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laughed back. “Not in this lifetime.”
    â€œMaybe not,” he said, “but I’m a better player when I practice with you.”
    I didn’t push it because, in the first place, it was kind of a crummy thing to remind him that I always beat him, and also because Tim’s the only guy around who can give me any kind of a workout. He’s a good athlete; in addition to hoops, he plays football and baseball like I do. The truth is nobody my age, high-school age, is really much competition for me anymore—that’s why college would be so cool, but of course thanks to my old man … whatever.
    I ask Tim, “So you want first outs?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œMake it take it?”
    Tim shakes his head. “Not with the shooting touch you’ve had lately. Let’s go alternate possessions.”
    I shrug. “Whatever, Tim-bo. Pick yer poison. I’m feelin’ pretty strong.”
    He laughs. “That’s your breath, Paul—or maybe your feet.”
    I say, “Oh Tim-bo, bad move—now you’ve insulted me—now all my greatness will be cast before you.”
    Tim smiles. “Shut up and play.”
    He takes the ball out and I check it to him. As we start to go at it, we launch into the rhyming rap song from that Tom Hanks movie Big , the song the two kids always rap out together; Tim and I always start every workout like this.
    Tim dribbles the ball at the top of the key as we rap.
    He tries to shoot, but I block his shot and grab the ball.
    I laugh and say, “You owe me … awwwwwe!”
    I make a couple moves, then square up and shoot. Nothing but net.
    Tim takes the ball again and says, “My turn, bro, watch and learn.”
    That day when John-Boy Reich called me bro, it really bugged me, but Tim-bo and I are like brothers, and have been since we were ten years old: playing sports together, sleeping over, and watching every movie known to man. We never run out of stuff to slam each other about. There’s no reason to feel bad about Tim calling me bro, so I try not to, and on we go.
    We had our team practice earlier at school. It’s late afternoon now and we’re both pretty tired, but that’s how I like it best. When it starts to hurt, you have to concentrate harder. Sweat pours down the sides of my face and my chest and back. My thighs burn and my calves feel tight. I love this. It gets pretty intense as we bang away under the rim for rebounds.
    Shawn is on the front porch in his wheelchair “watching” us. Right, like he gets what’s going on. Why Mom thinks this is some kind of wonderful stimulation for Shawn is beyond me. To be totally honest, it’s embarrassing to have him out here. It’s embarrassing when Shawn starts yelling “ahhhhh” for no reason; it’s embarrassing when he drops a load into his diapers and you can smell him from twenty feet away; it’s embarrassing when his drool slides out of his mouth and makes a huge wet spot all down his front. And then I always feel embarrassed to feel embarrassed, guilty and bad that I feel so ashamed of Shawn—somehow all these crappy feelings make me work even harder.
    While I’m thinking about Shawn, Tim, who has quick hands, jabs the ball away, stealing it from me. He takes it back to the top of the key and tries to put some moves on me. I jab the ball back, catching a little of Tim’s hand, actually his little finger—I can tell I got him because my fingernail dug in and I took a little hunk of his skin with the ball. In a real game I might get called for a foul. I glance at his finger and see the little bloody spot where I gouged him.
    As I dribble the ball, I ask, “You wanna foul on that?”
    â€œJust play,” Tim says. He’s cool: No medevac—no infraction.
    I begin to circle around the top of the key, dribbling left-handed, right-handed, back and forth, between my legs and behind my back. I