Neighborhood.
Neighborhood.
Keshawn gotta fight someone for some respect at this point.
Neighborhood.
let's get it!
This is what's wrong with us as black people smh
Neighborhood.
From the Westside with Love - Episode 10
Keshawn slumped on the cold metal bench, his shoulders hunched as he stared at his scuffed sneakers. Another game, another slow start. Coach Hopkins' words echoed in his head: "You gotta bring that fire from the first whistle, son!" Easy for him to say.
The squeak of shoes on hardwood and the rhythmic thump of the ball faded into white noise as Keshawn retreated into his thoughts. A shrill whistle pierced the air, followed by Coach Hopkins' gruff voice calling for a substitution. Not for him though.
"Put the fine one back in! Number 44!"
The sudden catcall jolted Keshawn from his brooding. His head snapped up, eyes widening as they landed on a curvaceous girl with deep brown skin and a megawatt smile. She was perched in the bleachers a few rows up, flanked by a couple of giggling friends.
Keshawn felt heat creep up his neck. He recognized her from the halls at school - hard to miss with that vibrant energy she carried. But he'd never spoken to her. Hell, he'd barely spoken to anyone since transferring.
He quickly averted his gaze, pretending to be fascinated by the scuff marks on the gym floor. But he couldn't help the small smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. There was something absurd about the whole situation - him sulking on the bench while this girl he'd never met hollered at him like he was some kind of Adonis.
A chuckle escaped before he could stop it. Keshawn felt some of the tension leave his shoulders as he shook his head, still grinning despite himself.
As if on cue, Coach Hopkins barked, "Keshawn! You're in for Jared. Let's see some hustle out there!"
Keshawn sprang to his feet, a newfound energy coursing through him. He jogged onto the court, catching Vic's eye as he settled into position. Vic gave him a subtle nod, a silent agreement passing between them.
The whistle blew and the game resumed at a frenetic pace. Keshawn found himself moving with a fluidity he hadn't felt all season. On defense, he anticipated the opposing point guard's crossover, timing his swipe perfectly to knock the ball loose. He scooped it up and took off down the court, his long strides eating up the hardwood.
Vic, always two steps ahead, had already sprinted to the opposite corner. Without breaking stride, Keshawn whipped a no-look pass that threaded between two defenders. Vic caught it in stride and laid it in softly off the glass. The crowd erupted.
On the next offensive possession, Keshawn set a bone-crushing screen that freed up their A.J. for an open three. Swish. He was everywhere at once, a whirlwind of arms and legs, disrupting passing lanes and contesting shots.
Then came the moment that sent the once tepid gymnasium into an absolute frenzy. Vic pushed the ball up court on a fast break, and Keshawn streaked down the left side. Their eyes met for a split second - that was all it took. Vic lofted the ball high, a perfect arc that seemed to hang in the air forever.
Keshawn soared, his body stretching impossibly long. He caught the ball with both hands at the apex of his jump, cocked it back behind his head, and slammed it through the hoop with a thunderous force that shook the backboard. The gym exploded in a cacophony of cheers and stomping feet.
As he landed, Keshawn couldn't help but glance toward the bleachers.
“That’s my baby daddy, right there!” she yelled, her smile even brighter than before. He allowed himself a small grin before hustling back on defense.
…
With just sixty seconds left on the clock, Keshawn found himself with the ball at the top of the key, his team down by one. He surveyed the court, searching for an opening. Vic cut hard towards the baseline, dragging his defender with him. Keshawn hesitated for a split second, then made his move. He exploded towards the paint, his first step leaving his defender flat-footed. But as he gathered to elevate, the opposing center rotated over, arms outstretched.
Keshawn tried to thread the needle, attempting a no-look bounce pass to A.J. in the corner. But the ball skidded off his teammate’s leg and careened out of bounds. Turnover.
The groan from the crowd was palpable. Keshawn's shoulders slumped as he jogged back on defense, his mind racing with self-recrimination. He'd blown it. The chance to take the lead, to be the hero – gone in an instant of poor decision-making.
As they set up in their defensive formation, Vic sidled up next to him. "Come on now," he murmured, just loud enough for Keshawn to hear. "Forget about that shit, lock this shit up.”
Keshawn nodded, forcing himself to take a deep breath. He settled into a low stance, hands active, eyes locked onto his man. The opposing point guard brought the ball up court with agonizing slowness, milking the clock.
With thirty seconds left, they initiated their offense. A flurry of screens and cuts ensued, bodies colliding and separating in a choreographed chaos. Vic fought through a bruising pick, staying glued to his man's hip. He could feel the sweat trickling down his back, hear the squeak of sneakers and the increasingly frantic shouts from both benches.
The ball found its way to the opposing team's leading scorer on the wing. He jab-stepped, trying to create space, but Keshawn didn't bite. He elevated for a jumper and Keshawn went up with him, timing his jump perfectly.
His fingertips grazed the ball just as it left the shooter's hand. The shot fell well short, clanging off the front of the rim. Vic soared in from the weak side, snatching the rebound and immediately calling timeout.
Coach Hopkins frantically diagrammed a play during the huddle, but Keshawn could see the glint in Vic's eye. As they broke the huddle, Vic muttered, "Fuck that shit, we’re running ‘Denver’ nigga, you and me.”
The whistle blew and Keshawn inbounded the ball to Vic who dribbled to the top of the key, his eyes locked with Keshawn's. With a subtle nod, Keshawn lumbered over, setting a wide stance for the screen. The defender guarding Vic tensed, anticipating the pick.
As Keshawn's shoulder connected with Vic's defender, Vic exploded to his right, using the screen to create separation. Keshawn's man hedged hard, trying to cut off Vic's drive. For a split second, it looked like Vic would dish it back to a rolling Keshawn.
But Vic had other plans.
With a lightning-quick hesitation dribble, he froze both defenders. Keshawn's man scrambled to recover, lunging desperately to contest what he thought would be a pass. Instead, Vic kept his dribble alive, crossing over to his left hand and taking two long strides toward the elbow.
The clock ticked down. Five. Four.
Vic planted his left foot hard, using the momentum to create space for his patented step-back jumper. His defender, caught flat-footed by the sudden change of direction, could only watch as Vic rose up.
Three. Two.
Time seemed to slow as the ball left Vic's fingertips, spinning with perfect backspin as it arced toward the hoop. The gym held its collective breath, hundreds of eyes tracking the ball's flight.
One.
The buzzer blared just as the ball reached its apex. For a heart-stopping moment, it seemed to hover on the rim, dancing between in and out. Then, with a soft swish, it fell through the net.
The gym erupted. Vic's teammates mobbed him, their triumphant yells drowning out the anguished groans of the opposing team. Keshawn fought through the crowd, wrapping Vic in a bone-crushing hug.
"I told you, nigga!" Vic shouted over the yelling, his face split by an ear-to-ear grin. "That's what I fucking do, nigga!”
…
The Black Experience's post-game party was in full swing, the bass thumping through the floorboards of Ronnie’s parents' basement. Red cups and discarded Louisiana chicken boxes littered every surface, and the air was thick with the mingled scents of cheap beer, weed, and teenage swagger.
Vic was holding court in the center of the room, regaling a group of wide-eyed underclassmen with a dramatically embellished retelling of his game-winning shot. His animated gestures sent beer sloshing over the rim of his cup, but no one seemed to mind.
"And then, I was like, 'Fuck that play, coach. I got this shit,'" Vic boasted, his grin infectious. "You should've seen Keshawn's face when I called 'Denver.' Nigga looked like he'd seen a ghost!"
The crowd erupted in laughter, and Angela couldn't help but shake her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. That was Vic for you – never one to let the truth get in the way of a good story.
As Vic basked in the adoration of his admirers, a new figure pushed through the crowd. It was the girl from the bleachers, her curvy frame wrapped in a form-fitting dress that shimmered under the dim basement lights. Her hair was styled in intricate box braids that cascaded down her shoulders, adorned with tiny gold cuffs that clinked softly as she moved.
"Yo, Vic!" she called out, her voice carrying over the pulsing music.
Vic sucked his teeth, sharing a brief glance with Angela as she rolled her eyes. "What's good, Gayle? You want my autograph or something?"
Gayle smiled before lifting up a middle finger to his face, "Boy, y’all still sorry," Her eyes scanned the room before returning to Vic. "I’m here to see the real star of the show. Where that boy that’s always hanging out with you?”
Vic's smile faltered for a split second. "Keshawn? Nah, he ain't here. Probably at home eating his cookies and milk or some shit.”
Gayle's disappointment was evident, her full lips forming a slight pout. "For real? Damn, just y’all weak ass niggas here then?”
Before Vic could respond, Angela materialized at his side, her arm snaking possessively around his waist. Her eyes narrowed as she sized up Gayle.
"Can we help you with something?" Angela's voice dripped with barely concealed hostility.
Gayle raised an eyebrow, clearly taken aback by Angela's tone. "Excuse me? Don’t nobody want your dusty ass nigga. I was just asking about Keshawn."
Angela scoffed, her grip on Vic tightening. "Well, as Vic already told you, he ain't here. So why don't you take your ghetto ass somewhere else?"
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Gayle's eyes flashed dangerously, her body tensing like a coiled spring. "Ghetto ass? Girl, who the fuck do you think you're talking to?"
Vic, sensing the impending storm, tried to intervene. "Yo, chill out, both of y'all. It ain't that serious-"
But his words fell on deaf ears. Angela stepped forward, squaring up to Gayle. "I'm talking to the hood rat who's always thirsting after a nigga. You got a problem with that, bitch?"
Gayle laughed, a harsh, mirthless sound. "Thirsty? Bitch, I could have your nigga tomorrow. Matter of fact, tonight if I really want to. He know it too.”
“Aight,” Vic stepped in between of them, “Take your ass somewhere and play with somebody else. I ain’t going to peel her off you.”
“Nigga, please,” Gayle laughed, “We all know that bitch weak as hell. Fake ass bougie bitch that don’t got no motion but act like she above us. We know how you live, dirty bitch.”
“Fuck you,” Angela spat as Gayle walked away, holding a middle finger as she disappeared into the crowd.
Keshawn slumped on the cold metal bench, his shoulders hunched as he stared at his scuffed sneakers. Another game, another slow start. Coach Hopkins' words echoed in his head: "You gotta bring that fire from the first whistle, son!" Easy for him to say.
The squeak of shoes on hardwood and the rhythmic thump of the ball faded into white noise as Keshawn retreated into his thoughts. A shrill whistle pierced the air, followed by Coach Hopkins' gruff voice calling for a substitution. Not for him though.
"Put the fine one back in! Number 44!"
The sudden catcall jolted Keshawn from his brooding. His head snapped up, eyes widening as they landed on a curvaceous girl with deep brown skin and a megawatt smile. She was perched in the bleachers a few rows up, flanked by a couple of giggling friends.
Keshawn felt heat creep up his neck. He recognized her from the halls at school - hard to miss with that vibrant energy she carried. But he'd never spoken to her. Hell, he'd barely spoken to anyone since transferring.
He quickly averted his gaze, pretending to be fascinated by the scuff marks on the gym floor. But he couldn't help the small smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. There was something absurd about the whole situation - him sulking on the bench while this girl he'd never met hollered at him like he was some kind of Adonis.
A chuckle escaped before he could stop it. Keshawn felt some of the tension leave his shoulders as he shook his head, still grinning despite himself.
As if on cue, Coach Hopkins barked, "Keshawn! You're in for Jared. Let's see some hustle out there!"
Keshawn sprang to his feet, a newfound energy coursing through him. He jogged onto the court, catching Vic's eye as he settled into position. Vic gave him a subtle nod, a silent agreement passing between them.
The whistle blew and the game resumed at a frenetic pace. Keshawn found himself moving with a fluidity he hadn't felt all season. On defense, he anticipated the opposing point guard's crossover, timing his swipe perfectly to knock the ball loose. He scooped it up and took off down the court, his long strides eating up the hardwood.
Vic, always two steps ahead, had already sprinted to the opposite corner. Without breaking stride, Keshawn whipped a no-look pass that threaded between two defenders. Vic caught it in stride and laid it in softly off the glass. The crowd erupted.
On the next offensive possession, Keshawn set a bone-crushing screen that freed up their A.J. for an open three. Swish. He was everywhere at once, a whirlwind of arms and legs, disrupting passing lanes and contesting shots.
Then came the moment that sent the once tepid gymnasium into an absolute frenzy. Vic pushed the ball up court on a fast break, and Keshawn streaked down the left side. Their eyes met for a split second - that was all it took. Vic lofted the ball high, a perfect arc that seemed to hang in the air forever.
Keshawn soared, his body stretching impossibly long. He caught the ball with both hands at the apex of his jump, cocked it back behind his head, and slammed it through the hoop with a thunderous force that shook the backboard. The gym exploded in a cacophony of cheers and stomping feet.
As he landed, Keshawn couldn't help but glance toward the bleachers.
“That’s my baby daddy, right there!” she yelled, her smile even brighter than before. He allowed himself a small grin before hustling back on defense.
…
With just sixty seconds left on the clock, Keshawn found himself with the ball at the top of the key, his team down by one. He surveyed the court, searching for an opening. Vic cut hard towards the baseline, dragging his defender with him. Keshawn hesitated for a split second, then made his move. He exploded towards the paint, his first step leaving his defender flat-footed. But as he gathered to elevate, the opposing center rotated over, arms outstretched.
Keshawn tried to thread the needle, attempting a no-look bounce pass to A.J. in the corner. But the ball skidded off his teammate’s leg and careened out of bounds. Turnover.
The groan from the crowd was palpable. Keshawn's shoulders slumped as he jogged back on defense, his mind racing with self-recrimination. He'd blown it. The chance to take the lead, to be the hero – gone in an instant of poor decision-making.
As they set up in their defensive formation, Vic sidled up next to him. "Come on now," he murmured, just loud enough for Keshawn to hear. "Forget about that shit, lock this shit up.”
Keshawn nodded, forcing himself to take a deep breath. He settled into a low stance, hands active, eyes locked onto his man. The opposing point guard brought the ball up court with agonizing slowness, milking the clock.
With thirty seconds left, they initiated their offense. A flurry of screens and cuts ensued, bodies colliding and separating in a choreographed chaos. Vic fought through a bruising pick, staying glued to his man's hip. He could feel the sweat trickling down his back, hear the squeak of sneakers and the increasingly frantic shouts from both benches.
The ball found its way to the opposing team's leading scorer on the wing. He jab-stepped, trying to create space, but Keshawn didn't bite. He elevated for a jumper and Keshawn went up with him, timing his jump perfectly.
His fingertips grazed the ball just as it left the shooter's hand. The shot fell well short, clanging off the front of the rim. Vic soared in from the weak side, snatching the rebound and immediately calling timeout.
Coach Hopkins frantically diagrammed a play during the huddle, but Keshawn could see the glint in Vic's eye. As they broke the huddle, Vic muttered, "Fuck that shit, we’re running ‘Denver’ nigga, you and me.”
The whistle blew and Keshawn inbounded the ball to Vic who dribbled to the top of the key, his eyes locked with Keshawn's. With a subtle nod, Keshawn lumbered over, setting a wide stance for the screen. The defender guarding Vic tensed, anticipating the pick.
As Keshawn's shoulder connected with Vic's defender, Vic exploded to his right, using the screen to create separation. Keshawn's man hedged hard, trying to cut off Vic's drive. For a split second, it looked like Vic would dish it back to a rolling Keshawn.
But Vic had other plans.
With a lightning-quick hesitation dribble, he froze both defenders. Keshawn's man scrambled to recover, lunging desperately to contest what he thought would be a pass. Instead, Vic kept his dribble alive, crossing over to his left hand and taking two long strides toward the elbow.
The clock ticked down. Five. Four.
Vic planted his left foot hard, using the momentum to create space for his patented step-back jumper. His defender, caught flat-footed by the sudden change of direction, could only watch as Vic rose up.
Three. Two.
Time seemed to slow as the ball left Vic's fingertips, spinning with perfect backspin as it arced toward the hoop. The gym held its collective breath, hundreds of eyes tracking the ball's flight.
One.
The buzzer blared just as the ball reached its apex. For a heart-stopping moment, it seemed to hover on the rim, dancing between in and out. Then, with a soft swish, it fell through the net.
The gym erupted. Vic's teammates mobbed him, their triumphant yells drowning out the anguished groans of the opposing team. Keshawn fought through the crowd, wrapping Vic in a bone-crushing hug.
"I told you, nigga!" Vic shouted over the yelling, his face split by an ear-to-ear grin. "That's what I fucking do, nigga!”
…
The Black Experience's post-game party was in full swing, the bass thumping through the floorboards of Ronnie’s parents' basement. Red cups and discarded Louisiana chicken boxes littered every surface, and the air was thick with the mingled scents of cheap beer, weed, and teenage swagger.
Vic was holding court in the center of the room, regaling a group of wide-eyed underclassmen with a dramatically embellished retelling of his game-winning shot. His animated gestures sent beer sloshing over the rim of his cup, but no one seemed to mind.
"And then, I was like, 'Fuck that play, coach. I got this shit,'" Vic boasted, his grin infectious. "You should've seen Keshawn's face when I called 'Denver.' Nigga looked like he'd seen a ghost!"
The crowd erupted in laughter, and Angela couldn't help but shake her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. That was Vic for you – never one to let the truth get in the way of a good story.
As Vic basked in the adoration of his admirers, a new figure pushed through the crowd. It was the girl from the bleachers, her curvy frame wrapped in a form-fitting dress that shimmered under the dim basement lights. Her hair was styled in intricate box braids that cascaded down her shoulders, adorned with tiny gold cuffs that clinked softly as she moved.
"Yo, Vic!" she called out, her voice carrying over the pulsing music.
Vic sucked his teeth, sharing a brief glance with Angela as she rolled her eyes. "What's good, Gayle? You want my autograph or something?"
Gayle smiled before lifting up a middle finger to his face, "Boy, y’all still sorry," Her eyes scanned the room before returning to Vic. "I’m here to see the real star of the show. Where that boy that’s always hanging out with you?”
Vic's smile faltered for a split second. "Keshawn? Nah, he ain't here. Probably at home eating his cookies and milk or some shit.”
Gayle's disappointment was evident, her full lips forming a slight pout. "For real? Damn, just y’all weak ass niggas here then?”
Before Vic could respond, Angela materialized at his side, her arm snaking possessively around his waist. Her eyes narrowed as she sized up Gayle.
"Can we help you with something?" Angela's voice dripped with barely concealed hostility.
Gayle raised an eyebrow, clearly taken aback by Angela's tone. "Excuse me? Don’t nobody want your dusty ass nigga. I was just asking about Keshawn."
Angela scoffed, her grip on Vic tightening. "Well, as Vic already told you, he ain't here. So why don't you take your ghetto ass somewhere else?"
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Gayle's eyes flashed dangerously, her body tensing like a coiled spring. "Ghetto ass? Girl, who the fuck do you think you're talking to?"
Vic, sensing the impending storm, tried to intervene. "Yo, chill out, both of y'all. It ain't that serious-"
But his words fell on deaf ears. Angela stepped forward, squaring up to Gayle. "I'm talking to the hood rat who's always thirsting after a nigga. You got a problem with that, bitch?"
Gayle laughed, a harsh, mirthless sound. "Thirsty? Bitch, I could have your nigga tomorrow. Matter of fact, tonight if I really want to. He know it too.”
“Aight,” Vic stepped in between of them, “Take your ass somewhere and play with somebody else. I ain’t going to peel her off you.”
“Nigga, please,” Gayle laughed, “We all know that bitch weak as hell. Fake ass bougie bitch that don’t got no motion but act like she above us. We know how you live, dirty bitch.”
“Fuck you,” Angela spat as Gayle walked away, holding a middle finger as she disappeared into the crowd.
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 4730
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Neighborhood.
Keshawn weak af, you need to give him something soon. Nigga bothers me.
Neighborhood.
Damn, fake ass Maya Angelou got piss in the hallway and crackpipes in the sink? Gayle too wild for Keshawn.
Neighborhood.
He had a good game lmao fymCaptain Canada wrote: ↑05 Dec 2024, 00:04Keshawn weak af, you need to give him something soon. Nigga bothers me.
The struggle births consciousness my good brother.
Neighborhood.
From the Westside with Love - Episode 11
Coach Peters leaned against the bleachers, his arms crossed as he watched Vic lead the team through their warm-up routine. The squeak of sneakers on polished hardwood echoed through the gym, punctuated by the rhythmic thud of basketballs hitting the floor.
"You know we love him," Peters said, nodding towards Vic. "He’s everything you want as a coach.”
Beside him, the recruiter from Life Pacific University, a lanky man named Dave with a wispy mustache and an ill-fitting blazer, scribbled something in his notepad. "Has he come around yet? Accepted that D1 isn't in the cards?"
Peters sighed, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. "You know how it is, reality is hard to face for some of them. I get it, a couple more inches and he’s mid-major for sure.”
On the court, Vic called out encouragement to his teammates as they transitioned into stretches. His voice carried across the gym, steady and assured.
"We've had some long talks," Peters continued. "I think he's starting to see the bigger picture. Life Pacific could be a great fit for him."
Dave nodded, his eyes never leaving Vic as the young man effortlessly dribbled the basketball. "We certainly think so. Our program could use a player with his leadership skills and work ethic."
"He's going to be a great college player and he’s got the fire," Peters mused. "Just needs to redirect it. Life Pacific could give him that chance to shine, to really make an impact."
Dave's pen scratched across the paper again. "So, what do you think? Is he ready to commit?"
Peters exhaled slowly, his gaze fixed on Vic as the young man gathered his team for a pre-practice huddle. "I think... I think he's getting there. It's not easy, you know? His brother Trey was the same way, always thinking something greater was on the horizon. You know how these type of kids are, I don’t have to tell you.”
Dave's eyes narrowed, focusing on the lanky junior who jogged to the top of the key. Keshawn caught the ball, his long fingers spreading across its surface as he pivoted, eyes scanning the court. With a quick flick of his wrist, he initiated the drill, passing to his right before sprinting down the middle of the court.
The ball zipped between players, a blur of orange against the shiny floor. When it returned to Keshawn's hands, he didn't hesitate. In one fluid motion, he rose from the floor, his form perfect as he released a jump shot from just inside the three-point line. The ball arced through the air, barely grazing the net as it swished through.
"Beautiful," Coach Stewie called out, clapping his hands. "That's how it's done!"
Dave leaned towards Peters, his pen poised over his notepad. "What about him? Where the fuck have y’all been hiding him?”
Peters couldn't help but chuckle, shaking his head. "Keshawn? Don't waste your time, Dave. That kid's not going to LP, no offense.”
As if to prove Peters' point, Keshawn intercepted a pass during the next rotation, his long arms extending like a windmill. He dribbled once, twice, then exploded towards the basket. The other players seemed to move in slow motion as Keshawn soared through the air, slamming the ball through the hoop with a thunderous dunk that echoed through the gym.
"Good lord," Dave muttered, scribbling furiously.
"I don’t know why you writing shit down," Peters said, a hint of pride in his voice. "Don’t get me wrong, he’s soft as baby shit sometimes but with his height and athleticism? Shit, someone’s going to take him and probably lose their job over it but they’re taking a chance on him.”
“Where the fuck did y’all get him from?”
“He’s Vic’s cousin or some shit,” Peters shrugged, “Who knows with them sometimes. I think he played at one of those prep schools last year but they didn’t play anybody, came in with no offers. He’s only a junior so by this time next year, the whole WCC might be in this gym.”
"You're telling me he's not even a senior?" Dave asked, his eyes wide as he continued to inspect Keshawn.
Peters nodded, a knowing smile on his face. "Yep. High GPA kid, too. I’m telling you, you put Vic inside Keshawn’s body, you’re talking lottery pick.”
…
The hum of the engine blended with the muffled beats leaking from Keshawn's headphones as Vic's beat-up Corolla crawled through rush hour traffic. Streetlights flickered to life, casting an amber glow over the dashboard where Vic's fingers drummed an impatient rhythm.
"I'm just saying," Angela huffed, her curls bouncing as she shook her head, "They’re literally bigots.”
"It’s all I got right now," Vic insisted, his voice straining to stay level. "I get to actually play basketball, not be a glorified team manager.”
Angela's skeptical snort cut through the air like a knife. "Life is more than basketball. You’re more than basketball. You didn’t study that hard and take the SATs three different times just to play basketball, Vic.”
Vic's grip tightened on the steering wheel. "Look, I know it's not ideal, but—"
"Not ideal?" Angela interrupted, her eyebrows shooting up. "Vic, we’ve ranted for hours about how organized religion is a tool of oppression. Now you're considering spending four years at a place called 'Life Pacific University'?"
The car inched forward as the traffic light turned green. Vic exhaled slowly, trying to keep his frustration in check. "That was different. I was just talking shit. This is real life, Ang. It ain’t like I got a bunch of different schools banging down my door.”
"You don’t have to play basketball!" Angela exclaimed, throwing her hands up. "It's more than just basketball, it’s your future. Don't you want to spend it somewhere that actually aligns with who you are?"
Vic's jaw clenched. "Who I am is someone who wants to play college ball. Life Pacific is offering me that chance."
A moment of tense silence filled the car, broken only by a particularly loud bass line escaping Keshawn's headphones. Angela's voice softened slightly. "I get that, Vic. I do. But there have to be other options."
"Like what?" Vic countered, his voice tinged with bitterness. "You see any other offers on the table? Because I sure as hell don't."
Angela hesitated, her eyes scanning Vic's face. "What about community college? You could play there, get your grades up even more, then transfer—"
"You saw what happened with fucking Trey," Vic snapped, then immediately regretted his tone. He took a deep breath. "Sorry. I just... I can't stop playing ball.”
Angela's hand found his on the gearshift, giving it a soft touch, “I know, babe.”
“Just come check it out with me next weekend,” Vic suggested, “They’ve been on me about taking a visit since the last one. It’s still a college degree, just some Jesus shit in between.”
He didn't tell her about the doubts gnawing at his own gut, the fear that he was making a huge mistake, settling instead of chasing his dreams a walk-on somewhere else. Instead, he forced a smile, trying to project confidence he didn't feel.
Angela studied him for a long moment, her dark eyes searching his face. Finally, she nodded slowly. "Alright, why not? If you like it, I love it.”
Coach Peters leaned against the bleachers, his arms crossed as he watched Vic lead the team through their warm-up routine. The squeak of sneakers on polished hardwood echoed through the gym, punctuated by the rhythmic thud of basketballs hitting the floor.
"You know we love him," Peters said, nodding towards Vic. "He’s everything you want as a coach.”
Beside him, the recruiter from Life Pacific University, a lanky man named Dave with a wispy mustache and an ill-fitting blazer, scribbled something in his notepad. "Has he come around yet? Accepted that D1 isn't in the cards?"
Peters sighed, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. "You know how it is, reality is hard to face for some of them. I get it, a couple more inches and he’s mid-major for sure.”
On the court, Vic called out encouragement to his teammates as they transitioned into stretches. His voice carried across the gym, steady and assured.
"We've had some long talks," Peters continued. "I think he's starting to see the bigger picture. Life Pacific could be a great fit for him."
Dave nodded, his eyes never leaving Vic as the young man effortlessly dribbled the basketball. "We certainly think so. Our program could use a player with his leadership skills and work ethic."
"He's going to be a great college player and he’s got the fire," Peters mused. "Just needs to redirect it. Life Pacific could give him that chance to shine, to really make an impact."
Dave's pen scratched across the paper again. "So, what do you think? Is he ready to commit?"
Peters exhaled slowly, his gaze fixed on Vic as the young man gathered his team for a pre-practice huddle. "I think... I think he's getting there. It's not easy, you know? His brother Trey was the same way, always thinking something greater was on the horizon. You know how these type of kids are, I don’t have to tell you.”
Dave's eyes narrowed, focusing on the lanky junior who jogged to the top of the key. Keshawn caught the ball, his long fingers spreading across its surface as he pivoted, eyes scanning the court. With a quick flick of his wrist, he initiated the drill, passing to his right before sprinting down the middle of the court.
The ball zipped between players, a blur of orange against the shiny floor. When it returned to Keshawn's hands, he didn't hesitate. In one fluid motion, he rose from the floor, his form perfect as he released a jump shot from just inside the three-point line. The ball arced through the air, barely grazing the net as it swished through.
"Beautiful," Coach Stewie called out, clapping his hands. "That's how it's done!"
Dave leaned towards Peters, his pen poised over his notepad. "What about him? Where the fuck have y’all been hiding him?”
Peters couldn't help but chuckle, shaking his head. "Keshawn? Don't waste your time, Dave. That kid's not going to LP, no offense.”
As if to prove Peters' point, Keshawn intercepted a pass during the next rotation, his long arms extending like a windmill. He dribbled once, twice, then exploded towards the basket. The other players seemed to move in slow motion as Keshawn soared through the air, slamming the ball through the hoop with a thunderous dunk that echoed through the gym.
"Good lord," Dave muttered, scribbling furiously.
"I don’t know why you writing shit down," Peters said, a hint of pride in his voice. "Don’t get me wrong, he’s soft as baby shit sometimes but with his height and athleticism? Shit, someone’s going to take him and probably lose their job over it but they’re taking a chance on him.”
“Where the fuck did y’all get him from?”
“He’s Vic’s cousin or some shit,” Peters shrugged, “Who knows with them sometimes. I think he played at one of those prep schools last year but they didn’t play anybody, came in with no offers. He’s only a junior so by this time next year, the whole WCC might be in this gym.”
"You're telling me he's not even a senior?" Dave asked, his eyes wide as he continued to inspect Keshawn.
Peters nodded, a knowing smile on his face. "Yep. High GPA kid, too. I’m telling you, you put Vic inside Keshawn’s body, you’re talking lottery pick.”
…
The hum of the engine blended with the muffled beats leaking from Keshawn's headphones as Vic's beat-up Corolla crawled through rush hour traffic. Streetlights flickered to life, casting an amber glow over the dashboard where Vic's fingers drummed an impatient rhythm.
"I'm just saying," Angela huffed, her curls bouncing as she shook her head, "They’re literally bigots.”
"It’s all I got right now," Vic insisted, his voice straining to stay level. "I get to actually play basketball, not be a glorified team manager.”
Angela's skeptical snort cut through the air like a knife. "Life is more than basketball. You’re more than basketball. You didn’t study that hard and take the SATs three different times just to play basketball, Vic.”
Vic's grip tightened on the steering wheel. "Look, I know it's not ideal, but—"
"Not ideal?" Angela interrupted, her eyebrows shooting up. "Vic, we’ve ranted for hours about how organized religion is a tool of oppression. Now you're considering spending four years at a place called 'Life Pacific University'?"
The car inched forward as the traffic light turned green. Vic exhaled slowly, trying to keep his frustration in check. "That was different. I was just talking shit. This is real life, Ang. It ain’t like I got a bunch of different schools banging down my door.”
"You don’t have to play basketball!" Angela exclaimed, throwing her hands up. "It's more than just basketball, it’s your future. Don't you want to spend it somewhere that actually aligns with who you are?"
Vic's jaw clenched. "Who I am is someone who wants to play college ball. Life Pacific is offering me that chance."
A moment of tense silence filled the car, broken only by a particularly loud bass line escaping Keshawn's headphones. Angela's voice softened slightly. "I get that, Vic. I do. But there have to be other options."
"Like what?" Vic countered, his voice tinged with bitterness. "You see any other offers on the table? Because I sure as hell don't."
Angela hesitated, her eyes scanning Vic's face. "What about community college? You could play there, get your grades up even more, then transfer—"
"You saw what happened with fucking Trey," Vic snapped, then immediately regretted his tone. He took a deep breath. "Sorry. I just... I can't stop playing ball.”
Angela's hand found his on the gearshift, giving it a soft touch, “I know, babe.”
“Just come check it out with me next weekend,” Vic suggested, “They’ve been on me about taking a visit since the last one. It’s still a college degree, just some Jesus shit in between.”
He didn't tell her about the doubts gnawing at his own gut, the fear that he was making a huge mistake, settling instead of chasing his dreams a walk-on somewhere else. Instead, he forced a smile, trying to project confidence he didn't feel.
Angela studied him for a long moment, her dark eyes searching his face. Finally, she nodded slowly. "Alright, why not? If you like it, I love it.”
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 4730
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Neighborhood.
Oh I can already tell how annoying this Angela character going to be 
good update though, love how the characters are developing (except Keshawn, fuck that dude).
good update though, love how the characters are developing (except Keshawn, fuck that dude).Neighborhood.
what keshawn did to you bruhCaptain Canada wrote: ↑05 Dec 2024, 12:41Oh I can already tell how annoying this Angela character going to be
Neighborhood.
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