His name is Han. Or Jeon. Or Park Seonsaengnim. Or Sung-gi-ssi. Or Ju-yun-a. I don’t know his name. I don’t know his age, either, which here in Korea would determine what I call him. He doesn’t know mine. But it doesn’t matter. We’re only here to ball.
The first time I see him I’m rounding the track, trying to think of myself as a runner again. I ignore the arthritic pain in my right knee and press on. But there—right there—is the court. And a man on the court. A man, not a boy, not a student. He’s got white hair, an athletic build, and a basketball. I run the loop three more times, formulating the question in my head, the shy-me inventing reasons not to ask him to play. The mother-voice in me piping up: what have you got to lose? Either you play the sport you actually like or you just … run. So I ask him. My Korean sounds fine. He grins, gestures. We begin.
The second time is the same as the first. Generous, he only rebounds, says he doesn’t want to shoot. I run to the side of the key, hands ready. He hits me and I sink the shot. I bounce somewhere else and do it again. He always finds me. My hands love the motion. It feels great to play. I love this ball, multi-colored and worn. I love this court.
Third and he starts to put a hand in my face, a little one-on-one. We hardly speak. This is basketball. Sports. How physical we must be with each other to play the game. How playing a game transcends language and culture. Here we are, Han and me. I’m Betty. I’m Brenda. I’m Billie or Barbie or Bree. Who am I? He doesn’t know. I’m the shooter. And today, he’s shooting, too. Our bodies bump into each other several times, tough defense. We both laugh. It’s sunny outside, October, mid-October, late October. The fall keeps going on. It keeps up for us, so our fingers can take it, so the rim stays sunlit.
Afternoons are for hooping. I buy my own basketball. I stop identifying as a runner. My knee never hurts. I put in my headphones, listen to poetry podcasts while I shoot, and once in a while he shows up. He carries an equipment bag full of something for every sport, does a circuit by himself around the track. He tells me he’s an outcast, though I don’t know if the nuance is self-deprecating or just fact. One time another player comes—a student—and after a few minutes of attempted one-on-two, my friend bows out. He just doesn’t like playing with others, I realize. But he likes playing with me.
It gets a little colder. I start going to the gym. I’m lifting now and don’t have much room for cardio. My trips to the pool slow down. I never run the track. And hooping becomes less frequent.
But then I go again. I’ve eaten at the cafeteria with a colleague, another professor. I hold her elbow after lunch and gently guide her, pregnant, toward the courts. Of course she isn’t coming with me. We laugh. I go down there myself, the sun kindly blazing in its cool fall way. Some other visitors are there, two women in hijab with their toddlers, a boy and a girl. The kids are wandering around on the court. I bow, grin, take a lay-up.
My friend shows up. He’s always around. He once told me he doesn’t work, just plays. He’s missing several teeth on one side. His skills are so good I wonder if he was a professional player, now retired. But I don’t ask.
He takes a small ball out of his bag and bends down to offer it to one of the toddlers, the boy. The boy doesn’t want it.
But the girl does. She grabs the ball and hugs it. I always thought I’d have kids, but it never happened. I keep my eyes on the basket, make shot after shot, rebound carefully. I know they aren’t in danger. The moms look on. I say nothing to no one. When the baby wanders off with the ball, it’s okay. We’re alone on the court. The man squats down in front of me, palms up, ready to play.
