Who laughs at basketball? I want to ask myself. I do, I’m the one who giggles at the violent squeaks of sneakers on grown men, giving in to memories of elementary school. Mornings spent in the cafeteria before being joined by our classmates. Children of working parents dragging our toes along the slate linoleum, finding satisfaction in the lines we drew among us.
Each scratch became the opportunity for us to become a human eraser. Licking fingers before smudging the darkness out. Immediate satisfaction, the floor before us good as new underneath the little pills of rubber. Knowing then like we know now that erasure is the furthest thing from reach. Rubbed raw, feeling the permanent damage of the squeak and the din and the production value on these courts.