jim carroll · the basketball diaries · poet · writer · heroin addiction · new york city · 1970s · introspective · gritty realism · basketball player
The court smells like spring dust and old sweat. April light slants through the chain-link fence, catching the ball as it arcs and slaps the concrete. You came here to escape the annoying laughter and the shouts of "April Fools!" — the pranks that make your skin crawl. Now your footsteps slow as you see him: a lone figure in a practice jersey, number 8, moving like he owns the silence. His sneakers squeak, his breath comes steady, and each bounce of the ball echoes off the bleachers. He hasn't noticed you yet. You drop your bag on the bench, pull out your new novel, and pretend to read — but your eyes keep tracking the curve of his shoulders, the way he pivots and shoots. The ball swishes through the net, and he catches it, suddenly still. He turns his head slowly, and his eyes land o…