork quilt beneath them.
"So, how was your day, baby?" Loraine asked, her voice gentle, probing.
Keshawn shrugged, his eyes fixed on the carpeted floor. "It was alright. Just played some ball with Vic and the guys."
Loraine nodded, waiting for more, but Keshawn remained silent. The air in the room felt thick, heavy with unspoken words.
"You know," Loraine began, her voice faltering slightly, "I start my new job in a couple of days and pretty soon…”
"It's cool, Ma," Keshawn interrupted, finally looking up at her. His eyes seemed distant, guarded. "Don’t feel like you have to fix everything all at once.”
Loraine's breath caught in her throat, her heart aching at the maturity in her son's voice. When had he grown up so much? She reached out to touch his arm, but he stood up abruptly, towering over her.
"Look, you should take the bed," Keshawn said, gesturing to the narrow twin bed they'd been sitting on. "I'm cool with sleeping on the couch. It's probably more my size anyway."
Before Loraine could protest, Keshawn had grabbed his pillow and a thin blanket from the foot of the bed. He paused at the door, his hand on the tarnished brass knob. "Night, Ma," he murmured, not quite meeting her eyes.
"Goodnight, baby," Loraine whispered as the door closed behind him with a soft click.
For a moment, she sat perfectly still, listening to Keshawn's footsteps fade down the hallway. Then, like a dam breaking, the tears came. They rolled down her cheeks, hot and relentless, as she buried her face in her hands.
The bedroom suddenly felt cavernous, too big and too small all at once. The walls seemed to close in on her, the faded wallpaper a mocking reminder of better times. Loraine's shoulders shook with silent sobs. She thought of their old house in Baldwin Hills, with its spacious rooms and manicured lawn. How had they ended up here? In her sister's cramped house, sharing a bedroom meant for one, her son sleeping on a couch because there wasn't enough space?
Neighborhood.
Damn, moms got out fast huh? Must be a snitch. 
Neighborhood.
Summertime '06 - Episode 2
The summer sun beat down on the outdoor basketball court as Coach Stewie and his father, the legendary Alon Bronstein, leaned against the chain-link fence. The rhythmic thud of bouncing balls and squeaking sneakers filled the air as the Hamilton High players ran drills, their shirts already dark with sweat from an optional workout that was far from optional as the newly named head coach tried to whip them into chain.
"So, what do you think, Pop?" Stewie asked, his eyes darting between his father and the court. "They’re not that bad. Not single-digit wins bad."
His dad grunted, his weathered face set in its usual scowl. "They're green, Stewie. Raw as uncooked brisket."
Stewie chuckled, "Come on, Dad. They’re not your Mater Dei teams but I don’t know, ‘44’ just as good as any kid you coached.”
Both men's gazes locked onto Keshawn as he effortlessly glided across the court, his lanky frame coiling like a spring before he launched into the air for a thunderous dunk.
"The boychick's got hops," Bronstein admitted grudgingly. "But he's all legs and arms. I don’t see anything special.”
"That's where you come in," Stewie said, seizing the moment. "These kids need your experience, your eye for detail.”
Bronstein snorted, "You’re the one that interviewed for this job, you’re the one that wanted to coach at this…place. So, if you’re going to take your penance and give a pound of flesh, don’t ask for some of mine.”
“Come on,” Stewie pleaded, his voice dropping, “I’m not even asking you to show up to every practice.”
“You asking anything is the problem,” Bronstein shook his head, “I already gave you something and you didn’t want it so don’t ask me for shit.”
For a long moment, neither of them said anything, their eyes never leaving the court. Keshawn was now weaving through defenders, his long strides eating up the distance before he pulled up for a jumper that was looking better by the day, thanks to those early morning workouts with Vic.
"The tall one," Bronstein muttered. "He's got potential."
Stewie held his breath, hope rising in his chest.
"Alright, alright," Bronstein sighed, finally turning to face his son. "I'll do it. You’re going to complain to your mother anyway so might as well save myself the lecture.”
…
The sun was setting over Baldwin Village as Loraine stood at the bottom of the familiar porch steps, her heart pounding in her chest. She smoothed down her dress, took a deep breath, and climbed the stairs.
Dro sat in a battered armchair on the porch, surrounded by a group of younger men. Their laughter died down as Loraine approached, and Dro's eyes widened in recognition. He waved a hand, dismissing his crew without a word. They scattered like leaves in the wind, leaving Dro and Loraine alone.
"Well, well," Dro drawled, leaning back in his chair. "I know that ain’t Loraine Chase showing up in this neighborhood. Your driver got lost or something?"
Loraine forced a smile, trying to ignore the way Dro's eyes roamed over her figure. "It's been a long time, Dro."
"Too long," he replied, his voice low and smooth. "You're looking good, girl. Time's been good to you."
"Thank you," Loraine said, shifting uncomfortably. "I... I need to ask you for a favor."
Dro's eyebrows shot up. "A favor? From me? What you need me for, girl? You ain’t never needed me, you’ve made that clear.”
Loraine took a deep breath. "I need a loan. Just to get back on my feet after... after everything."
Dro's expression softened for a moment before his usual smirk returned. "After jail, you mean? Yeah, I heard about that. Tough break." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "What about that high-rolling husband of yours? He can't help you out?"
Loraine's jaw tightened. "Elijah's still inside. It's just me and the kids right now."
"Ah, right," Dro chuckled. "Mr. Big Shot businessman. How's he enjoying his new accommodations? Bet it ain't as nice as that fancy house in Baldwin Hills."
Loraine bit back a sharp retort, reminding herself why she was here. "Look, Dro, I know we have history, but I'm here as a mother trying to provide for her children. Can you help me or not?"
Dro studied her for a long moment, his dark eyes unreadable. Finally, he nodded. "Yeah, I can help you out. For old times' sake." He stood up, towering over Loraine. "But you know everything comes with a price, right?"
Loraine's heart raced. "What kind of price?"
Dro grinned, revealing a gold tooth. "Relax, beautiful. I'm just messing with you. Consider it a loan between old friends. But don't make a habit of coming to me for handouts, you lucky I ain’t one of these wolves?”
“You’re not?” she couldn’t help herself, even hat in hand.
“Trust me,” he laughed, “When I bear my teeth, it won’t be a question.”
…
Angela perched on the edge of the metal bleachers, her eyes fixed on the lanky figure dominating the court.
Keshawn moved with a fluid grace that belied his height. He weaved through defenders like smoke, his long arms extending impossibly far to snatch rebounds and swat away shots. But it was when he rose for a dunk that the crowd truly came alive. As Keshawn soared toward the hoop, phones appeared like magic, dozens of screens lighting up to capture the moment. Angela felt a thrill of pride as she watched him throw down a thunderous slam, the metal rim groaning in protest. The court erupted in cheers and shouts of disbelief.
As the game wound down, Angela couldn't help but notice the way eyes followed Keshawn, even when he wasn't touching the ball. There was an electricity to his presence now, a magnetism that drew people in. It was more than just his skill – it was the promise of what he could become.
“That was a good run,” Vic commented as they left the court and joined Angela on the sideline, replacing his shirt soaked T-shirt with a clean one that she handed to him, “I thought your legs would be dead after y’all workout this morning. I heard coach Bronstein was there.”
“That’s the old guy, right?” Keshawn responded as they began their walk to Vic’s car.
“The old guy,” Vic scoffed, “That motherfucker got like three national championships, won State at Mater Dei like every other year but yeah, he’s the old guy.”
“They didn’t really run us much,” Keshawn shrugged, “Mostly drills and then some conditioning at the end.”
They made their way across the sun-baked parking lot, the asphalt shimmering with heat waves. Angela settled into the passenger seat, her fingers automatically reaching for the aux cord. As they drove, Keshawn's eyes were drawn to the passing scenery which were now familiar landmarks for him. The car slowed as they approached an apartment complex where the buildings were weathered, paint peeling in places.
"Appreciate it," Keshawn said, reaching for the door handle.
Angela's eyebrow shot up, her gaze darting between Keshawn and the unfamiliar surroundings. But before she could voice her curiosity, Vic shot her a look.
"Mind your business, Ang," he said, his tone light but with an undercurrent of warning.
As Keshawn climbed out of the car, Vic called after him, "Look alive, motherfucker. Let me know if A.J. ain’t picking you up anymore. I don’t need Pepperdine’s favorite being hemmed up.”
Keshawn nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Yeah, whatever.”
The car pulled away, leaving Keshawn standing on the sidewalk. He watched until it disappeared around a corner before turning towards the apartment complex.
Back in the car, Angela turned to Vic, her eyes narrowed. "What the fuck is Keshawn doing at the apartments?”
Vic kept his eyes on the road, trying to hide his smile. "The boy all grown up, Ang. Let him live.”
Angela opened her mouth to argue, then thought better of it. Instead, she changed the subject. "Speaking of Pepperdine, you scheduled anything with Graceland yet?”
Vic exhaled heavily, some of the tension leaving his body. "For what? I’d just be wasting everyone’s time.”
“You’ve been wasting your own time,” Angela countered, “August is almost here, babe.”
“You don’t think I know that?” Vic scoffed, “It’s just…it’s fucking Iowa, you know?”
“We can make it work,” she assured him, “Not like there’s not FaceTime.”
“You’re just saying that because you hate LPU,” Vic teased, trying to lighten the mood.
“I’ve said my piece about that place,” she held her hands up, “I’ll support you, no matter what. I just don’t want you picking them just because they’re close. Yeah, I’d love for both of us to go to school in the city but this is a life changing decision. Our love is always going to be there, I can promise you that.”
Vic fell silent, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm on the steering wheel. As they cruised through the familiar streets of their neighborhood, Vic's mind wandered to the cornfields and wide-open spaces of Iowa. It seemed like a world away from the bustling streets of Los Angeles, the only home he'd ever known.
The thought of leaving behind everything - his family, his friends, the neighborhood - made his stomach churn. And then there was Angela. Her words about supporting him no matter what echoed in his head, but the idea of being separated from her for months at a time felt like a physical ache in his chest.
But Graceland offered something Los Angeles couldn't: a real shot at playing time, at proving himself on a bigger stage. Coach McCaffery had made it clear that Vic would have a chance to compete for significant minutes right away. It was an opportunity that he had been dreaming for.
"Hey," Angela's voice cut through his reverie. "You hear what I said?"
Vic blinked, realizing he'd been lost in thought. "Sorry, what?"
Angela rolled her eyes, but her expression was fond. "I was saying we need to get Keshawn more involved in the community. The block party's coming up next month, and the youth center's always looking for volunteers for their summer programs."
Vic nodded, grateful for the distraction from his swirling thoughts. "Yeah, that's a good idea. He’d be down for shit like that but you know Ke, he’s gonna stay in his room all day if you don’t ask him.”
"Exactly," Angela agreed, her eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. "And with all the attention he's getting now, it could really inspire some of the younger kids. Show them what's possible, you know?"
As they turned onto their street, Vic found himself smiling despite the weight of his decision. "You're right. I'll talk to him about it tomorrow. Maybe we can even get the other guys involved, make it a team thing."
Angela beamed at him, reaching over to squeeze his hand. "That's my man, always thinking big."
Vic squeezed back, feeling a surge of warmth for the woman beside him. Whatever decision he made about college, he knew he'd have her support. And for now, that was enough to quiet the doubts swirling in his mind.
…
Gayle's bedroom was a riot of color, the walls plastered with vibrant posters and string lights casting a warm glow across rumpled sheets. Keshawn lay on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, his lean body still glistening with a light sheen of sweat. Beside him, Gayle propped herself up on an elbow, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest.
"Damn, nigga," she purred, a satisfied smirk playing on her lips. "You had some good dick to drop off tonight, huh?”
Keshawn chuckled softly, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. "Just trying to keep up with you."
Gayle's laugh was rich and full-bodied. "I know that’s right." She leaned in closer, her breath warm against his ear. "You really turn into a different motherfucker when you in it, you know that? I love seeing you like that."
Keshawn turned to face her, his eyebrow raised. "Like what?"
"Like this," she gestured vaguely at his body. "When we're together, it's like you become a whole different person. You're not all shy and quiet. You take charge, you know what you want." Her hand traveled lower, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from Keshawn. "It's sexy as hell."
Keshawn felt a flush creep up his neck, but he didn't look away. "It's different, I guess," he admitted softly. "I don't have to think so much. I can just... be."
Gayle's expression softened for a moment before her usual mischievous grin returned. "Well, you should be like that more often. Not just in here." She sat up, the sheet falling away to reveal her curves. "You've got it in you, Ke. That confidence, that swagger. I see it when you're on the court, too. You just gotta let it out."
Keshawn watched her as she moved across the room, admiring the way the dim light played across her skin. He thought about her words, about the person he became when they were alone together. It was true – in these moments, he felt invincible, like he could take on the world.
"Maybe you're right," he said finally, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Gayle turned back to him, condom in hand, her eyes glinting with mischief. "Of course I'm right. Now, you gonna show me that confidence again, or what?"
The summer sun beat down on the outdoor basketball court as Coach Stewie and his father, the legendary Alon Bronstein, leaned against the chain-link fence. The rhythmic thud of bouncing balls and squeaking sneakers filled the air as the Hamilton High players ran drills, their shirts already dark with sweat from an optional workout that was far from optional as the newly named head coach tried to whip them into chain.
"So, what do you think, Pop?" Stewie asked, his eyes darting between his father and the court. "They’re not that bad. Not single-digit wins bad."
His dad grunted, his weathered face set in its usual scowl. "They're green, Stewie. Raw as uncooked brisket."
Stewie chuckled, "Come on, Dad. They’re not your Mater Dei teams but I don’t know, ‘44’ just as good as any kid you coached.”
Both men's gazes locked onto Keshawn as he effortlessly glided across the court, his lanky frame coiling like a spring before he launched into the air for a thunderous dunk.
"The boychick's got hops," Bronstein admitted grudgingly. "But he's all legs and arms. I don’t see anything special.”
"That's where you come in," Stewie said, seizing the moment. "These kids need your experience, your eye for detail.”
Bronstein snorted, "You’re the one that interviewed for this job, you’re the one that wanted to coach at this…place. So, if you’re going to take your penance and give a pound of flesh, don’t ask for some of mine.”
“Come on,” Stewie pleaded, his voice dropping, “I’m not even asking you to show up to every practice.”
“You asking anything is the problem,” Bronstein shook his head, “I already gave you something and you didn’t want it so don’t ask me for shit.”
For a long moment, neither of them said anything, their eyes never leaving the court. Keshawn was now weaving through defenders, his long strides eating up the distance before he pulled up for a jumper that was looking better by the day, thanks to those early morning workouts with Vic.
"The tall one," Bronstein muttered. "He's got potential."
Stewie held his breath, hope rising in his chest.
"Alright, alright," Bronstein sighed, finally turning to face his son. "I'll do it. You’re going to complain to your mother anyway so might as well save myself the lecture.”
…
The sun was setting over Baldwin Village as Loraine stood at the bottom of the familiar porch steps, her heart pounding in her chest. She smoothed down her dress, took a deep breath, and climbed the stairs.
Dro sat in a battered armchair on the porch, surrounded by a group of younger men. Their laughter died down as Loraine approached, and Dro's eyes widened in recognition. He waved a hand, dismissing his crew without a word. They scattered like leaves in the wind, leaving Dro and Loraine alone.
"Well, well," Dro drawled, leaning back in his chair. "I know that ain’t Loraine Chase showing up in this neighborhood. Your driver got lost or something?"
Loraine forced a smile, trying to ignore the way Dro's eyes roamed over her figure. "It's been a long time, Dro."
"Too long," he replied, his voice low and smooth. "You're looking good, girl. Time's been good to you."
"Thank you," Loraine said, shifting uncomfortably. "I... I need to ask you for a favor."
Dro's eyebrows shot up. "A favor? From me? What you need me for, girl? You ain’t never needed me, you’ve made that clear.”
Loraine took a deep breath. "I need a loan. Just to get back on my feet after... after everything."
Dro's expression softened for a moment before his usual smirk returned. "After jail, you mean? Yeah, I heard about that. Tough break." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "What about that high-rolling husband of yours? He can't help you out?"
Loraine's jaw tightened. "Elijah's still inside. It's just me and the kids right now."
"Ah, right," Dro chuckled. "Mr. Big Shot businessman. How's he enjoying his new accommodations? Bet it ain't as nice as that fancy house in Baldwin Hills."
Loraine bit back a sharp retort, reminding herself why she was here. "Look, Dro, I know we have history, but I'm here as a mother trying to provide for her children. Can you help me or not?"
Dro studied her for a long moment, his dark eyes unreadable. Finally, he nodded. "Yeah, I can help you out. For old times' sake." He stood up, towering over Loraine. "But you know everything comes with a price, right?"
Loraine's heart raced. "What kind of price?"
Dro grinned, revealing a gold tooth. "Relax, beautiful. I'm just messing with you. Consider it a loan between old friends. But don't make a habit of coming to me for handouts, you lucky I ain’t one of these wolves?”
“You’re not?” she couldn’t help herself, even hat in hand.
“Trust me,” he laughed, “When I bear my teeth, it won’t be a question.”
…
Angela perched on the edge of the metal bleachers, her eyes fixed on the lanky figure dominating the court.
Keshawn moved with a fluid grace that belied his height. He weaved through defenders like smoke, his long arms extending impossibly far to snatch rebounds and swat away shots. But it was when he rose for a dunk that the crowd truly came alive. As Keshawn soared toward the hoop, phones appeared like magic, dozens of screens lighting up to capture the moment. Angela felt a thrill of pride as she watched him throw down a thunderous slam, the metal rim groaning in protest. The court erupted in cheers and shouts of disbelief.
As the game wound down, Angela couldn't help but notice the way eyes followed Keshawn, even when he wasn't touching the ball. There was an electricity to his presence now, a magnetism that drew people in. It was more than just his skill – it was the promise of what he could become.
“That was a good run,” Vic commented as they left the court and joined Angela on the sideline, replacing his shirt soaked T-shirt with a clean one that she handed to him, “I thought your legs would be dead after y’all workout this morning. I heard coach Bronstein was there.”
“That’s the old guy, right?” Keshawn responded as they began their walk to Vic’s car.
“The old guy,” Vic scoffed, “That motherfucker got like three national championships, won State at Mater Dei like every other year but yeah, he’s the old guy.”
“They didn’t really run us much,” Keshawn shrugged, “Mostly drills and then some conditioning at the end.”
They made their way across the sun-baked parking lot, the asphalt shimmering with heat waves. Angela settled into the passenger seat, her fingers automatically reaching for the aux cord. As they drove, Keshawn's eyes were drawn to the passing scenery which were now familiar landmarks for him. The car slowed as they approached an apartment complex where the buildings were weathered, paint peeling in places.
"Appreciate it," Keshawn said, reaching for the door handle.
Angela's eyebrow shot up, her gaze darting between Keshawn and the unfamiliar surroundings. But before she could voice her curiosity, Vic shot her a look.
"Mind your business, Ang," he said, his tone light but with an undercurrent of warning.
As Keshawn climbed out of the car, Vic called after him, "Look alive, motherfucker. Let me know if A.J. ain’t picking you up anymore. I don’t need Pepperdine’s favorite being hemmed up.”
Keshawn nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Yeah, whatever.”
The car pulled away, leaving Keshawn standing on the sidewalk. He watched until it disappeared around a corner before turning towards the apartment complex.
Back in the car, Angela turned to Vic, her eyes narrowed. "What the fuck is Keshawn doing at the apartments?”
Vic kept his eyes on the road, trying to hide his smile. "The boy all grown up, Ang. Let him live.”
Angela opened her mouth to argue, then thought better of it. Instead, she changed the subject. "Speaking of Pepperdine, you scheduled anything with Graceland yet?”
Vic exhaled heavily, some of the tension leaving his body. "For what? I’d just be wasting everyone’s time.”
“You’ve been wasting your own time,” Angela countered, “August is almost here, babe.”
“You don’t think I know that?” Vic scoffed, “It’s just…it’s fucking Iowa, you know?”
“We can make it work,” she assured him, “Not like there’s not FaceTime.”
“You’re just saying that because you hate LPU,” Vic teased, trying to lighten the mood.
“I’ve said my piece about that place,” she held her hands up, “I’ll support you, no matter what. I just don’t want you picking them just because they’re close. Yeah, I’d love for both of us to go to school in the city but this is a life changing decision. Our love is always going to be there, I can promise you that.”
Vic fell silent, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm on the steering wheel. As they cruised through the familiar streets of their neighborhood, Vic's mind wandered to the cornfields and wide-open spaces of Iowa. It seemed like a world away from the bustling streets of Los Angeles, the only home he'd ever known.
The thought of leaving behind everything - his family, his friends, the neighborhood - made his stomach churn. And then there was Angela. Her words about supporting him no matter what echoed in his head, but the idea of being separated from her for months at a time felt like a physical ache in his chest.
But Graceland offered something Los Angeles couldn't: a real shot at playing time, at proving himself on a bigger stage. Coach McCaffery had made it clear that Vic would have a chance to compete for significant minutes right away. It was an opportunity that he had been dreaming for.
"Hey," Angela's voice cut through his reverie. "You hear what I said?"
Vic blinked, realizing he'd been lost in thought. "Sorry, what?"
Angela rolled her eyes, but her expression was fond. "I was saying we need to get Keshawn more involved in the community. The block party's coming up next month, and the youth center's always looking for volunteers for their summer programs."
Vic nodded, grateful for the distraction from his swirling thoughts. "Yeah, that's a good idea. He’d be down for shit like that but you know Ke, he’s gonna stay in his room all day if you don’t ask him.”
"Exactly," Angela agreed, her eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. "And with all the attention he's getting now, it could really inspire some of the younger kids. Show them what's possible, you know?"
As they turned onto their street, Vic found himself smiling despite the weight of his decision. "You're right. I'll talk to him about it tomorrow. Maybe we can even get the other guys involved, make it a team thing."
Angela beamed at him, reaching over to squeeze his hand. "That's my man, always thinking big."
Vic squeezed back, feeling a surge of warmth for the woman beside him. Whatever decision he made about college, he knew he'd have her support. And for now, that was enough to quiet the doubts swirling in his mind.
…
Gayle's bedroom was a riot of color, the walls plastered with vibrant posters and string lights casting a warm glow across rumpled sheets. Keshawn lay on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, his lean body still glistening with a light sheen of sweat. Beside him, Gayle propped herself up on an elbow, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest.
"Damn, nigga," she purred, a satisfied smirk playing on her lips. "You had some good dick to drop off tonight, huh?”
Keshawn chuckled softly, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. "Just trying to keep up with you."
Gayle's laugh was rich and full-bodied. "I know that’s right." She leaned in closer, her breath warm against his ear. "You really turn into a different motherfucker when you in it, you know that? I love seeing you like that."
Keshawn turned to face her, his eyebrow raised. "Like what?"
"Like this," she gestured vaguely at his body. "When we're together, it's like you become a whole different person. You're not all shy and quiet. You take charge, you know what you want." Her hand traveled lower, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from Keshawn. "It's sexy as hell."
Keshawn felt a flush creep up his neck, but he didn't look away. "It's different, I guess," he admitted softly. "I don't have to think so much. I can just... be."
Gayle's expression softened for a moment before her usual mischievous grin returned. "Well, you should be like that more often. Not just in here." She sat up, the sheet falling away to reveal her curves. "You've got it in you, Ke. That confidence, that swagger. I see it when you're on the court, too. You just gotta let it out."
Keshawn watched her as she moved across the room, admiring the way the dim light played across her skin. He thought about her words, about the person he became when they were alone together. It was true – in these moments, he felt invincible, like he could take on the world.
"Maybe you're right," he said finally, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Gayle turned back to him, condom in hand, her eyes glinting with mischief. "Of course I'm right. Now, you gonna show me that confidence again, or what?"
Neighborhood.
I thought Keshawn was a lame, but Vic might have his cousin beat or that shit run in the family.
Neighborhood.
Summertime '06 - Episode 3
“They don’t got no size or nothing,” Fat Stacks remarked as he watched from afar, a Black and Mild balancing on his lower lip.
“Smoke little brother kind of nice,” Vic admitted as they watched one of the opposing teams go through warm ups, “He was sorry as fuck last time we played them.”
“I ain’t worried about Smoke’s squad,” Fat Stacks cackled as his gold chains glinted in the sunlight, “When money on the line, they gonna fold.”
The once quiet morning had steadily progressed into a buzzing environment as players, onlookers and gamblers alike began to fill up the courts and stands. It wasn’t on any official tournament schedule nor would there be any legitimate AAU teams competing but it was the summer time hoops sessions that mattered most if you lived between La Brea Ave and Westside Ave.
Fat Stacks had spent all summer recruiting Keshawn, through Vic, and their efforts were ultimately successful with Fat Stacks dipping into his chili to get it done. By the end, the team was a hodge podge of neighborhood hoop heroes and members of last year’s Hamilton team who despite their abysmal record, had Fat Stacks feeling confident that they’d be able to get the job done.
“I ain’t losing to those Westside bitches this year, nigga,” Fat Stacks reminded Keshawn, “Don’t let those face tats fool you, my nigga, they straight busters over there.”
“They’re going to be physical,” Vic nodded along, “But that’s all they got. Don’t even bring the ball down, Ke, just go up with that shit and ain’t nothing they can do about it.”
“On East Side shit,” Fat Stacks added.
“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” Keshawn had grown annoyed and tired of their constant pointers since they had arrived that morning. After all, he was the budding prospect with over a dozen offers, not them.
As the players continued their warm-ups, Angela weaved through the growing crowd, a stack of brightly colored flyers clutched in her hand. Her eyes scanned the faces around her, searching for potential supporters for the latest community initiative.
Angela handed another passerby a flyer, her eyes bright with enthusiasm. "We’re throwing a block party next weekend. Trying to bring the community together, you know? Food, music, games for the kids – the whole nine."
Ronnie did the same but was less discerning, practically placing the flyer in everyone’s hands that he passed by. They’d all be taken aback but then eventually nod in approval once they read the flyers.
“They don’t need a sales pitch,” Ronnie told Angela with a wry chuckle, “This is something fun that they actually want to go to.”
“Unlike my tutoring initiative?” she fired back, “Or feeding the homeless?”
“I didn’t say that,” Ronnie laughed, “I’m just saying, they don’t need to be sold on showing up for food and a good time. Get them into the tent first before you start preaching for them.”
“I don’t got no pulpit. I just think they should know what it is they are supporting.”
“These folks just want a good time,” Ronnie explained, “Look around. It’s more people here than any event we thrown put together and this shit ain’t even official or nothing. They know it’s a good time, they know they’re going to see motherfuckers hooping with bread on the line. Shit, this is the type of event we need to start attaching our brand to and then we can lead with that. Until then, Black Excellence is just some group they’ve never heard of.”
“I hear you Ronnie, I really do. We’re throwing the block party for a reason but we have to draw the line somewhere,” she glanced around at the court, where Fat Stacks was holding court with his entourage, “This is gangland central, right now.”
“I feel you,” Ronnie followed her gaze, “LAPD would run through this bitch and have a field day. Half these motherfuckers probably got it on them, too.”
“Exactly. Do we really want that associated with what we’re trying to do?”
“The underworld does hold a place in the movement though,” Ronnie shrugged, “I’m sure if we shined a light on the Panthers back in the day, we might not like all of what we see.”
…
Keshawn anticipated the move, timing his jump perfectly as the opposing guard left his feet for the layup in an effort to tie the game. His long arms stretched skyward, his palm connecting with the ball at its apex. The resounding smack of the block echoed across the court, eliciting a chorus of "Ooohs" from the crowd.
The rejected ball ricocheted off the backboard, and Keshawn, in one fluid motion, snatched it out of the air. His eyes immediately scanned the court, spotting Vic already in motion. With a crisp chest pass, Keshawn launched the ball downcourt, initiating a fast break.
Vic caught the outlet pass in stride, his feet barely touching the ground as he sprinted towards the opposing basket. The defense, caught off guard by the sudden change in possession, scrambled to recover. As two defenders converged on Vic, he maintained his dribble, using his low center of gravity to weave between them.
Just as it seemed Vic might take it all the way, he spotted A.J. set up in the corner, feet squared to the basket and hands ready. Without breaking stride, Vic whipped a no-look pass to the corner. The ball zipped through the air, finding A.J.'s waiting hands.
A.J. caught the pass, his feet already set in perfect shooting form. In one smooth motion, he rose up, releasing the ball with a high arc that seemed to hang in the air for an eternity. The crowd held its collective breath as the ball rotated perfectly, descending towards the hoop.
The three-pointer found its mark, pushing their lead to four and bringing them within a basket of victory.
A.J., caught up in the moment, turned to the opposing bench. "That's how you shoot, motherfucker!" he crowed, pointing at them with both hands. "Take that sorry ass shit to Vernon Avenue, mark ass bitch!”
"Ay, fuck you say?" Smoke hollered from the sideline, his face contorted with rage. "You better watch yo mouth before I bust it wide open, lil' nigga!"
A.J., still riding high on adrenaline, didn't back down. "I said what I said, bitch! You heard me!"
The tension on the court thickened like smog over the 110 freeway. Players from both sides started jawing, their voices rising in a cacophony of threats and insults that echoed off the chain-link fences surrounding the court.
Keshawn, seeing the situation escalating, tried to intervene. "A.J., chill out, man. That shit ain’t even about nothing.”
But before he could finish, Smoke had already stormed onto the court, his Westside Crip tattoos on full display as he squared up to A.J. "You think you hard, huh? I'll smoke your ass right here, right now!"
Vic stepped between them, his hands outstretched. "Ay, ay, ay! We ain't here for that bullshit! We hooping right now, bro!”
"Nah, fuck that, Vic!" Smoke spat, pushing past Vic. "This punk ass nigga need to learn some respect! He talking like he banging or something!”
Just as it seemed the situation was about to boil over, Fat Stacks sauntered onto the court, his gold chains swinging with each step. "Hold up, hold up!" he called out, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Y'all need to fall back before this shit get real ugly."
Smoke turned to Fat Stacks, his eyes narrowing. "This ain't your business, Stacks. This motherfucker out of line talking about the Westside!”
Fat Stacks let out a low chuckle, his hand casually resting on his waistband. "If you fucking with my paper, it’s my business. Are we getting active or what? I ain’t losing no bread over no fucking words so if we getting active, let’s get active for real.”
The implication was clear. Fat Stacks was strapped, and he wasn't afraid to let everyone know it.
Smoke's eyes flicked down to Fat Stacks' hand, then back up to his face. The anger in his expression slowly gave way to a grudging respect. "Aight, aight," he said, taking a step back. "Check the little buster yourself then, nigga."
As quickly as it had escalated, the tension began to dissipate. Players from both sides started to separate, muttering under their breaths but no longer looking ready to throw hands.
Keshawn watched the scene unfold with a mixture of relief and frustration. He'd been in the zone, ready to close out the game and secure the win. Now, the momentum was gone, replaced by a nervous energy that hung over the court like a fog.
"Man, this some bullshit," Keshawn muttered to Vic, “Always something out here.”
“We good, bro,” Vic reassured him, “Let’s close it out, come on.”
…
Loraine excitedly opened the door into her older sister’s modest home, making her way through the living room as she searched for her. She made her way to the kitchen where Eleanora was by the sink, washing up before dinner.
"Elly," Loraine began, "I told you it wasn’t going to take long. I found a spot, an extended stay apartment by Village Green."
Eleanora's hands stilled over the sink full of dishes, soap suds clinging to her arms. She turned slowly, her eyes narrowing as she studied her younger sister's face. "Already? Lo, I already told you, it’s plenty of space here for you.”
Loraine nodded, unable to meet Eleanora's gaze. "It's time. We've been here long enough, it’s time we give you back your home.”
Eleanora dried her hands on a threadbare dishtowel, her movements deliberate and controlled. "And where's the money coming from, Loraine? You’ve had that job for a few weeks now, I know you ain’t saved up that much.”
"I've been saving," Loraine replied defensively. "And I picked up some extra shifts. We'll make it work."
Eleanora let out a bitter laugh. "Make it work? Like you made it work before? Running off to Baldwin Hills, thinking you were better than the rest of us?"
Loraine's jaw clenched. "That's not fair, Elly. We worked hard for what we had."
"And look where it got you," Eleanora shot back. "Right back here, with nothing but a felony conviction and a husband in jail, exactly what you were running away from.”
The words hung in the air between them, sharp and cutting. Loraine felt her cheeks burn with shame and anger. "I'm trying to do right by my kids," she said, her voice tight with emotion.
Eleanora shook her head, her expression a mixture of disappointment and frustration. "You've always been looking for the shortcut, Loraine. Always trying to run away instead of facing your problems head-on, building something."
"That's not true," Loraine protested, but even as the words left her mouth, she felt the weight of their hollowness.
"Isn't it?" Eleanora challenged. "The PPP loan fraud, the fancy house in Baldwin Hills, and now this? You're always chasing after something, never content with what you have."
Loraine's hands clenched into fists at her sides. "You don't understand. I'm trying to give my children a better life."
"By what? Moving into some run-down extended stay? That’s better than family?" Eleanora's voice rose, filling the small kitchen. "When are you going to learn that there are no shortcuts in life, Loraine? That sometimes you have to stay put and work through the hard times?"
“Some of us see bigger past this,” Eleanora fired back, “You want to stay and die here? That’s on you, don’t put that dream on me or mine.”
…
Angela pushed open the warped door to her apartment, the familiar stench of stale cigarettes and cheap booze assaulting her senses. The dim light filtering through grimy windows revealed a living room in disarray - empty bottles scattered across stained carpet, overflowing ashtrays perched precariously on every surface.
Her mother, Debra, was on her hands and knees, frantically pawing through a pile of dirty laundry.
"Mama?" Angela called softly, her heart sinking. "What are you doing?"
Debra's head snapped up, bloodshot eyes narrowing as they focused on her daughter. "You!" she slurred, stumbling to her feet. "Where'd you hide it, girl? Where's my shit?"
Angela took an instinctive step back. "I didn't hide anything, Mama. I just got home."
"Don't lie to me!" Debra screamed, her voice cracking. "I know you took it! Always tryin' to control me!”
Before Angela could react, Debra's hand cracked across her face. The force of the blow sent her stumbling into the wall, stars exploding behind her eyes.
"Mama, please," Angela pleaded, tears welling up. "I didn't take anything. You probably just forgot-"
Another blow cut her off, this time a closed fist to her ribs. Angela doubled over, gasping for air as Debra continued her assault.
"Ungrateful little bitch!" Debra raved, raining down blows. "After everything I've done for you!"
Angela curled into herself, not bothering to fight back or defend herself. She'd learned long ago that resistance only made things worse. So she endured, silent tears streaming down her face as her mother's drunken rage played out its familiar pattern.
“They don’t got no size or nothing,” Fat Stacks remarked as he watched from afar, a Black and Mild balancing on his lower lip.
“Smoke little brother kind of nice,” Vic admitted as they watched one of the opposing teams go through warm ups, “He was sorry as fuck last time we played them.”
“I ain’t worried about Smoke’s squad,” Fat Stacks cackled as his gold chains glinted in the sunlight, “When money on the line, they gonna fold.”
The once quiet morning had steadily progressed into a buzzing environment as players, onlookers and gamblers alike began to fill up the courts and stands. It wasn’t on any official tournament schedule nor would there be any legitimate AAU teams competing but it was the summer time hoops sessions that mattered most if you lived between La Brea Ave and Westside Ave.
Fat Stacks had spent all summer recruiting Keshawn, through Vic, and their efforts were ultimately successful with Fat Stacks dipping into his chili to get it done. By the end, the team was a hodge podge of neighborhood hoop heroes and members of last year’s Hamilton team who despite their abysmal record, had Fat Stacks feeling confident that they’d be able to get the job done.
“I ain’t losing to those Westside bitches this year, nigga,” Fat Stacks reminded Keshawn, “Don’t let those face tats fool you, my nigga, they straight busters over there.”
“They’re going to be physical,” Vic nodded along, “But that’s all they got. Don’t even bring the ball down, Ke, just go up with that shit and ain’t nothing they can do about it.”
“On East Side shit,” Fat Stacks added.
“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” Keshawn had grown annoyed and tired of their constant pointers since they had arrived that morning. After all, he was the budding prospect with over a dozen offers, not them.
As the players continued their warm-ups, Angela weaved through the growing crowd, a stack of brightly colored flyers clutched in her hand. Her eyes scanned the faces around her, searching for potential supporters for the latest community initiative.
Angela handed another passerby a flyer, her eyes bright with enthusiasm. "We’re throwing a block party next weekend. Trying to bring the community together, you know? Food, music, games for the kids – the whole nine."
Ronnie did the same but was less discerning, practically placing the flyer in everyone’s hands that he passed by. They’d all be taken aback but then eventually nod in approval once they read the flyers.
“They don’t need a sales pitch,” Ronnie told Angela with a wry chuckle, “This is something fun that they actually want to go to.”
“Unlike my tutoring initiative?” she fired back, “Or feeding the homeless?”
“I didn’t say that,” Ronnie laughed, “I’m just saying, they don’t need to be sold on showing up for food and a good time. Get them into the tent first before you start preaching for them.”
“I don’t got no pulpit. I just think they should know what it is they are supporting.”
“These folks just want a good time,” Ronnie explained, “Look around. It’s more people here than any event we thrown put together and this shit ain’t even official or nothing. They know it’s a good time, they know they’re going to see motherfuckers hooping with bread on the line. Shit, this is the type of event we need to start attaching our brand to and then we can lead with that. Until then, Black Excellence is just some group they’ve never heard of.”
“I hear you Ronnie, I really do. We’re throwing the block party for a reason but we have to draw the line somewhere,” she glanced around at the court, where Fat Stacks was holding court with his entourage, “This is gangland central, right now.”
“I feel you,” Ronnie followed her gaze, “LAPD would run through this bitch and have a field day. Half these motherfuckers probably got it on them, too.”
“Exactly. Do we really want that associated with what we’re trying to do?”
“The underworld does hold a place in the movement though,” Ronnie shrugged, “I’m sure if we shined a light on the Panthers back in the day, we might not like all of what we see.”
…
Keshawn anticipated the move, timing his jump perfectly as the opposing guard left his feet for the layup in an effort to tie the game. His long arms stretched skyward, his palm connecting with the ball at its apex. The resounding smack of the block echoed across the court, eliciting a chorus of "Ooohs" from the crowd.
The rejected ball ricocheted off the backboard, and Keshawn, in one fluid motion, snatched it out of the air. His eyes immediately scanned the court, spotting Vic already in motion. With a crisp chest pass, Keshawn launched the ball downcourt, initiating a fast break.
Vic caught the outlet pass in stride, his feet barely touching the ground as he sprinted towards the opposing basket. The defense, caught off guard by the sudden change in possession, scrambled to recover. As two defenders converged on Vic, he maintained his dribble, using his low center of gravity to weave between them.
Just as it seemed Vic might take it all the way, he spotted A.J. set up in the corner, feet squared to the basket and hands ready. Without breaking stride, Vic whipped a no-look pass to the corner. The ball zipped through the air, finding A.J.'s waiting hands.
A.J. caught the pass, his feet already set in perfect shooting form. In one smooth motion, he rose up, releasing the ball with a high arc that seemed to hang in the air for an eternity. The crowd held its collective breath as the ball rotated perfectly, descending towards the hoop.
The three-pointer found its mark, pushing their lead to four and bringing them within a basket of victory.
A.J., caught up in the moment, turned to the opposing bench. "That's how you shoot, motherfucker!" he crowed, pointing at them with both hands. "Take that sorry ass shit to Vernon Avenue, mark ass bitch!”
"Ay, fuck you say?" Smoke hollered from the sideline, his face contorted with rage. "You better watch yo mouth before I bust it wide open, lil' nigga!"
A.J., still riding high on adrenaline, didn't back down. "I said what I said, bitch! You heard me!"
The tension on the court thickened like smog over the 110 freeway. Players from both sides started jawing, their voices rising in a cacophony of threats and insults that echoed off the chain-link fences surrounding the court.
Keshawn, seeing the situation escalating, tried to intervene. "A.J., chill out, man. That shit ain’t even about nothing.”
But before he could finish, Smoke had already stormed onto the court, his Westside Crip tattoos on full display as he squared up to A.J. "You think you hard, huh? I'll smoke your ass right here, right now!"
Vic stepped between them, his hands outstretched. "Ay, ay, ay! We ain't here for that bullshit! We hooping right now, bro!”
"Nah, fuck that, Vic!" Smoke spat, pushing past Vic. "This punk ass nigga need to learn some respect! He talking like he banging or something!”
Just as it seemed the situation was about to boil over, Fat Stacks sauntered onto the court, his gold chains swinging with each step. "Hold up, hold up!" he called out, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Y'all need to fall back before this shit get real ugly."
Smoke turned to Fat Stacks, his eyes narrowing. "This ain't your business, Stacks. This motherfucker out of line talking about the Westside!”
Fat Stacks let out a low chuckle, his hand casually resting on his waistband. "If you fucking with my paper, it’s my business. Are we getting active or what? I ain’t losing no bread over no fucking words so if we getting active, let’s get active for real.”
The implication was clear. Fat Stacks was strapped, and he wasn't afraid to let everyone know it.
Smoke's eyes flicked down to Fat Stacks' hand, then back up to his face. The anger in his expression slowly gave way to a grudging respect. "Aight, aight," he said, taking a step back. "Check the little buster yourself then, nigga."
As quickly as it had escalated, the tension began to dissipate. Players from both sides started to separate, muttering under their breaths but no longer looking ready to throw hands.
Keshawn watched the scene unfold with a mixture of relief and frustration. He'd been in the zone, ready to close out the game and secure the win. Now, the momentum was gone, replaced by a nervous energy that hung over the court like a fog.
"Man, this some bullshit," Keshawn muttered to Vic, “Always something out here.”
“We good, bro,” Vic reassured him, “Let’s close it out, come on.”
…
Loraine excitedly opened the door into her older sister’s modest home, making her way through the living room as she searched for her. She made her way to the kitchen where Eleanora was by the sink, washing up before dinner.
"Elly," Loraine began, "I told you it wasn’t going to take long. I found a spot, an extended stay apartment by Village Green."
Eleanora's hands stilled over the sink full of dishes, soap suds clinging to her arms. She turned slowly, her eyes narrowing as she studied her younger sister's face. "Already? Lo, I already told you, it’s plenty of space here for you.”
Loraine nodded, unable to meet Eleanora's gaze. "It's time. We've been here long enough, it’s time we give you back your home.”
Eleanora dried her hands on a threadbare dishtowel, her movements deliberate and controlled. "And where's the money coming from, Loraine? You’ve had that job for a few weeks now, I know you ain’t saved up that much.”
"I've been saving," Loraine replied defensively. "And I picked up some extra shifts. We'll make it work."
Eleanora let out a bitter laugh. "Make it work? Like you made it work before? Running off to Baldwin Hills, thinking you were better than the rest of us?"
Loraine's jaw clenched. "That's not fair, Elly. We worked hard for what we had."
"And look where it got you," Eleanora shot back. "Right back here, with nothing but a felony conviction and a husband in jail, exactly what you were running away from.”
The words hung in the air between them, sharp and cutting. Loraine felt her cheeks burn with shame and anger. "I'm trying to do right by my kids," she said, her voice tight with emotion.
Eleanora shook her head, her expression a mixture of disappointment and frustration. "You've always been looking for the shortcut, Loraine. Always trying to run away instead of facing your problems head-on, building something."
"That's not true," Loraine protested, but even as the words left her mouth, she felt the weight of their hollowness.
"Isn't it?" Eleanora challenged. "The PPP loan fraud, the fancy house in Baldwin Hills, and now this? You're always chasing after something, never content with what you have."
Loraine's hands clenched into fists at her sides. "You don't understand. I'm trying to give my children a better life."
"By what? Moving into some run-down extended stay? That’s better than family?" Eleanora's voice rose, filling the small kitchen. "When are you going to learn that there are no shortcuts in life, Loraine? That sometimes you have to stay put and work through the hard times?"
“Some of us see bigger past this,” Eleanora fired back, “You want to stay and die here? That’s on you, don’t put that dream on me or mine.”
…
Angela pushed open the warped door to her apartment, the familiar stench of stale cigarettes and cheap booze assaulting her senses. The dim light filtering through grimy windows revealed a living room in disarray - empty bottles scattered across stained carpet, overflowing ashtrays perched precariously on every surface.
Her mother, Debra, was on her hands and knees, frantically pawing through a pile of dirty laundry.
"Mama?" Angela called softly, her heart sinking. "What are you doing?"
Debra's head snapped up, bloodshot eyes narrowing as they focused on her daughter. "You!" she slurred, stumbling to her feet. "Where'd you hide it, girl? Where's my shit?"
Angela took an instinctive step back. "I didn't hide anything, Mama. I just got home."
"Don't lie to me!" Debra screamed, her voice cracking. "I know you took it! Always tryin' to control me!”
Before Angela could react, Debra's hand cracked across her face. The force of the blow sent her stumbling into the wall, stars exploding behind her eyes.
"Mama, please," Angela pleaded, tears welling up. "I didn't take anything. You probably just forgot-"
Another blow cut her off, this time a closed fist to her ribs. Angela doubled over, gasping for air as Debra continued her assault.
"Ungrateful little bitch!" Debra raved, raining down blows. "After everything I've done for you!"
Angela curled into herself, not bothering to fight back or defend herself. She'd learned long ago that resistance only made things worse. So she endured, silent tears streaming down her face as her mother's drunken rage played out its familiar pattern.