"Let's head over to West 4th for a pickup game, whadda ya say?" It was a hot summer New York night, the kind where it doesn't dip below 80 degrees and anyone and everyone is out and about, looking for something to do. The idea sounded like a great one to Ernesto; his friends, however, weren't as enthusiastic.
"Whadda ya fucking crazy? It's fucking hot as fuck. What the fuck do I want to fucking go all the way to fucking Manhattan for a fucking game of fucking basketball to further sweat my big hairy fucking balls off at 10 o'clock at fucking night? Are you fucking kidding me?" His cousin Vinny had the vocabulary of a Soprano and the basketball skills of a third grade girl and there was no way in hell he was gonna go anywhere to play basketball at any time. He needed to play it off so he went on and on about how hot it was and about how it was too far to travel. The rest of the gang; two Tony's, Tony A. and Tony M., and Joey, weren't the worst basketball players in the world but they certainly knew enough to know that if they were going to go to W.4th Street for a pickup game, they would get spanked. They all moaned about how hot it was and dismissed the idea.
Ernesto couldn't be dissuaded so easily. It was a hot Saturday night and he knew the courts would be packed. He needed to go. He just couldn't see himself hanging out in the neighborhood, drinking 40s out of a brown paper bag, talking about bangin' girls, listening to Tupac and bitching about over how hard it is to be a white man in today's society. Ernesto was different. Born in Tuscany, he'd moved to Brooklyn when he was 11 to live with his aunt and uncle when his parents died in a car crash. Twenty years later, he had lost his foreign accent but never quite acquired a New York on either. He stood out like a sore thumb in so many ways. He was the most worldly of the group always looking to experience new adventures, he'd gone to out of state for college. Most of the guys around the way had never gotten past high school, let alone moved out of state. Truth be told, a few had never even been to the Bronx. He had a great job in Manhattan as a massage therapist; his friends thought that was some fairy shit. It was okay when his clients were hot chicks but they were disgusted by the idea of rubbing on some sweaty dude. He even looked different. His complexion was naturally darker, his jet black hair just touched his shoulders, steel gray eyes, and a 6'2" body he worked on religiously, all worked together to make him look like a Calvin Klein model. Most of his buddies stood under 5'11" with short hair and were getting little beer bellies in their 30s.
For all of their differences, Ernesto was accepted and loved in the community like he was no different at all. And he loved his family and his friends. They had taken care of him when he was at his lowest, most lonely point. While most people anticipated he would have gotten an apartment in Manhattan, Ernesto stayed in the hood to help take care of his grandmother who had come from Italy 10 years ago because she was aging. His aunt and uncle both worked graveyard and didn't have the time to care for her in the evenings and Vinny and Theresa, his other cousin, only knew how to curse in Italian so they couldn't really communicate well with her. Ernesto loved his family and would do anything for them so leaving Brooklyn, leaving Carnasie, was really out of the question.
"I'll check you guys later, I'm heading to the city to play some ball." Nobody was shocked and they barely looked up as he grabbed his gym bag and headed for the subway. He plopped down on the cool seat and pulled out the book he'd been reading, a collection of works by James Baldwin. He was fascinated by social commentary and the descriptions of racism that peppered the dialogue about being a Black gay man in America. Being a gay man himself, a closeted gay man, he connected with the words, he connected with the struggle and the rage. His friends, even though he had sucked off most of them when they were kids, including his cousin, were as homophobic as they come. They had to be. It was part and parcel for the good fella's persona that they had to carry off. It never occurred to them that Ernesto could be gay because he was masculine, athletic, and he had women swooning over him every time he walked in a room. The stuff that happened when they were younger was just boys being boys, and they would never admit to anyone the experimentation they had done as kids so his secret was pretty safe.
As he emerged from the bowels of the train system, into the humid night air of Greenwich Village, except for the fact that it was dark, it could have been 11:00 in the afternoon instead of 11:00 at night. The streets were bustling with activity, packed with people out doing anything and everything you could think of. He made his way to the courts and just watched the first two games. Ever since he could remember, he'd loved Black men. As cliché as it sounds, after his first Black lover, he had no desire to be with another white man again so the old "once you go black" adage was true in his case. For the better part of 7 years he'd dated Black men exclusively. Sitting there, seeing all of those toned and muscled bodies, gave him an even further appreciation of the Black male form. It wasn't a lustful appreciation, well, at least not in the overtly sexual sense. It was a profound and deep respect for not just their physical bodies, but for the struggle they endured that he read about in the pages of his book.
He was always certain to get picked for a team. There's an unspoken code that says that white boys who hang out on basketball courts are looking to get served so people was always looking to school them make sure they play. Three on three, half court, to 21, shirt vs. skins. He was shirts and he was playing the team who had just won the last game. Skins got the ball first and scored three points right off the bat. Ernesto was guarding a guy who had dominated the previous game and he knew he had to be tired so he was body-checking and going toe to toe under the rim. They were the same height, even the same body type, but his opponent was the color of caramel with a shiny bald head. It was a queer guy's heaven, being able to publicly run his hands over that smooth flesh, the rippling muscles, sweaty, hard thighs pressed against his own. It was all about the game for Ernesto and he played hard, making sure everyone knew he was there to ball. The guy Ernesto was guarding gave him an elbow and sent him to the ground. There ain't no fouls in street ball so he was right back up and in the game; he didn't miss a beat. He got the ball and showed he had some skills. The other part of the unspoken code is, that when a white boy has skills on the court, he becomes the unofficial court favorite, getting his own cheering squad on the sidelines and everything.
The score was 19 to 20 with the skins leading and the shirts had the ball. Dude was blocking him, checking him hard, when Ernesto got the ball in the paint. He pivoted and -- whoosh, nothing but net. In the split second right before the shot, he thought . . . maybe he was mistaken, but he could have sworn he felt ole boy grabbing for his dick. Not just body contact that happens during the course of a game, but actually palming his crotch, almost caressing it. It had happened so quickly and the score was tied so he couldn't dwell on it. The two adversaries stood toe to toe, making intense eye contact. The court lights made every drop of sweat glisten on his shirtless opponent. One of the skins sank the final shot ending the game. The entire court erupted in cheers and back slapping and kudos about the great game.
Ernesto sat on the bench and pulled out his towel. His book was on the top of the bag so he sat it next to him. While he was toweling off and catching his breath, drinking a little Gatorade, he saw a hand reaching out to him.
"Good game man, I'm impressed."
He extended his hand and looked up, "Yeah, congratulations, great game," Ernesto replied, still trying to catch his breath.
"Name's Flex. Anytime you want to play a little game of pick up, let me know, I'd love to have you on my team." He smiled a gorgeous smile and Ernesto looked up and then down, his eyes resting on the crotch directly eye level in front of him.
