CUL-DE-SAC CHAMPiONS

my dad, his big heart and a basketball court that turned boyz II men

ORLANDO, FLORIDA

Ricky was scared he wouldn’t make the cut for varsity football again.

JJ was terrified of his older brother Ricky not letting him tag along everywhere.

Kevin was upset his brother Jaime was almost a foot taller than him even though he was the younger one.

Jaime was nervous about losing his virginity to his girlfriend (who already had).

Gabe was anxious about switching high schools, as his parents were forcing him to do a magnet program.

Dario was trying to cope with his parent’s contentious divorce.

I wouldn’t have known any of this if it wasn’t for the basketball court in my backyard. The one my dad built at the height of the recession. When everyone was worried about money. My dad included.

But he knew what the investment meant.

I was obsessed with winning over my crush. She couldn’t date me because he parents were controlling and religious.

But everyday, after school—we were all locked in. Like the vignette setting, everything but the center faded away.

We lived right in the middle of the cul-de-sac. A real wide one.

Jaime’s Camaro could swing the roundabout at speed, that’s how big. Three houses fed their driveways into it.

Gabe’s house was right next to ours. Dallas Cowboys decals on all their trucks, and the ATV.

Kevin and Jaime’s house was right next to Gabe’s. Chicago Bears flag affixed to the garage.

Each house was one story, that classic mid 2000s housing boom stucco exteriors in neutral colors. Each house had a palm tree or two framing it. This was Central Florida after all, baby. Roofs in hip style with shingles in earthly tones. Open skies, flat land. Front yards all neatly trimmed. The HOA was strict here.

Across the street was the neighborhood lake. A couple small gators in there that would poke their heads out occasionally.

But the business was in the back.

Gabe’s house came with a big pool, screened in.

Our house had come with grass on grass on grass. My dad put in brick pavers. The interlocking kind. An important detail because whenever someone’s dribble would go slightly awry, they would curse out that feature. Once the surface was installed, my dad and I went to SPORTS AUTHORiTY to pick up a basketball hoop.

My mother had asked my father why he wanted the exact dimensions that were drafted. He gave no particular reason. But when we wheeled the hoop in its place, he brought out white spray paint and it became obvious that we had the perfect half court.

Previously we had played wiffle ball in the cul de sac. Or we’d walk to the side of Gabe’s house where there was a huge grass field in between two neighborhood, criss crossed with power lines, and play tackle football (touch if the young’n’s were playing). Or foosball in Gabe’s garage. Or ping pong down the street in Ricky and JJ’s garage. Or just ride our bikes around in loops around the neighborhood.

But once the basketball court was set up...the fraternity lived there. Everyday. Everyday at 6pm like clockwork. Gabe would get there a little later because his mom made him do his homework before coming out. My mom did too but I would just copy it from someone else so I could breeze through it.

6pm was barely tolerable heat wise in anything but the winter, but we were young and my dad was fit. It also gave us about an hour and a half before people got called in for dinner. It also was before the mosquitos came out to feast after sundown.

We often had the full 8, so we played every permutation of 4 v 4. Eventually we did settle a few combos that worked best, that weren’t lopsided. That fueled rivalries.

Jaime and Kevin liked to play against each other. Dario had one sided beef with me so he liked to be my opposite. JJ liked to play with Ricky, even though Ricky didn’t like it.

I liked to play with my dad. Despite being three times everyone’s age, he was the most intense, most competitive.

He would have a big cooler prepared, with waters for everyone. He kept in the shade of the porch with the overhang, and the swing bench next to the grill. He would write people’s initials on the little snack packs he prepared as well, a fruit and a small bag of chips.

Before the game he’d be laughing, back slapping, catching up with everyone. But during?

He would do everything short of spit in your face. He would box me out and knock me down for a rebound and put it up, sink it, then step over my dead body. If you tried to give a hand to an opponent on the ground, my dad would let out a sharp “eh-eh”. He hated NBA rivals that were friendly in game and kept the same energy on his court.

It electrified everyone. They all had sedentary or purely cerebral fathers. Their own athletic pursuits were largely self directed. So to play with a dad that felt like one of the boys, it was a real raw feeling for them. Ricky would tell my dad about all the extra training he was doing at home, as my father was more proud of him than his own.

Jaime wanted to blast music the whole time, but my dad said he only could if he put up 10 points. We played games to 15 so this was a high bar. But those two times that Jaime pulled it off, my dad was a man of his word and Kanye would be blasting. My mom narrowed her eyes through the window blinds, but my dad said a bet was a bet.

People threw elbows. Brothers pushed each other. Father and son stared each other down. Ankles were broken. Victory screams rang out. Chests thumped. Fists rose. And then as the games would come to an end, we would all collapse in a sweaty circle.

Some just sitting on the pavers themselves. Others on the bench or the folding chairs. Pouring water down their throats, on their own heads. Munching on apples, fruit snacks and Fritos. Breathing heavy. Plotting tomorrow’s revenge or relishing hitting a game winning shot.

One by one the kids would trail off. My own mother would be setting the table. But once a week someone would linger. My dad would sense what was happening and calmly ask them how they were doing. It could take some maneuvering but eventually they’d SPiLL.

Dario cried to us about how his dad was treating his mom in court. Said it was the first tears he had cried in over a year. My dad gave him a big hug and told him he was welcome to come to our house anytime. He did end up eating dinner with us a couple times a month.

Ricky admitted to us that his father thought he was wasting his time trying to make varsity. No tears but a lot of looking off into the distance. My dad asked him if he believed in himself. Ricky said yes with no hesitation. My dad grabbed his shoulder and told him to look at him. He said, that’s all that matters then. Ricky did make it varsity, his senior year. My dad and I watched his first game, as a backup fullback.

Kevin kicked a water bottle and my dad asked him what was up. He said he was tired of Jaime getting all his parent’s attention and affection. My dad let him vent and vent, throw a tennis ball into the dark as far as he could. Then he sat down and told him a story about his own older brother, about how his older brother sacrificed his education to give my dad all the opportunities. But then later in life, it was his older brother that reaped what he sowed—and hit it big in the real estate market in Ecuador. Married a beautiful woman and had three healthy, brilliant children. Meanwhile my dad had a decade in the wilderness trying to make ends meet until he found a stable job and a great woman.

Jaime had one thing on his mind. He couldn’t stop giggling when he talked about it. My dad was also perpetually laughing and smiling so the two had a fit of keke’ing until Jaime admitted his girlfriend was starting to pressure him to have sex and it was making him sweat. My dad asked him if he loved her? I do. He asked if she loved him? She does. So what was up? Well what if she compares me to her other boyfriend? She’s not with him is she? No. Okay. So she wants you. What if I cum too fast? Or don’t get hard? Those things might happen. That’s okay. Everything you can imagine has happened to me. He told Jaime the story of how he got a nose bleed during his first blowjob. Bled all over his girlfriend’s head. We were wiping the tears out of our eyes. Jaime popped his cherry the following week and walked around with his chest out. My dad put his arm around him and tousled his hair.

Gabe was biting his nails telling us about all the academic pressure his parents put on him. How they made him do endless workbooks and tutoring sessions in his free time. My dad took this one to upper management. He was friendly with Gabe’s parents, so he brought up to them one day while they were out walking their dog that Gabe was a good kid but lately had been looking real stressed and tired during our basketball games. My father had parented my brother to an Ivy League education. So my dad in his most diplomatic way gave them an anecdote of how he had pushed my brother too far. He had a breakdown and almost had to take a year off just to cope with it. They got the message and we started to see Gabe more. His parents bought him an Xbox live membership so we he came online, played Halo with us. Blowing off steam the way a teenager should. Finally.

How lucky I was. To have that father as my own. But even luckier that he was abundant in his love, his mentorship, his motivation.

He revealed to me later on that he kept track of who had been winning lately. He wanted to make sure that every week everyone got a fair shake. So he would purposely switch teams up to ensure that. He never threw a game though. He wanted to make sure that everyone earned their wins.

And once they felt that sense of accomplishment, he knew that was when men felt they could open up. And that they did.