The Makings of a Good Athlete
Brian Dickson
Sport: a source of diversion, recreation
Memory: 7 years old
Phillip’s dog has a huge house. We play. A day is a minute: breakfast, work, hello, dinner, TV, bed. The next day, the same thing, but at bedtime we take our shirts off. How do our parents snuggle? we say. They go like this? Both of us knew enough not to touch below the belly button.
Sport: to amuse oneself
Memory: 11 years old
P.E. Coach Olivas shows a puberty video, says, “If any of you muchachos laugh, you will be booted from the room.”
On the screen: a boy and a girl crudely drawn, no genitalia, but the girl has humps on her chest. The only thing you remember the narrator saying is “What’s going on with my body?” Hair sprouting from everywhere on the characters’ bodies. Coach says, “It’s a jungle out there.”
There’s no mention of sex.
Sport: a person considered living up to the ideals of sportsmanship
Memory: 14 years old
Thanksgiving night, bedtime. My brother’s friend from college is on top of me in my bed. Only the comforter and sheet separate us. I’m sinking into the mattress, box spring barely a creak, the cracks in the doorways silent. He reaches around the layers, around me, to my belly, slipping under my Hanes.
Next morning, his elbow nudge at breakfast to forget all about it. Dollops of sausage gravy clinging to my bowl.
After breakfast, he plays basketball with me and my family at the gym. I try not to guard him, but foul him hard when he enters the paint. He finger rolls layups with my Michael Jordan translucent ball, and on the van ride home, he sits next to me, pats me on my leg, says, “You have the makings of a good athlete.”
He has a football scholarship. After he graduates, eight years later, he is convicted of molesting children at a daycare center.
Sport: a physical activity done for your enjoyment
Memory: 15 years old
In the locker-room showers after P.E. or basketball games dudes yell Turn! to wash their backs so other dudes don’t turn and accidentally see dangling chorizos. Eyes close when facing the middle. Showerheads lining the walls separated by five feet in between. The rhythm of the water crawling to the center drain.
On the benches, I whip Elijah Moreno’s ass with my towel and see if he let’s go of his, see if his choad smiles at the world. When we dress, we have one hand pinching corners of our towels while the other one holds the end of our chortes. We shimmy into them and our Levi’s while keeping our eyes up during post-game analysis.
Sport: styled in a manner especially suited for casual or informal wear.
Memory: 16 years old
Most of high school basketball life is spent in tight shorts and spandex until Allen Iverson and his crossover makes long shorts fashionable at Georgetown, then playing for Philly. Before that, Larry Johnson and the UNLV Runnin’ Rebels. Before that? Magic Johnson, Larry Bird, tight, tight, tight—but no spandex.
At practice I screen players with my fists closed, covering my huevos, stiff-armed, with a little shoulder in the back, to let the other guy know you are there. You never want the opposing player to know what else is there.
At practice I learn to slap an ass during a game after a great play. As in, “Yea, homey!”
Sport: an individual exhibiting sudden variation from the normal limits of individual variation
Memory: 17 years old
Guillermo, how you play football and basketball. Footwork. Grappling. Helmet to helmet. Chest to chest. Padding for your other spirit drifting above the fray.
Big bucket trash cans have room for you to hide. But you are not hiding, you are crammed into those containers.
You, cornerback and shooting guard, rack up too many offensive fouls.
I don’t understand when Mikey Gonzalez wrestles you at his house, pins you on your back, thrusts at you in a flurry of his and your Levi’s jeans. He says after, “Boys just having fun roughhousing, you know? To know you’re not gay you have to pretend to be gay.”
Sport: often mean-spirited jesting
Memory: 18 years old
My first love, Katrina Romero, calls my penis “Jumpy.”
“How’s Jumpy?” she coos into the phone.
She doesn’t know how far I’ll spring to find myself.
Brian Dickson
Sport: a source of diversion, recreation
Memory: 7 years old
Phillip’s dog has a huge house. We play. A day is a minute: breakfast, work, hello, dinner, TV, bed. The next day, the same thing, but at bedtime we take our shirts off. How do our parents snuggle? we say. They go like this? Both of us knew enough not to touch below the belly button.
Sport: to amuse oneself
Memory: 11 years old
P.E. Coach Olivas shows a puberty video, says, “If any of you muchachos laugh, you will be booted from the room.”
On the screen: a boy and a girl crudely drawn, no genitalia, but the girl has humps on her chest. The only thing you remember the narrator saying is “What’s going on with my body?” Hair sprouting from everywhere on the characters’ bodies. Coach says, “It’s a jungle out there.”
There’s no mention of sex.
Sport: a person considered living up to the ideals of sportsmanship
Memory: 14 years old
Thanksgiving night, bedtime. My brother’s friend from college is on top of me in my bed. Only the comforter and sheet separate us. I’m sinking into the mattress, box spring barely a creak, the cracks in the doorways silent. He reaches around the layers, around me, to my belly, slipping under my Hanes.
Next morning, his elbow nudge at breakfast to forget all about it. Dollops of sausage gravy clinging to my bowl.
After breakfast, he plays basketball with me and my family at the gym. I try not to guard him, but foul him hard when he enters the paint. He finger rolls layups with my Michael Jordan translucent ball, and on the van ride home, he sits next to me, pats me on my leg, says, “You have the makings of a good athlete.”
He has a football scholarship. After he graduates, eight years later, he is convicted of molesting children at a daycare center.
Sport: a physical activity done for your enjoyment
Memory: 15 years old
In the locker-room showers after P.E. or basketball games dudes yell Turn! to wash their backs so other dudes don’t turn and accidentally see dangling chorizos. Eyes close when facing the middle. Showerheads lining the walls separated by five feet in between. The rhythm of the water crawling to the center drain.
On the benches, I whip Elijah Moreno’s ass with my towel and see if he let’s go of his, see if his choad smiles at the world. When we dress, we have one hand pinching corners of our towels while the other one holds the end of our chortes. We shimmy into them and our Levi’s while keeping our eyes up during post-game analysis.
Sport: styled in a manner especially suited for casual or informal wear.
Memory: 16 years old
Most of high school basketball life is spent in tight shorts and spandex until Allen Iverson and his crossover makes long shorts fashionable at Georgetown, then playing for Philly. Before that, Larry Johnson and the UNLV Runnin’ Rebels. Before that? Magic Johnson, Larry Bird, tight, tight, tight—but no spandex.
At practice I screen players with my fists closed, covering my huevos, stiff-armed, with a little shoulder in the back, to let the other guy know you are there. You never want the opposing player to know what else is there.
At practice I learn to slap an ass during a game after a great play. As in, “Yea, homey!”
Sport: an individual exhibiting sudden variation from the normal limits of individual variation
Memory: 17 years old
Guillermo, how you play football and basketball. Footwork. Grappling. Helmet to helmet. Chest to chest. Padding for your other spirit drifting above the fray.
Big bucket trash cans have room for you to hide. But you are not hiding, you are crammed into those containers.
You, cornerback and shooting guard, rack up too many offensive fouls.
I don’t understand when Mikey Gonzalez wrestles you at his house, pins you on your back, thrusts at you in a flurry of his and your Levi’s jeans. He says after, “Boys just having fun roughhousing, you know? To know you’re not gay you have to pretend to be gay.”
Sport: often mean-spirited jesting
Memory: 18 years old
My first love, Katrina Romero, calls my penis “Jumpy.”
“How’s Jumpy?” she coos into the phone.
She doesn’t know how far I’ll spring to find myself.