Recess
It was 1991, the year before everything changed. A few weeks before DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince dropped “Summertime”, right before the playoffs started, and Michael Jordan dethroned Magic Johnson as the greatest player in the world, and everyone wanted to “be like Mike”. Before we went to different high schools, life got so serious.
Back then, recess still meant something. It wasn’t just time to play; it was also time you could escape into being something else for a little while. It was the warmest day of the year so far, about 84 degrees, and we spilled outside before we finished the sloppy joes they served for lunch.
The last court on the right was reserved for us. The real ballers. The rim on the court in the middle was bent, so girls jumped rope there, a couple of guys stood around looking cool, and a few kids who were uncool passed through trying not to be seen. There was no backboard on the third court, so the teachers on duty usually stood there, pretending to keep an eye on the two hundred kids running wild around them.
We played three-on-three.
Tyree. Slim. Daquan. Me. Tasha. And some boy we remember as June.
That wasn’t his name. I know that for sure, but if you ask anyone what it was, they’ll pause, snap their fingers a few times, swear it on the tip of their tongue, then shake their head and say it was June.
By that time of the year, the net had a hole in it from being out in the elements all winter, and there was a split in the blacktop that looked like the world would open and swallow us whole for missing a layup. We played to twenty-one. No arguing over calls. Ones and twos. Make it, take it. Everything goes back to the three-point line.
The game started like always, jump shots from the top of the key until someone’s shot went in. That someone was usually Tasha. That day, she shot first. Swish. We got the ball first and missed our first shot, then they missed a layup, got the rebound, and missed again. I dribbled off my foot trying Tim Hardaway’s UTEP Two Step. You could always tell who was watching the NBA and who wasn’t, who thought they were better than they were, and who was really like that.
Tasha was like that.
She scored on a quick pull-up from the left wing.
Daquan stepped closer to her on the next play like he took it personally.
Slim made a long jumper from the corner that we counted as a two because the line was faded.
Tyree thought he was Magic Johnson and almost hit Mrs. Cooper with a no-look pass.
I knew my defense was the only reason I was on the court, so I barely shot the ball.
June — he just played.
He was a quiet kid by nature; he barely said anything on the court, you never saw him in the hallways, and he usually sat at the first table once you entered the cafeteria, with a couple of kids who only talked about comic books, and the boy who had brain surgery in fourth grade.
His eyes were always moving. In the cafeteria and on the court. He was never in a rush but got where he wanted to go on the court quickly. I think the score was nine to six when the game started to feel different. I ran into Slim last year in Chicago, and he said that day was magical. That word made it feel like it was something mythical, and it wasn’t, but something special happened that day.
That court felt bigger. Wider with possibility. There was more room to move than there should have been. Like the court adjusted with each dribble. The ball floated in slow motion, long enough for someone passing by to watch it go through the net.
Then I passed the ball to June in the right corner.
He dribbled once to his left, then swung the ball through his legs. Slim kept going; he pulled up. Swish. There was no sound because the ball went through the rim and straight through the hole in the net.
What happened next was the magical part.
It was like he was out there alone.
He dribbled to the right and made another jumper. Then made a layup. Another with his left hand. Hit a jumper off the backboard after a spin move. Then he hit a two.
I called out the score; it was thirteen apiece, but that didn’t matter anymore.
We were in a moment.
I looked up, and Skye Jackson was standing close to the court watching. Any other day, that would’ve made all of us show off, including Tasha. I think she smiled at me. It could’ve been June standing behind me, but I feel like that’s the first time she’d seen me. There’s a lot more to our story, but that’s for another day.
We played harder. Slim took off his shirt and handed it to a girl who had just transferred to our school. I don’t think he knew who he was giving it to; he was just trying not to be soaked the rest of the day. I kept an extra shirt in my locker, so I wasn’t worried.
It seemed like the lane opened each time June drove to the basket. Every shot landed softly on the rim or didn’t even touch the rim. He was making shots from all over the court. They kept switching who was guarding him, but it didn’t matter. He was moving like a pro; the rest of us looked like eighth graders.
Someone called out sixteen, and it felt like he’d scored every point since Tasha’s jump shot at the beginning. He didn’t. I made a couple of shots. Tasha hit two more jumpers, and then he hit her with a bounce pass so on point it surprised her, but she still got it in the basket.
Still, it felt that way.
And it’s that feeling that lives in you thirty-five years later.
Mrs. Cooper took a few steps closer to watch.
People remembered that part for years. Mrs. Cooper, who didn’t smile or give students A’s, stood at the edge of the court, watching. Tasha got the ball, dribbled to the right, then went behind her back and threw a no-look pass to June, who made another layup.
“Great play, Tasha!”
Mrs. Cooper clapped.
The cool boys and the weird kids started watching. Even a couple of older guys who lived in the neighborhood were leaning against the fence. We knew who they were, didn’t say their names out loud, except for the boys who worked for them after school.
This was not another game. Not just another recess.
I gave the ball to June again.
He drove left.
Faked right.
Jumper off the top of the square.
The way our coach tried to teach us in practice.
June wasn’t on the basketball team. We didn’t even know he could play until a few weeks before that day. None of us had classes with him; in fact, we really didn’t think he went to our school. We only ever saw him at lunch. And sometimes at the bus stop after school.
Tyree wanted to guard him now.
I checked the ball up top and faked like I was going to pass it to Tasha, but she popped out to the corner. I turned to pass to June, and Tyree jumped between us, but I held on to the ball, and June took off to the rim. I threw a bounce pass that was probably a little too far ahead of him, but he grabbed it anyway.
For years, the story would say that he dunked; that he rose up and slammed the ball with his right hand, then hung on the rim while everybody went crazy.
None of that happened.
He jumped higher than anyone I’d seen in middle school, then hung in the air a little longer, and tapped the backboard. His full palm against the board, his fingertips on the edge of the square he’d used so masterfully that day. It felt like a dunk back then. At that age, and on that court, it was as good as a dunk.
Tasha scored the next basket, and I yelled, Game point!
I think they still had eight or nine. The score didn’t matter anymore. Everyone was waiting to see what June did next.
I checked the ball up top.
I looked around. Skye was smiling. Mrs. Cooper was, too. Tasha was pointing to June. The kids beneath the basket looked like they were holding their breath. I dribbled twice, then motioned for June to cut with my head. He faked like he was going to the basket, then popped back to the three-point line with his hands out for me to pass him the ball.
I did, then went to set a pick on Daquan to help Tasha get open for a jump shot. Tyree watched me run to the right, then drifted over to help Slim try to guard June. I was wide open, threw my hands in the air to prove it, and I might have jumped up and down two or three times. June didn’t see me. He might have, but decided against passing to me, because he drove left, then spun back right. Tyree and Slim ran into each other as June rose above them.
He kept going higher and higher, and for a second, it felt like he stayed in the air for five or six seconds. The ball came off his fingers and momentarily got lost in the sun. I swear time stood still — the wind didn’t blow; there was no sound, just hundreds of eyes following the ball in slow motion. The rotation was perfect; I read Spalding six times before it dropped through the net.
Twenty-one.
The bell rang, and the blacktop came alive.
People were yelling, running everywhere, and others were jumping because there was nowhere else to put the feeling. I pumped my fist like we won the NBA Championship. I couldn’t find June in the chaos.
“Good game.”
Tasha handed me the ball.
I don’t know how she ended up with it, or how she didn’t break a sweat.
“Yeah, y’all were killing it today.”
“Stop, Malik. You gave us the ball right where we needed it.”
Tasha always made me feel more confident on the court.
We gave each other five and lined up to go inside.
I still didn’t see June; someone said his class went through a different door than everyone else. He didn’t play the next day, just watched as some kid named Derek did his best to reenact the performance from the day before. In fact, he only played once or twice more that school year, because he only came to school once or twice more.
Some people said he moved. Some people said he transferred to a Catholic school in Camden. Someone whispered that he may have gotten locked up. The story changed depending on who you talked to. The same way people would say he scored all the points in that game. Or eighteen straight. I know it was eleven. It felt like more.
Even now.
We called him by a name that wasn’t his, and we remember that name. And that day. And every basket he scored. Every dime he dropped. The way Mrs. Cooper rooted for Tasha. How Skye Jackson’s hair looked when she smiled. We remember the feeling, because it felt like forever. And that didn’t happen again for so many of us, but recess was long enough to hold it.