MUST WIN

The Bramble High School Prowlers needed one more victory to qualify for the district tournament. Our star point guard was in the hospital with meningitis, but his back-up was competent and tested negative. Otherwise, puberty had been good to the team this season. Coach had run the numbers, and the players had grown a total of twenty inches and gained fifty pounds of muscle.

The Saint Syncletica Anchorites were a well-known opponent. These families had fled the public school system–they were our neighbors. Also: superior, pious, racist. They played basketball like the French.

Vivian, the Communication Director of The Old Rats motorcycle gang was running the clock and the scoreboard. The gang also brought their high tech sound and light system for the player introductions.

Prior to this year, I did not understand the rules of basketball. The whistle would seem to blow randomly, but my understanding was growing. Now, I could spot a travel, and I bought a supportive t-shirt in Prowlers colors. This was my community.

The Old Rats cut the lights. They projected a photo of our infected point guard looking vital and handsome. Vivian asked for a moment of silence for his speedy recovery over the PA system. The Anchorite fans kept chattering in the stands.

For The Old Rats motorcycle gang, respect was the primary currency, so there would probably be consequences. A few members walked across the court in the dark, up into the bleachers, to ask again for some fucking quiet.

The mortality rate for meningitis, without underlying medical conditions, was five to ten percent. Young Joel would likely survive, though he’d probably miss the postseason if we made it. I survived the first three months of widowhood, though the odds were not in my favor. Statistically, if I can last through the year, my chances to thrive skyrocket.

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