Good in crunch time

​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​ ​“So my shoulder went barreling for his chest, right. I had sorta lost control after I got by my guy, and took a couple dribbles in the lane. That’s sorta like the middle area, beneath the basket. But I was going so fast that when I went up for the shot, I ran right into him. But when I did it I could see his eyes widen as he went down and it looked like I completely knocked the wind out of him. He fell over, and it seemed like it hurt him. The ref called a foul, and they called it on him. Blocking foul, two shots.”

He gestured with two arms spread — palms up and fists balled — and tapped his hips with his elbows.

​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​ ​“Cool, so I’m like damn, that was a tough call. Could have been a foul on me, right. But we had just come back from like 16 down and now we were only down 7 so I needed the free throws.”​
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​ ​​“That’s impressive,” a voice responded. A woman with glasses was seated across from him, listening.
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​ ​“Well, it happens all the time, I feel like. A team gets too sure of themselves and then when they least expect it — BAM! Now they got a game on their hands.”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​ ​“Mmmhmm. Of course.”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​ ​“So I’m taking my free throws and I see him bending over with his hands on his knees, kinda like, gasping for air. I pay it no mind though. Ref doesn’t see it, his teammates don’t see it and I need these points. So I knock down both free throws.”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​ ​“Did you want to stop?”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​ ​“Well, no. I didn’t want to stop. I cared about winning. But I guess now that I’m replaying it in my mind, I just felt like I was the only one in the gym who saw what he might have been going through.”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​ ​“But you also can’t be totally sure of that.”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​ ​“I saw that shit in his eyes though! And I felt my shoulder kinda like ‘dig’ into his chest. I just felt like it hurt him.”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​ ​​“I understand.”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​ ​“So anyway, both teams keep going back and forth exchanging buckets. Game is coming down to the wire. Basically we get it down to about 3 points before they start trying to slow everything down and shit. We get out of a timeout, run some kind of play to get our main scorer open. He was cooking that night, too. But so the ball gets deflected… it’s loose, right?
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​ ​ It’s bouncing like towards the sideline on my side of the court. And I’m thinking, aw man. I got my girl, and a few of my friends to come watch us and they’re all sitting like right there. Like, they took off work for my little men’s league game and shit. I gotta make a play.
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​ ​So I get on the floor and dive for it, but running next to me is the same dude who I knocked the wind out of. We both go for it, get tangled up… and that’s when it happened.”

He sat up in his seat and held out his hand to show the woman sitting across from him his pinky finger, which was pointing in a completely different direction from the other fingers on his hand. It looked jagged and puffy, with barely any mobility.

​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​“Oh my. That looks painful.”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​“Yeah. It is. I hope I don’t need surgery. It hurts like shit.”

Then, there was a silence in the room. The patient and his therapist sat inside this silence, but both for very different reasons.

​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​“Did you want to continue the story?”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​“Oh, right. Well, I mean we ended up losing the game by like 5. I didn’t come out of the game or anything. I stayed in and hustled and we almost pulled out the win. It wasn’t until I got home and my girl pointed it out that I realized it might be really messed up.”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​“I wanna go back to one thing you said, which is how you felt about the exchange between you and the other player you were talking about.”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​“Oh, damn. See that’s why I come here. I be forgetting and shit. Ummmmm… You mean like, what he said to me in that moment? Or like…”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​“Like, what was going through your mind?”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​“I mean, a lot of stuff.”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​“Start with what he said.”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​“Well, he was standing over me — he had gotten up already — and he just looked down at me with a kind of empty look and was like ‘You good?’ I had just did like a ‘Ah, fuck!’ super loudly and I was grabbing my hand. But there was so much adrenaline, and I just wanted to keep playing.”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​“What did you say back to him?”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​“Well, I wanted to say “Damn bro, what the fuck do you think? Your whole hip just pinned my whole hand.”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​“Ok, why didn’t you?”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​“I can’t say that.”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​“Why not?”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​“There just wasn’t any time.”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​“But that’s how you felt about him coming in like that. How did you respond in the moment?”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​“I mean, I answered him. I just did like a little, I don’t know, one of these — ”

He furrowed his brow, inward-pursed his lips and did a tiny, jittery head nod as an example.

​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​“That doesn’t seem like it’s in line with how you might have been feeling.”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​“Well, he wasn’t asking me though.”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​“It was a question, no?”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ “​​You don’t get it. It’s not like that.”
​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​ “What’s it like then?”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​“It’s not like anything. You don’t know what I’m saying. Hmmmm. Like, fuck. I can’t really explain it. I just… you know what I’m sayin? Like, when somebody asking you if you good, it’s not a question. You feel me? We was competing.”

There was a pause.

​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​“But you also said someone else on your team also asked the same question.”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​“I mean, yeah. Everyone was asking me that shit. They kept fucking asking: ‘You good, you good, you good.’ But they not really asking, you feel me. They just fucking saying shit. They don’t really care.”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​“Well, how do you know that’s true?”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​“Well, whatever. I guess I don’t know.”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​“What do you wish someone had asked you?”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​“I don’t know… ​I just wish he wouldn’t have asked me shit.
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ Like, I left you alone when you were wheezing and shit, bro. Don’t fucking ask ‘am I good?’ Just walk away, bro.”

Another deep pause. He looked down at his lap for what felt like a tiny eternity.

​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​“Well, what do you think? Should I have just said no?” he asked candidly.
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​“I mean, I think you’re entitled to however you feel. You also didn’t have to answer.”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​“I couldn’t have said no. There’s no way. Hell no. Not gonna be like ‘Naw, as a matter of fact, bro: I’m not good!’”

He sucked his teeth and gave off a tiny chuckle.

​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​“It doesn’t sound terrible that way, honestly,” she responded.

His chuckle grew and before long, he was genuinely laughing. She started chuckling, too.

​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​“That’s about to be the name I put on the back of my jersey from now on, how about that? ‘Aaaaaand here we got Mr. Imnotgood, playing defense on the wing.’
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​ ​So when it happens again… if I go down, get injured and somebody asks me that shit, instead of me having to respond I’ll just turn around and point to the name on the back of the jersey.”

The therapist chuckled.

​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​“I think that’s a beautiful idea.”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​“Hell yeah! I’m not responding to that shit no more. Don’t ask me no more! If we hooping and going at each other, you just gotta assume — ”

He then gestured a silly, double-handed pointing action to the back of his shirt.

​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​“You ain’t right,” she said jokingly.
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​“Damn right I ain’t right. I’m fucked up out here. But watch, my jersey gonna be the hottest selling jersey in the world once people catch on. Gonna give Steph’s jersey sales a run for their money. I’m dead serious.”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​“I mean, I think based on everything you’ve said and were recounting about that moment, it’s fair to say you should start all this by selling one to the guy who you played against. He seemed like he need a jersey just as bad as you.”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​“Yeah, I should, shouldn’t I. We’ll be the Imnotgood brothers.”
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​“Exactly.”
They both smiled and gave a mutual sigh.
​ ​ ​​​ ​​ ​​​ ​ ​​“Well, our time is up. What did you want to do about scheduling for our next session?”