Jeanine Walker
His name is Han. Or Jeon. Or Park Sonsengnim. Or Sung-gi-shi. Or Ju-yun-a. I don’t know his name. I don’t know his age, either, which here in Korea would determine what I call him. He doesn’t know mine. But it doesn’t matter. We’re only here to ball.
The first time I see him, I’m rounding the track, trying to think of myself as a runner again. I ignore the arthritic pain in my right knee and press on. But there—right there—is the court. And a man on the court. A man, not a boy, not a student. He’s got white hair, an athletic build, and a basketball. I run the loop three more times, formulating the question in my head, the shy me inventing reasons not to ask him to play. The mother voice in me piping up: What have you got to lose? Either you play the sport you like or you just … run. So I asked him. My Korean sounds fine. He grins and gestures. We begin.
The second time is the same as the first. Generous, he only rebounds and says he doesn’t want to shoot. I run to the side of the key, hands ready. He hits me, and I sink the shot. I bounce somewhere else and do it again. He always finds me. My hands love the motion. It feels great to play. I love this ball, multi-colored and worn. I love this court.
Third, he puts a hand in my face, a little one-on-one. We hardly speak. This is basketball. Sports. How physical we must be with each other to play the game. How playing a game transcends language and culture. Here we are, Han and me. I’m Betty. I’m Brenda. I’m Billie or, Barbie or Bree. Who am I? He doesn’t know. I’m the shooter. And today, he’s shooting, too. Our bodies bump into each other several times, tough defense. We both laugh. It’s sunny outside, October, mid-October, late October. The fall keeps going on. It keeps up so our fingers can take it, so the rim stays sunlit.
Afternoons are for hooping. I bought my own basketball. I stopped identifying as a runner. My knee never hurts. I put in my headphones to listen to poetry podcasts while shooting, and occasionally, he shows up. He carries an equipment bag full of something for every sport and does a circuit around the track. He tells me he’s an outcast, though I don’t know if the nuance is self-deprecating or just fact. One time, another player comes—a student—and my friend bows out after a few minutes of attempted one-on-two. He just doesn’t like playing with others, I realize. But he likes playing with me.
It gets a little colder. I started going to the gym. I’m lifting now and don’t have much room for cardio. My trips to the pool slow down. I never run the track. And hooping becomes less frequent.
But then I go again. I’ve eaten at the cafeteria with a colleague, another professor. I hold her elbow after lunch and gently guide her, pregnant, toward the courts. Of course, she isn’t coming with me. We laugh. I go down there myself, the sun kindly blazing in its cool fall way. Some other visitors are there: two women in hijab with their toddlers, a boy and a girl. The kids are wandering around on the court. I bow, grin, take a lay-up.
My friend shows up. He’s always around. He once told me he doesn’t work, just plays. He’s missing several teeth on one side. His skills are so good I wonder if he was a professional player, now retired. But I don’t ask.
He takes a small ball out of his bag and bends down to offer it to one of the toddlers, the boy. The boy doesn’t want it.
But the girl does. She grabs the ball and hugs it. I always thought I’d have kids, but it never happened. I keep my eyes on the basket, make shot after shot, and rebound carefully. I know they aren’t in danger. The moms look on. I say nothing to no one. When the baby wanders off with the ball, it’s okay. We’re alone on the court. The man squats in front of me, palms up, ready to play.
Jeanine Walker is the author of The Two of Them Might Outlast Me (2022). Recognized with grants from Artist Trust, Jack Straw Cultural Center, and Wonju, UNESCO City of Literature, she holds a Ph.D. in Creative Writing from the University of Houston. She has published work in Chattahoochee Review, Prairie Schooner, New Ohio Review, and elsewhere. Jeanine teaches for Hugo House and Kangwon National University in Chuncheon, Korea.
Jeanine Walker
His name is Han. Or Jeon. Or Park Sonsengnim. Or Sung-gi-shi. Or Ju-yun-a. I don’t know his name. I don’t know his age, either, which here in Korea would determine what I call him. He doesn’t know mine. But it doesn’t matter. We’re only here to ball.
The first time I see him, I’m rounding the track, trying to think of myself as a runner again. I ignore the arthritic pain in my right knee and press on. But there—right there—is the court. And a man on the court. A man, not a boy, not a student. He’s got white hair, an athletic build, and a basketball. I run the loop three more times, formulating the question in my head, the shy me inventing reasons not to ask him to play. The mother voice in me piping up: What have you got to lose? Either you play the sport you like or you just … run. So I asked him. My Korean sounds fine. He grins and gestures. We begin.
The second time is the same as the first. Generous, he only rebounds and says he doesn’t want to shoot. I run to the side of the key, hands ready. He hits me, and I sink the shot. I bounce somewhere else and do it again. He always finds me. My hands love the motion. It feels great to play. I love this ball, multi-colored and worn. I love this court.
Third, he puts a hand in my face, a little one-on-one. We hardly speak. This is basketball. Sports. How physical we must be with each other to play the game. How playing a game transcends language and culture. Here we are, Han and me. I’m Betty. I’m Brenda. I’m Billie or, Barbie or Bree. Who am I? He doesn’t know. I’m the shooter. And today, he’s shooting, too. Our bodies bump into each other several times, tough defense. We both laugh. It’s sunny outside, October, mid-October, late October. The fall keeps going on. It keeps up so our fingers can take it, so the rim stays sunlit.
Afternoons are for hooping. I bought my own basketball. I stopped identifying as a runner. My knee never hurts. I put in my headphones to listen to poetry podcasts while shooting, and occasionally, he shows up. He carries an equipment bag full of something for every sport and does a circuit around the track. He tells me he’s an outcast, though I don’t know if the nuance is self-deprecating or just fact. One time, another player comes—a student—and my friend bows out after a few minutes of attempted one-on-two. He just doesn’t like playing with others, I realize. But he likes playing with me.
It gets a little colder. I started going to the gym. I’m lifting now and don’t have much room for cardio. My trips to the pool slow down. I never run the track. And hooping becomes less frequent.
But then I go again. I’ve eaten at the cafeteria with a colleague, another professor. I hold her elbow after lunch and gently guide her, pregnant, toward the courts. Of course, she isn’t coming with me. We laugh. I go down there myself, the sun kindly blazing in its cool fall way. Some other visitors are there: two women in hijab with their toddlers, a boy and a girl. The kids are wandering around on the court. I bow, grin, take a lay-up.
My friend shows up. He’s always around. He once told me he doesn’t work, just plays. He’s missing several teeth on one side. His skills are so good I wonder if he was a professional player, now retired. But I don’t ask.
He takes a small ball out of his bag and bends down to offer it to one of the toddlers, the boy. The boy doesn’t want it.
But the girl does. She grabs the ball and hugs it. I always thought I’d have kids, but it never happened. I keep my eyes on the basket, make shot after shot, and rebound carefully. I know they aren’t in danger. The moms look on. I say nothing to no one. When the baby wanders off with the ball, it’s okay. We’re alone on the court. The man squats in front of me, palms up, ready to play.
Jeanine Walker is the author of The Two of Them Might Outlast Me (2022). Recognized with grants from Artist Trust, Jack Straw Cultural Center, and Wonju, UNESCO City of Literature, she holds a Ph.D. in Creative Writing from the University of Houston. She has published work in Chattahoochee Review, Prairie Schooner, New Ohio Review, and elsewhere. Jeanine teaches for Hugo House and Kangwon National University in Chuncheon, Korea.