Thirty Year Old Jock-Thug

When I was thirty, I was that scruffy adult in hole-covered jeans who shot hoops at the playground. I tried to hit the park on its off hours, i.e., before school let out, but it turned out that space was so limited in San Francisco that a nearby school used the public playground for recess.

Myriad grade schoolers, toddlers, and young moms swarmed the small playground, but the basketball hoop was free, so I forged ahead. I missed a lot, but gradually I was able to tune them out some with the pounce of the ball on the pavement, the interior rubber echo, the shake of the backboard. Then class 203 left, and it got a bit quieter. My shooting groove improved some but not much. Didn't matter.

The toddlers' moms were all congregated at a series of benches in the corner. They were all about my age, and I vaguely wondered if any of them wanted to play. Didn't seem like it.

After a while I attracted the attention of a 2-3 year old girl. Old enough to be walking around without much trouble but not talking so much as squeaking communicatively. She really liked my basketball and wandered onto the court. She had a small orange balloon of similar color. I wasn't up for the trade she non-verbally proposed, but she didn't mind; we were silent compadres.