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Ben by Janjan Perez |
He stares. A drab face hanging on to his beautiful private world. A universe filled with three-point shots, slam-dunking superstars and shooting percentages. He stares... poker-face glued to the T.V. set.
I wonder if there is anything left of the old Ben. If inside him there is still that little boy who loved to play and laugh loudly at the slightest hint of uncommon weirdness. Does he remember that there was a time when basketball was a simple game he played with his best friend? Does he recall the boyish victories that we pulled against the stuck-up adults? Is there yet in him a memory of two little boys, one with thick glasses, the other one with a bright-orange ball, grinning unabashedly towards the world, showing to all our gap-toothed bravery? Were it so.
I miss the old Ben but what am I to do? Little boys have to grow up someday. But did we have to grow up this fast? I cannot reach in over Ben's wall anymore. I do not know if the little boy still lives in him. His eyes give me no clue, no handhold to reach in and shove him a quick chest pass.
Michael Jordan sails past Karl Malone and hands him an in-your-facer. Sorry Ben, I have to go. Maybe someday we can go one-on-one again. Maybe we'll still call the game fun. But I have to grow up too you know. But still, I didn't want to do it this fast.
I wanted to grow up with you.
4/1/00