Neighborhood.
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 4731
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Neighborhood.
Boy really ain't embracing his new surroundings whatsoever.
Neighborhood.
never embrace being poor, king.Captain Canada wrote: ↑04 Dec 2024, 11:39Boy really ain't embracing his new surroundings whatsoever.
Neighborhood.
From the Westside with Love - Episode 8
Keshawn tried to steady his heartrate as he jogged down the court, his palm still throbbing from his most recent block. He looked over the sideline as Coach Hopkins relayed the play to Vic, sending Keshawn to his usual spot in the high post. He received the ball, faking a pass to Vic as he cut into the lane. He tried to turn around to see if A.J. had came off the down screen on the backside but just as he did, the help defender came over, knocking the ball out of his hands.
…
The ball ricocheted off Keshawn's fingers, bouncing towards the sideline. He lunged for it, his massive frame stretching out, but the opposing point guard scooped it up first. Keshawn scrambled to his feet, sprinting back on defense.
He slid into position just as the other team's center received an entry pass in the low block. Keshawn bodied up, using his wide base to push the offensive player off his spot. As the center spun baseline, Keshawn stayed vertical, arms stretched high. The shot clanked off the rim, and Keshawn snatched the rebound.
…
Keshawn set a bruising pick for Vic at the top of the key, then rolled hard to the basket. Vic threaded a bounce pass through traffic, but it was a touch too far in front. Keshawn's fingertips grazed the ball, unable to corral it as it skittered out of bounds.
“Fuck!” Keshawn yelled out in frustration as he jogged back on defense.
Frustration etched across his face, Keshawn jogged back on D. This time, Vic called out the opponent's play before it developed, sliding over to cut off a driving lane. The ball-handler tried to bully his way to the rim but Keshawn met him there, forcing him to alter his shot. Another miss, another rebound for the big man.
…
Coach Hopkins bellowed from the sideline, "Warhog! Warhog!”
Keshawn established position on the left block, calling for the ball with one hand raised. A.J. lobbed it in, but Keshawn caught it awkwardly, fumbling as he tried to gather himself. The defense collapsed, hands everywhere. Keshawn pivoted, looking for an outlet, before rising up and finishing strong at the rim with a dunk.
“They can’t play with you!” Vic told him as they jogged back on defense, barely making a dent in the ever increasing deficit.
…
“Man, if I was your height,” Vic shook his head as Keshawn stared aimlessly out of the car window, having heard it his entire life, “I’d be dunking shit, no bullshit. I’m telling you, bro, none of the teams we play outside of like three of them got anybody that can stick you. ”
Keshawn nodded, his eyes fixed on the floor. He knew Vic was right, but he couldn't muster the energy to defend himself or promise to do better. Basketball just never ignited that fire for him and certainly not anymore.
Vic continued, gesticulating with his hands. "You bigger than everybody, stronger than everybody. Just fucking drop step and dunk that bitch, ain’t nobody even going to jump with you, bro.”
"Yeah, I hear you," Keshawn mumbled, still hungry despite their stop at Leslie’s. He felt a twinge of guilt at Vic's passion, knowing he didn't share the same level of commitment.
His mind drifted to the physics homework waiting for him at home, the upcoming calculus test he needed to ace. Those were the challenges that truly excited him, the problems he couldn't wait to tackle as that was his ticket out of that house.
“I’m going to get you right though,” Vic scoffed, “Ain’t no cousin of mine getting marked out like that.”
…
Angela drummed her fingers nervously on the folding table, her eyes darting between the community center's front door and the clock on the wall. The harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting unflattering shadows across the empty chairs she'd meticulously arranged in a semicircle.
"They don’t give a fuck about their kids," she muttered under her breath, willing more students to walk through the door. So far, only three kids had shown up for the club's first event: free tutoring session for kids of all age. Three. Out of the entire neighborhood.
She'd spent weeks plastering flyers, both physically and on social media. She'd sweet-talked the owners of the corner store and laundromat into letting her leave stacks by their cash registers. All that effort, and this was the turnout?
…
Quincy stumbled out of the dimly lit basement, the acrid smell of cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes. The cool night air hit his face, a stark contrast to the stuffy room he'd just left. His pockets felt lighter, his wallet damn near empty. The dice had not been kind tonight.
He shoved his hands deep into his jacket, fingers brushing against the lone crumpled twenty he had left. It wasn't enough. It was never enough. The neon signs of the his favorite watering hole beckoned, promising temporary relief from the gnawing disappointment in his gut.
His feet carried him, almost on autopilot, to Marge's spot. The familiar jingle of the bell above the door announced his arrival. A few regulars glanced up, nodding in recognition before turning back to their drinks.
"Quincy," Marge said, her voice a mix of warmth and concern. "Water?”
He slumped onto a barstool, the vinyl seat squeaking beneath him. "Not that kind of night," he muttered, sliding the crumpled twenty across the sticky bar top. "Crown and Coke, baby girl. Make it a double."
Marge's eyebrows furrowed, but she didn't argue. She'd been tending bar long enough to know when not to pry. The clink of ice cubes against glass seemed to echo in Quincy's ears as she poured his drink.
As she slid the tumbler towards him, Quincy caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Two months of sobriety had softened the lines around his eyes, put some meat back on his bones. Now, as he wrapped his fingers around the cool glass, he wondered how quickly those gains would disappear.
The first sip burned going down, a sensation both familiar and foreign after his time away. Quincy closed his eyes, letting the alcohol warm him from the inside out. It dulled the edges of his failure, numbed the ache of lost opportunities and squandered chances.
When he opened his eyes again, Marge was still there, wiping down the bar with a rag that had seen better days. She met his gaze, a silent question in her eyes. She still remembered the old Quincy.
"I don’t need to hear it," Quincy said, taking another long sip. "Just... keep 'em coming."
Keshawn tried to steady his heartrate as he jogged down the court, his palm still throbbing from his most recent block. He looked over the sideline as Coach Hopkins relayed the play to Vic, sending Keshawn to his usual spot in the high post. He received the ball, faking a pass to Vic as he cut into the lane. He tried to turn around to see if A.J. had came off the down screen on the backside but just as he did, the help defender came over, knocking the ball out of his hands.
…
The ball ricocheted off Keshawn's fingers, bouncing towards the sideline. He lunged for it, his massive frame stretching out, but the opposing point guard scooped it up first. Keshawn scrambled to his feet, sprinting back on defense.
He slid into position just as the other team's center received an entry pass in the low block. Keshawn bodied up, using his wide base to push the offensive player off his spot. As the center spun baseline, Keshawn stayed vertical, arms stretched high. The shot clanked off the rim, and Keshawn snatched the rebound.
…
Keshawn set a bruising pick for Vic at the top of the key, then rolled hard to the basket. Vic threaded a bounce pass through traffic, but it was a touch too far in front. Keshawn's fingertips grazed the ball, unable to corral it as it skittered out of bounds.
“Fuck!” Keshawn yelled out in frustration as he jogged back on defense.
Frustration etched across his face, Keshawn jogged back on D. This time, Vic called out the opponent's play before it developed, sliding over to cut off a driving lane. The ball-handler tried to bully his way to the rim but Keshawn met him there, forcing him to alter his shot. Another miss, another rebound for the big man.
…
Coach Hopkins bellowed from the sideline, "Warhog! Warhog!”
Keshawn established position on the left block, calling for the ball with one hand raised. A.J. lobbed it in, but Keshawn caught it awkwardly, fumbling as he tried to gather himself. The defense collapsed, hands everywhere. Keshawn pivoted, looking for an outlet, before rising up and finishing strong at the rim with a dunk.
“They can’t play with you!” Vic told him as they jogged back on defense, barely making a dent in the ever increasing deficit.
…
“Man, if I was your height,” Vic shook his head as Keshawn stared aimlessly out of the car window, having heard it his entire life, “I’d be dunking shit, no bullshit. I’m telling you, bro, none of the teams we play outside of like three of them got anybody that can stick you. ”
Keshawn nodded, his eyes fixed on the floor. He knew Vic was right, but he couldn't muster the energy to defend himself or promise to do better. Basketball just never ignited that fire for him and certainly not anymore.
Vic continued, gesticulating with his hands. "You bigger than everybody, stronger than everybody. Just fucking drop step and dunk that bitch, ain’t nobody even going to jump with you, bro.”
"Yeah, I hear you," Keshawn mumbled, still hungry despite their stop at Leslie’s. He felt a twinge of guilt at Vic's passion, knowing he didn't share the same level of commitment.
His mind drifted to the physics homework waiting for him at home, the upcoming calculus test he needed to ace. Those were the challenges that truly excited him, the problems he couldn't wait to tackle as that was his ticket out of that house.
“I’m going to get you right though,” Vic scoffed, “Ain’t no cousin of mine getting marked out like that.”
…
Angela drummed her fingers nervously on the folding table, her eyes darting between the community center's front door and the clock on the wall. The harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting unflattering shadows across the empty chairs she'd meticulously arranged in a semicircle.
"They don’t give a fuck about their kids," she muttered under her breath, willing more students to walk through the door. So far, only three kids had shown up for the club's first event: free tutoring session for kids of all age. Three. Out of the entire neighborhood.
She'd spent weeks plastering flyers, both physically and on social media. She'd sweet-talked the owners of the corner store and laundromat into letting her leave stacks by their cash registers. All that effort, and this was the turnout?
…
Quincy stumbled out of the dimly lit basement, the acrid smell of cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes. The cool night air hit his face, a stark contrast to the stuffy room he'd just left. His pockets felt lighter, his wallet damn near empty. The dice had not been kind tonight.
He shoved his hands deep into his jacket, fingers brushing against the lone crumpled twenty he had left. It wasn't enough. It was never enough. The neon signs of the his favorite watering hole beckoned, promising temporary relief from the gnawing disappointment in his gut.
His feet carried him, almost on autopilot, to Marge's spot. The familiar jingle of the bell above the door announced his arrival. A few regulars glanced up, nodding in recognition before turning back to their drinks.
"Quincy," Marge said, her voice a mix of warmth and concern. "Water?”
He slumped onto a barstool, the vinyl seat squeaking beneath him. "Not that kind of night," he muttered, sliding the crumpled twenty across the sticky bar top. "Crown and Coke, baby girl. Make it a double."
Marge's eyebrows furrowed, but she didn't argue. She'd been tending bar long enough to know when not to pry. The clink of ice cubes against glass seemed to echo in Quincy's ears as she poured his drink.
As she slid the tumbler towards him, Quincy caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Two months of sobriety had softened the lines around his eyes, put some meat back on his bones. Now, as he wrapped his fingers around the cool glass, he wondered how quickly those gains would disappear.
The first sip burned going down, a sensation both familiar and foreign after his time away. Quincy closed his eyes, letting the alcohol warm him from the inside out. It dulled the edges of his failure, numbed the ache of lost opportunities and squandered chances.
When he opened his eyes again, Marge was still there, wiping down the bar with a rag that had seen better days. She met his gaze, a silent question in her eyes. She still remembered the old Quincy.
"I don’t need to hear it," Quincy said, taking another long sip. "Just... keep 'em coming."
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 4731
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Neighborhood.
Addiction is a fickle bitch. That's a tough character that I'm intrigued where you're going to take him.
Neighborhood.
Captain Canada wrote: ↑04 Dec 2024, 13:51Addiction is a fickle bitch. That's a tough character that I'm intrigued where you're going to take him.
Neighborhood.
From the Westside with Love - Episode 9
The sun beat down on the cracked concrete of Leimert Park as Vic and Keshawn made their way past the rusty playground equipment and towards the basketball courts. A cacophony of squeaking sneakers, trash talk, and the rhythmic thump of balls against asphalt filled the air.
Vic glanced sideways at Keshawn, noting his younger cousin’s hesitant steps and the way his eyes darted nervously between the rowdy players.
"I already told you about that scary shit," Vic scoffed. "I don’t even care if you score shit today, just don’t get bitched out."
Keshawn remained vigil of his surrounding as he shook his head unconvincingly, “Ain’t nobody scared.”
As they approached the courts, Vic scanned the players, searching for a game that wouldn't allow Keshawn to get by with his natural athleticism. He spotted a group of guys who looked to be in their early twenties with body types that betrayed an athletic past.
"Yo!" Vic called out, raising a hand in greeting. "We got next.”
…
Vic winced as he watched Keshawn get knocked to the ground for the third time in as many minutes. But each time, he had gotten back up just a bit quicker, a determined set to his jaw. He gave chase as soon as he got to his feet, covering the length of the court in just a few strides as he settled into the paint. His mere presence was a deterrent as ball handlers would turn away at the last moment, kicking it back out to the perimeter.
A lazy pass came just in time as Vic gambled, jumping into the passing lane and picking off the pass. He dribbled the ball behind his back, giving his teammates — specifically Keshawn — enough time to begin the fastbreak. He dashed towards the right corner before taking a hard dribble inside, lobbing the ball up just as Keshawn was entering the paint.
The tall junior leaped into the air, tapping the ball ever so gently into the basket.
“Man, you better dunk that shit!” yelled Fat Stacks from the sidelines, the competitive game beginning to draw a bit of a crowd.
…
"Look, I get where you're coming from, but 'Children of the Movement' has history," Angela argued, her braids swinging as she gestured emphatically. "It connects us to something bigger than ourselves."
Ronnie leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Yeah, and it also makes us sound like we're stuck in the past. We need something fresh, something that speaks to who we are now."
The rest of the club members exchanged glances, the tension in the room palpable.
"'The Black Experience' though?" Angela rolled her eyes. "That's mad generic. We might as well call ourselves 'Melanin R Us'."
A few snickers rippled through the group, but Ronnie wasn't deterred. "It's fun, it’s light, it’s engaging. It's about more than just activism. We can still do all that political stuff, but we can also have fun. Throw parties, organize social events. Get more people involved."
"So what, we just water down our message to get more Instagram followers?" Angela shot back.
“Would that be so bad?” Tasha suggested, who had been quiet until then, “We all want to support and help the community but three kids showing up isn’t exactly doing our community justice either.”
The room fell silent as the group considered her words. Angela's brow furrowed in thought, carefully thinking of a reply. Just as she got ready to, Ronnie cut her off.
“When we started this, we all agreed that we didn’t want to be an off-brand BLM,” Ronnie interjected, much to Angela’s displeasure, “You’re the one always talking about how Black people have so much to offer.”
“We do,” Angela relented, “But I don’t want this to turn into a cheap knock off of a sorority or fraternity.”
“I just want us to make an impact,” Ronnie scoffed, “Ain’t nobody trying to hear people just bitch, moan and complain about shit.”
Angela was ready to fire back but sheathed her sword as she saw agreeing head nods around the room.
…
Keshawn crouched low in his defensive stance, eyes locked on his opponent's midsection. The stocky ball handler, easily a decade older and built like a fireplug, tried to bully his way into the paint. He lowered his shoulder, looking to create space, but Keshawn stayed with him step for step.
Just as the guard began his dribble, Keshawn pounced. His long arms snaked out, perfectly timing the strip. The ball popped loose, and in a flash, Keshawn was off to the races.
His sneakers pounded the cracked asphalt as he sprinted downcourt, eating up the distance in long, loping strides. The defender gave chase, but Keshawn had too much of a head start. As he approached the hoop, he gathered himself, muscles coiling like springs.
Two steps from the basket, Keshawn exploded upward. He cocked the ball back with both hands, legs splayed wide as he soared through the air. With a primal roar, he threw down a thunderous two-handed slam that shook the entire backboard.
"Goddamn!" someone shouted from the sidelines, impressed despite themselves.
Fat Stacks, however, was having none of it. "Man, that nigga sorry!" he bellowed, his booming voice carrying across the court. "Y'all better go at that nigga!”
Keshawn shook his head in frustration, having grown tired of the constant gnat in his ear from the sidelines. He had noticed the grin on Vic’s face with each time Fat Stacks would stand up, getting after Keshawn.
The opposing team inbounded the ball, desperation beginning to set in. They worked it around the perimeter, probing for weaknesses, before the ball found its way back to the stocky big. He locked eyes with Keshawn, a predatory grin spreading across his face.
He started his drive, using his lower center of gravity to try and bull his way to the hoop. Keshawn backpedaled, giving ground but staying in front of his man. He, looking for daylight, then hit Keshawn with a hesitation move before exploding towards the basket.
For a split second, it looked like he had a clear path. But Keshawn recovered with lightning quickness, timing his leap perfectly. Just as the guard released his layup, Keshawn's hand came down like a hammer, sending the ball ricocheting off the backboard and into the waiting arms of Vic.
Vic quickly swung the ball to Keshawn who slowed down the fast break, needing to catch his breath as the defense settled into their shape.
“Make that motherfucker go left!” Fat Stacks instructed, acting as a de-facto coach for the last two games, splitting the series. A few others had been waiting on the sidelines to play next but Fat Stacks’ presence led to no complaints of the ensuing rematches.
Keshawn passed the ball back to Vic who fired it right back to him, “Go at that nigga, he sorry!”
Keshawn squared up against his defender, who had taken Fat Stacks' advice to heart. He pressed up close, angling his body to cut off Keshawn's right side. His left foot was planted firmly, forcing Keshawn to his weak hand if he wanted to drive.
Undeterred, Keshawn began his attack. He jabbed right, trying to create space, but the defender didn't bite. He then attempted a crossover, but his opponent stayed glued to his hip. With the rest of the court clearing out for them to go at it, Keshawn had no choice but to go left.
He put the ball on the floor with his left hand, his dribble noticeably higher and less controlled than usual. The defender sensed the weakness and pounced, swiping at the ball. For a heart-stopping moment, the ball squirted free, bouncing erratically on the uneven concrete.
Keshawn lunged forward, his long arms stretching out to reclaim possession. He managed to corral the loose ball, but now found himself off-balance and out of options. The defender closed in, sensing an easy steal.
In a moment of pure instinct, Keshawn planted his back foot and executed a lightning-quick step-back. The sudden change of direction caught his opponent off guard, creating just enough separation. Without hesitation, Keshawn rose up, his form a bit awkward as he tried to adjust the shot to his strong hang.
The ball arced through the air, rotating with a slightly unconventional spin. It kissed off the backboard and dropped through the net with a satisfying swish.
As his teammates erupted in cheers, Keshawn turned and fixed Fat Stacks with an icy glare. The constant heckling had worn on his last nerve, and the pent-up frustration was evident in his eyes.
Fat Stacks, true to form, stepped onto the court. "Oh, that’s how we feeling?" he taunted, puffing out his chest as he approached Keshawn. "I’m always down for a friendly fade, my nigga. We don’t pump fake around here, mark.”
The tension in the air was palpable as Fat Stacks closed the distance. Keshawn was terrified but stood his ground, putting his pride above his fear. But before things could escalate, Vic smoothly inserted himself between the two, facing Fat Stacks with a placating grin.
"Get the fuck off the court, losing ass nigga," Vic said, his tone light but with an undercurrent of steel. "Nigga trying to be Phil Jackson and shit.”
Fat Stacks held Vic's gaze for a long moment before breaking into a booming laugh. "Nigga you wish I was coaching y’all sorry ass," he chuckled, playfully shoving Vic's shoulder. "He don’t do none of that shit at Hamilton, I’ve seen y’all games.”
“Fuck out of here,” Vic waved him off, continuing to engage in playful banter as Keshawn’s heart continued to pound, “We still would have blown y’all niggas out.”
“Who? Me and Trey’s squad?” Fat Stacks asked incredulously, “Hell nah, who guarding your brother? Matter of fact, who guarding me?”
“That’s light work,” Vic pointed towards Keshawn, “You seen how he did buddy right there.”
“Buddy right there a bitch,” Fat Stacks said loudly enough for the opposing team, who he had just been rooting for, to hear him, “And that was a lucky ass shot, Bambi ass motherfucker.”
Keshawn forced a smile, his heart still pumping from the close encounter.
The sun beat down on the cracked concrete of Leimert Park as Vic and Keshawn made their way past the rusty playground equipment and towards the basketball courts. A cacophony of squeaking sneakers, trash talk, and the rhythmic thump of balls against asphalt filled the air.
Vic glanced sideways at Keshawn, noting his younger cousin’s hesitant steps and the way his eyes darted nervously between the rowdy players.
"I already told you about that scary shit," Vic scoffed. "I don’t even care if you score shit today, just don’t get bitched out."
Keshawn remained vigil of his surrounding as he shook his head unconvincingly, “Ain’t nobody scared.”
As they approached the courts, Vic scanned the players, searching for a game that wouldn't allow Keshawn to get by with his natural athleticism. He spotted a group of guys who looked to be in their early twenties with body types that betrayed an athletic past.
"Yo!" Vic called out, raising a hand in greeting. "We got next.”
…
Vic winced as he watched Keshawn get knocked to the ground for the third time in as many minutes. But each time, he had gotten back up just a bit quicker, a determined set to his jaw. He gave chase as soon as he got to his feet, covering the length of the court in just a few strides as he settled into the paint. His mere presence was a deterrent as ball handlers would turn away at the last moment, kicking it back out to the perimeter.
A lazy pass came just in time as Vic gambled, jumping into the passing lane and picking off the pass. He dribbled the ball behind his back, giving his teammates — specifically Keshawn — enough time to begin the fastbreak. He dashed towards the right corner before taking a hard dribble inside, lobbing the ball up just as Keshawn was entering the paint.
The tall junior leaped into the air, tapping the ball ever so gently into the basket.
“Man, you better dunk that shit!” yelled Fat Stacks from the sidelines, the competitive game beginning to draw a bit of a crowd.
…
"Look, I get where you're coming from, but 'Children of the Movement' has history," Angela argued, her braids swinging as she gestured emphatically. "It connects us to something bigger than ourselves."
Ronnie leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Yeah, and it also makes us sound like we're stuck in the past. We need something fresh, something that speaks to who we are now."
The rest of the club members exchanged glances, the tension in the room palpable.
"'The Black Experience' though?" Angela rolled her eyes. "That's mad generic. We might as well call ourselves 'Melanin R Us'."
A few snickers rippled through the group, but Ronnie wasn't deterred. "It's fun, it’s light, it’s engaging. It's about more than just activism. We can still do all that political stuff, but we can also have fun. Throw parties, organize social events. Get more people involved."
"So what, we just water down our message to get more Instagram followers?" Angela shot back.
“Would that be so bad?” Tasha suggested, who had been quiet until then, “We all want to support and help the community but three kids showing up isn’t exactly doing our community justice either.”
The room fell silent as the group considered her words. Angela's brow furrowed in thought, carefully thinking of a reply. Just as she got ready to, Ronnie cut her off.
“When we started this, we all agreed that we didn’t want to be an off-brand BLM,” Ronnie interjected, much to Angela’s displeasure, “You’re the one always talking about how Black people have so much to offer.”
“We do,” Angela relented, “But I don’t want this to turn into a cheap knock off of a sorority or fraternity.”
“I just want us to make an impact,” Ronnie scoffed, “Ain’t nobody trying to hear people just bitch, moan and complain about shit.”
Angela was ready to fire back but sheathed her sword as she saw agreeing head nods around the room.
…
Keshawn crouched low in his defensive stance, eyes locked on his opponent's midsection. The stocky ball handler, easily a decade older and built like a fireplug, tried to bully his way into the paint. He lowered his shoulder, looking to create space, but Keshawn stayed with him step for step.
Just as the guard began his dribble, Keshawn pounced. His long arms snaked out, perfectly timing the strip. The ball popped loose, and in a flash, Keshawn was off to the races.
His sneakers pounded the cracked asphalt as he sprinted downcourt, eating up the distance in long, loping strides. The defender gave chase, but Keshawn had too much of a head start. As he approached the hoop, he gathered himself, muscles coiling like springs.
Two steps from the basket, Keshawn exploded upward. He cocked the ball back with both hands, legs splayed wide as he soared through the air. With a primal roar, he threw down a thunderous two-handed slam that shook the entire backboard.
"Goddamn!" someone shouted from the sidelines, impressed despite themselves.
Fat Stacks, however, was having none of it. "Man, that nigga sorry!" he bellowed, his booming voice carrying across the court. "Y'all better go at that nigga!”
Keshawn shook his head in frustration, having grown tired of the constant gnat in his ear from the sidelines. He had noticed the grin on Vic’s face with each time Fat Stacks would stand up, getting after Keshawn.
The opposing team inbounded the ball, desperation beginning to set in. They worked it around the perimeter, probing for weaknesses, before the ball found its way back to the stocky big. He locked eyes with Keshawn, a predatory grin spreading across his face.
He started his drive, using his lower center of gravity to try and bull his way to the hoop. Keshawn backpedaled, giving ground but staying in front of his man. He, looking for daylight, then hit Keshawn with a hesitation move before exploding towards the basket.
For a split second, it looked like he had a clear path. But Keshawn recovered with lightning quickness, timing his leap perfectly. Just as the guard released his layup, Keshawn's hand came down like a hammer, sending the ball ricocheting off the backboard and into the waiting arms of Vic.
Vic quickly swung the ball to Keshawn who slowed down the fast break, needing to catch his breath as the defense settled into their shape.
“Make that motherfucker go left!” Fat Stacks instructed, acting as a de-facto coach for the last two games, splitting the series. A few others had been waiting on the sidelines to play next but Fat Stacks’ presence led to no complaints of the ensuing rematches.
Keshawn passed the ball back to Vic who fired it right back to him, “Go at that nigga, he sorry!”
Keshawn squared up against his defender, who had taken Fat Stacks' advice to heart. He pressed up close, angling his body to cut off Keshawn's right side. His left foot was planted firmly, forcing Keshawn to his weak hand if he wanted to drive.
Undeterred, Keshawn began his attack. He jabbed right, trying to create space, but the defender didn't bite. He then attempted a crossover, but his opponent stayed glued to his hip. With the rest of the court clearing out for them to go at it, Keshawn had no choice but to go left.
He put the ball on the floor with his left hand, his dribble noticeably higher and less controlled than usual. The defender sensed the weakness and pounced, swiping at the ball. For a heart-stopping moment, the ball squirted free, bouncing erratically on the uneven concrete.
Keshawn lunged forward, his long arms stretching out to reclaim possession. He managed to corral the loose ball, but now found himself off-balance and out of options. The defender closed in, sensing an easy steal.
In a moment of pure instinct, Keshawn planted his back foot and executed a lightning-quick step-back. The sudden change of direction caught his opponent off guard, creating just enough separation. Without hesitation, Keshawn rose up, his form a bit awkward as he tried to adjust the shot to his strong hang.
The ball arced through the air, rotating with a slightly unconventional spin. It kissed off the backboard and dropped through the net with a satisfying swish.
As his teammates erupted in cheers, Keshawn turned and fixed Fat Stacks with an icy glare. The constant heckling had worn on his last nerve, and the pent-up frustration was evident in his eyes.
Fat Stacks, true to form, stepped onto the court. "Oh, that’s how we feeling?" he taunted, puffing out his chest as he approached Keshawn. "I’m always down for a friendly fade, my nigga. We don’t pump fake around here, mark.”
The tension in the air was palpable as Fat Stacks closed the distance. Keshawn was terrified but stood his ground, putting his pride above his fear. But before things could escalate, Vic smoothly inserted himself between the two, facing Fat Stacks with a placating grin.
"Get the fuck off the court, losing ass nigga," Vic said, his tone light but with an undercurrent of steel. "Nigga trying to be Phil Jackson and shit.”
Fat Stacks held Vic's gaze for a long moment before breaking into a booming laugh. "Nigga you wish I was coaching y’all sorry ass," he chuckled, playfully shoving Vic's shoulder. "He don’t do none of that shit at Hamilton, I’ve seen y’all games.”
“Fuck out of here,” Vic waved him off, continuing to engage in playful banter as Keshawn’s heart continued to pound, “We still would have blown y’all niggas out.”
“Who? Me and Trey’s squad?” Fat Stacks asked incredulously, “Hell nah, who guarding your brother? Matter of fact, who guarding me?”
“That’s light work,” Vic pointed towards Keshawn, “You seen how he did buddy right there.”
“Buddy right there a bitch,” Fat Stacks said loudly enough for the opposing team, who he had just been rooting for, to hear him, “And that was a lucky ass shot, Bambi ass motherfucker.”
Keshawn forced a smile, his heart still pumping from the close encounter.
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chosenone58
- Posts: 4532
- Joined: 28 Nov 2018, 19:06
Neighborhood.
Glad to have you along for the ride, brodie. coming for that crown as the myplayer king
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chosenone58
- Posts: 4532
- Joined: 28 Nov 2018, 19:06
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 4731
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Neighborhood.
Scary ass nigga 