I remember the old basketball court, the sound of the ball on the wooden floor.
A boy, a ball, and a court that smelled like dust and summer.
The court behind the school had no nets for a while, so we learned to aim for the sound — the clean rattle of iron when a shot was true. I could play for hours and think the afternoon had only just started.
I remember the game in the rain, the two of us sliding across the wet concrete, laughing too hard to breathe. We lost count of the score. I have never forgotten the feeling of my heart racing and my lungs full.
That court is gone now — torn down, paved over, forgotten by everyone but the boys who played there. But in my memory the floorboards are warm, the light is long, and the ball is always in my hands.
Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can still hear the bounce. It is the sound of being young and not knowing it.