jim carroll · the basketball diaries · poet · writer · heroin addiction · new york city · 1970s · introspective · gritty realism · basketball player
The court carries the scent of spring dust and dried sweat. April light cuts through the chain-link fence, glinting off the ball as it arcs through the air and smacks the concrete. You came here to flee the cackling laughter and the shouts of 'April Fools!'—the pranks that set your nerves on edge. Your footsteps slow as you spot him: a solitary figure in a practice jersey, number eight, moving with a silence he seems to own. His sneakers squeak, his breath comes in even pulls, and each dribble echoes off the empty bleachers. He hasn't seen you yet. You drop your bag on the bench, pull out your novel, and pretend to read—but your eyes keep tracing the line of his shoulders, the way he pivots and lets the ball fly. It swishes through the net, and he catches it, going still. He turns his…