The Best American Sports Writing 2014(6)

Instead, I watched from four rows back, my hands at my side, and wished, like he wished, that life had been kinder; that he wasn’t born a touch under six feet; that poverty isn’t what it is; that he didn’t have to clean up shit for a living; and that he didn’t wrap so much of himself into a bouncing ball that was both his source of happiness and slowly strangling any hope of a future.

Still, as the minutes passed, there was a chance the basketball gods would smile down on him and the ball would bounce his way and this time he would dunk and the crowd could go crazy, and for a moment, or two, it would be different.

He shot another air ball, then another. The chuckles became laughs. “Plastic Cup! Plastic Cup!”

As the last few seconds ticked off the clock, TJ stood in the corner, away from the ball. The buzzer sounded, mercifully, and he shuffled back toward the bleachers. He sat down, alone, leaned forward, and dropped his head between his hands.





A couple weeks later TJ asked me to meet him at Port Authority Bus Terminal in Manhattan’s Hell’s Kitchen, but he didn’t tell me where exactly, so I wandered around the web of concrete, past the dull orange walls and narrow sloping walkways. The terminal is designed in such a cold, impersonal way that it’s impossible to tell if you’re standing two stories aboveground or two stories below it.

I finally found him standing by himself under a flight of stairs. He had lost some weight, and his eyes looked worn and tired.

“I checked my card today,” he said, to explain why he’s leaving. “I got $8 on my card. And cash, I got like $7 and some change.” He gnawed his teeth together and looked down.

After Rucker, TJ had floated around New York for as long as he could, trying desperately to put off the inevitable. He’d wake up in the morning, pick up his basketball, and head to one of the thousands of courts across the city. Goat Park, Tillary Park, West Fourth Street, Wilkins Park—but usually by the end of the afternoon he’d always travel toward Marcy Playgrounds in Brooklyn, underneath the building where Jay-Z grew up.

He’d come back day after day, often shooting around by himself. Those walking past would pause by the fence surrounding the courts and curiously peer in. It was as if he was hoping he would somehow stumble across the ghost of a younger Jay-Z or someone who knew him, that he would finally be seen. And that they would then take him by the hand and offer him something, some morsel of guidance or wisdom, something he so desperately sought; a thread back out of his own personal labyrinth.

One afternoon while shooting around, he told me, someone spotted his Roc-A-Fella Records tattoo with the Jay-Z quote on his arm. They told him there was someone he needed to meet and asked him to follow. He was nervous, but went anyway. And there, waiting in front of a corner store, was Damon “Dame” Dash, verified hip-hop royalty, former best friend and Roc-A-Fella business partner of Jay-Z.

They sat down, Dash and TJ, just the two of them, inside a small café nearby and talked. TJ told him his story. Then he asked about Jay-Z. He asked about how it all started—he wanted to know everything. Dash humored him and talked and listened. They exchanged numbers. After more than an hour, Dash got up, reached into his pocket, and took out a wad of hundreds.

TJ looked at the outstretched hand, the edges of the bills poking out. But TJ shook his head and turned down the offer. Dash put the money back in his pocket; they embraced and went their separate ways.

“So why didn’t you take it?” I asked.

“I don’t take nothin’ from nobody,” he said, hoping for it to come across as a statement of pride. “But you know, I think he respected that, I do.” He shook his head, still in disbelief he had met Dame Dash.

He couldn’t buy food with respect, he knew that, but that didn’t scare him. He knew the taste of poverty. Respect, on the other hand, was something he was willing to starve for. Maybe this wasn’t why he came to New York, but then again, maybe it was.

Rucker was over, his fantasies were dead. He had no job to go back to, he had almost nothing, nothing at all but the possible respect of Dame Dash. But this, this was a lot.

“Now boarding bus 4083 to Pittsburgh and all points further west,” the bus driver announced. Everyone nearby got up and staggered into line.

“Maybe I should have taken it,” he said reaching for his stomach. “I could use it, I could really use it.” He zipped up his backpack and looked around as the passengers in front of him slowly shuffled forward.

As he neared the front of the line, the realization that maybe he would never be a Rucker Park legend was starting to sink in. “Three days on a fuckin’ bus, to go back to . . .” His voice started to crack. “You know where I live. What if you were in my shoes?” He glanced down at his worn Nike sandals. “In these fuckin’ flip-flops?”