Sincere

A friend of mine came to town to help me move things into my new home.  I had told him about the park nearby with the basketball courts with nets that reminded me harnesses.  After moving everything in and finding myself a kitchen table in the depths of an outlying suburb, we scurried over to the park to catch the last glimpses of daylight.

The court itself was a considerable walking distance from the actual parking lot.  An island of concrete in the middle of a long field.  Without good lighting or nylon nets, this court lacked the glamour of Rucker Park street ball and the amenities of a suburban park district

"This field would make a good ultimate field.  It's so big," I said as we trudged through the grass.
"Yeah, until you turn your ankle," he replied, noting the numerous rough patches and uneven surfaces that littered our path.

Arriving at the court we noticed a shirtless black guy in dreads and a while heavy-set girl, both on the bench.

"You want to play Chicago?" He yelled out.

Unsure of both what he was talking about and who he was yelling at we ignored him and proceeded to shoot around.  Rims were friendly, the hoops of appropriate height.  The court itself boasted several cracks through which the green grass triumphantly made its way through.

'Hey, you want to play a game?  You want to play Chicago?" He had now made his way towards us.  He had several tattoos on his arms and torso.  A bowling ball sized belly accompanied his dreads.  He must have been somewhere in his mid to late 20s.  Possibly older.

Eventually we agreed to play.

"What's your name."
"Sincere."
"How do you spell that?"
"S-I-N-C-E-R-E."
"Like the word?"
"Yeah."
"You live around here?"
"Yeah, around Franklin Park area."
"Oh?  Me too."

He showed me his pinky.  It was bent out of sorts.

"I got shot the other day and they had to sew it up in the hospital."
"Oh, that does look kinda nasty.  Whereabouts?"
"Oh around here.  Off of Main." 

We started to play.  The guy was clearly out of shape, had no shot, and air-balled more than his fair share of jump shots and layups.  I felt kinda bad just watching him.  As my friend pointed out later.  We weren't Jeremy Lin by any stretch of the imagination, but this guy was so bad we had to feel a little sorry for him.

"Hey girl," he yelled towards the female on the bench, "This one's for you!" His three-point shot clanging off the back iron to the left.

Yes, he was pretty bad.  To quote Shaq, he was "horawful."

"So, are there any parts of town that I should be more careful around?" I inquired, figuring it wouldn't hurt to get a local's take on the area.
"Nah, it's all good around here.  I was just selling some weed."  He hoisted up another air-ball.

He was huffing and puffing pretty badly by this point.  So after he missed yet another shot, he abruptly took off towards his girl.  As he was walking away, I called out to him to see if he still wanted to play.  No response, and that was it.  It was pretty dark at this point, and so my friend and I turned once again towards the green field of imperfections.

"First contact with the neighborhood, eh?" my friend teased.
"Yeah, check back with me in a few months.  See how I feel about it then."