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league starting at the Y,” Coach says. “Just for high school kids. The churches are sponsoring the teams. I know it’s not the same, but you can still play ball if you want. I hope you will.”
    It’s not the same all right. Not by a long shot.
    Coach says, “What church do you go to, Alan?”
    Alan says he’s a Methodist.
    “They’ll have a team,” Coach says. “Talk to your minister.” He looks at me. “How about you?”
    “Uh, Methodist,” I say. I went to the Methodist preschoolfor a year, but I haven’t been near a church since. Alan gives me a puzzled look. I think he actually goes.
    Coach shakes our hands and we leave his office. I go to my locker and get changed in a hurry. Alan sits on the end of the bench, facing the wall, still in his sweaty shorts and T-shirt.
    I need to get out of here. Alan’s crying. I just want to go home and lie down.
    Early evening there’s a knock at my door. I get off the mattress and check it out. Spit’s standing there in a maroon down vest.
    “Thought you’d be working tonight,” she says.
    “Not until Friday.” I wave her in and shut the door. She sits on the radiator, so I take the chair.
    “What’s going on?” she asks.
    I just shake my head.
    “Got cut, huh?”
    “How’d you know?”
    “You just look it.” She slaps her palms on her thighs. “Wanna get drunk?”
    I look at her face for three seconds, then look down. “Nah.”
    She stands up and crosses her arms. “I do.”
    I shrug.
    “You been staring at the ceiling again, bud?”
    I smirk, just slightly. “Some.”
    “No good,” she says. “Come on. Humor me. Let’s get out of here.”
    “I guess.” I get my jacket.
    We head out and walk through the alley to Main Street. It’s getting cold and it’s windy, but the air feels good in my lungs. I realize that I’m hungry. Starving.
    “Wanna get pizza?” I ask.
    “Sure.”
    Foley’s Pizza is next to Shorty’s, and it’s a good place to kill an hour. We take the first booth so we can look out at the street, and I go up to the counter and get a couple of slices.
    Spit puts salt on hers, which seems a little excessive.
    “God, what a boring day,” she says.
    “Yeah?”
    “We had zero appointments. Zero phone calls. I actually sat there reading Stanley’s Seton Hall alumni magazine. He was out for like three hours getting supplies, which he does about twice a week. We’ve got enough toilet paper and yellow legal pads until he retires, I think.”
    She’s looking right at me, but I’m mostly looking out at the street. I make eye contact a few times to let her know I’m listening. “He’s making me work next Friday,” she says. “Day after Thanksgiving, nothing to do, and I’ve gotta sit there all day in case the phone rings. Plus I feel like shit. Clogged sinuses and all.”
    “It’s going around,” I say.
    She blows her nose in a napkin and then takes a bite of her pizza, chewing it slowly.
    “Want another one?” I say.
    “I guess. Yeah.”
    I get up and get us two more slices.
    When I come back, she scrunches up her face to make me laugh. It works, to a degree.
    “So,” she says. “The dream is over?”
    I shrug. “There was no dream.”
    “But you care.”
    “I care a lot.”
    “You angry?”
    “No.”
    “Right. So what are you going to do?” she asks.
    “Nothing. What
can
I do?”
    “I don’t know. Something. I try to take all the shit I’ve been through and turn it into music. But there’s too much left over, so I get high.”
    “Yeah, well, where do I get my fixes now?” I say. “I mean, all the basketball I’ve played in the past few months was directed toward making the team. Sunday mornings at the Y just isn’t going to cut it.”
    “You gotta find a way to use that passion,” she says. “You gotta let it out. Otherwise some night when you’re cold and alone it’ll come banging on your door. And it won’t be smiling.”
    “You know about that, huh?”
    “All too well, bud.” She