Slam Dunk

It was my junior year in high school and three of us were walking to a well known and often used wooded area just off campus on the banks of a small, trash laden stream behind the football field to get high. The weed was Melinda’s, a friend I had known since we were five years old. With us also was Caleb, a sophomore and relative newcomer to our expanding group and the lifestyle we were so vigorously pursuing. I remember him in the months that surrounded this day displaying an enthusiasm for his nascent drug use which was sometimes fatuous and at other times absolutely contagious.

We were talking about something as we passed through the basketball courts, and I recall experiencing an odd feeling, like the three of us were somehow outsiders to the scene. At this moment a ball bounced and then rolled my way. I used my foot to stop it, and then picked it up in the manner of a soccer player to get it into my hands. I dribbled the ball a few times. I hadn’t played ball since I flaked on the varsity squad, much to the chagrin of the coach.

“Hey, pass it over here,” on of the guys on the court called out.

I dribbled the ball a few more times, feeling the exterior, rough and worn from outside use.

“You deaf or something,” he called to me again. “I said send it this way.”

I began running toward the hoop, pounding the ball into the concrete. I rose up as I got near and dunked it down with force. It felt good and reminded me of my recent athletic past, which I was not yet consciously aware was gone forever, at least in an organized sense.

The ball fell to the ground and I walked back toward my friends. Caleb was beside himself.

“Awesome, man,” he said, grinning as he patted me on the back. “You give us druggies a good name.”

At the time I was so proud to hear this from one of my mates, because that’s exactly what I was going for. Today this memory is fraught with complexity and paradox and I don’t always know what to make of it.