Boot(s)

3-Boots

Bobby O'Callahan

I could see Boots in the bleachers. Third row on the home side, two people in from the edge of the railing. He was smiling wide, looking around at the boys on the court like he was in Madison Square Garden. I had to bite my lip to keep from smiling. I took a swig of Gatorade from one of the sideline bottles to calm my nerves.

I shot a few more free-throws with the rest of the team and snuck another look at the crowd. Jessie Lee, my loud-mouthed-no-filter-completely-unashamed Asian best friend had squeezed herself next to Boots. I could see Pop standing in the corner of the gym by the door, red Cardinals hat pulled low over his eyes. He was wringing his hands out in front of him though, so I know the nerves ate him up like they did me.

It was my first varsity basketball game. I was one of two sophomores on the team; Prep had one of the best basketball programs in all of Georgia. It felt like a dream, being there. Two years ago I hadn't even touched a ball. And there I was.

I hadn't even tried out for the team my freshmen year, I was that nervous. I refused to practice with the best boys in the state if I wasn't just that—one of the best boys in the state. For two years I spent every afternoon on that cracked asphalt court where I first met Boots. He taught me everything he knew, then he got everyone else he knew to do the same. I had the useful skill of being a decent visual learner, so when some of the best ballplayers in the streets of Atlanta were coming to show me how to play, I kept a good watch. And when it came for me to go out for the team, I made it—by the skin of my teeth, coach said—but I made it.

I wasn't going to make it off the bench, of course, not until I earned my keep. At least that's what all the boys told me. Maybe they were trying to intimidate me—the only white boy on the team—but I believed it all the same. These kids were on full scholarships. For high school. Some of them even came from as far as an hour away to play ball here. And here I was, tall, goofy, Bobby O'Callahan. To them, it didn't seem fair.

I didn't play a second that game, but as soon as the final buzzer rang and Prep's victory was announced by one of my classmates over the speakerphone, Boots and Jessie were sprinting toward the sideline at full speed.

Jessie was the first one to crush me in an embrace. "Your first game, Bo! Your first game!"
I ruffled her hair and pulled away from her. "Jess, I appreciate it, but—"

Boots cut me off by slamming one of his freshly tattooed hands over my mouth. He was a sophomore, like me, but he had been held back twice so he was already eighteen. The inked initials on his knuckles were the first thing he did when he hit the milestone birthday. LOVE! his fingers now read, the exclamation point on his thumb. It was the stupidest thing I had ever seen him do, and at that point, I had seen him do many, many stupid things. When I told him that, he laughed. "Exactly, Cal. Exactly."

"We don't care if you're the god damned water boy, Bobby O'Callahan. Seeing you on that sideline is fresh!"

He took his hand off my mouth only to pull my head down a few inches so he could rub his fist against my hair properly.

Once he released me from his clutches, Jessie got to work adjusting my hair—which was longer now, and not styled by my grandma every day. "Boots, Mr. O wants us over for ice cream or a movie. Celebrate Bo's opening night. You're coming, right?"

We both already knew the answer at this point in our friendship, but it was customary to invite him anyway.

"Nah," he shoved his hands into the pockets of his brown corduroy jacket. "You two enjoy." He gave my head one more noogie, then took off towards the gym's exit. I watched as he passed my father, slowing down to give him a handshake and a greeting before he disappeared out the double doors. Watching him walk away, my heart skipped a few beats. The realization made my head spin.

I ignored both the beating and the spinning.

"God," Jessie was shaking her head. "You don't think he's up to something bad, right?"

In our three years of friendship, no matter how many times I offered, Boots never stepped foot in my house. In fact, he didn't cross the tracks to our side of town at all. And we didn't cross the tracks into his.

We met at the court, downtown, in the public library, the public gym, and occasionally, here at Prep's court. But Boots wouldn't dare associate with Prep—or the kids who went there—any more than he had to. He wasn't all that keen on Jessie to begin with. He thought her pretentious and artificially intelligent. "Artificially intelligent," according to Boots, was intelligence you bought with "good part of town money" and did not earn "from living and figuring shit out on your own."

He quickly learned otherwise. Jessie was smart, but not overly so. She admitted when she was wrong and she didn't pretend she knew everything. She was a firecracker with big opinions and a lot of them. She was never afraid to say what she felt, and it earned every ounce of Boots' respect once he finally got to know her. With Boots' fiery attitude and his impulsive, almost manic nature, the two were peas in a pod.

"You know him, Jess. He's fine, he just doesn't like leaving his comfort zone." Or at least that's what I tried to convince myself. I wanted so badly to have a real friend in Boots. I wanted a guy to come over and watch a movie or play catch or do homework at my kitchen table while Pop taught us life lessons. I wanted a friend who wasn't afraid to leave the comfort of the basketball court in his backyard.

"Jesus, Bo," Boots said one day when I expressed this to him. "You watch too much television. If anything, our friendship is more special because we don't need that crap. We can sit here on this court and look at stars through the trees for hours and never get bored. Doing homework together? Now that's a fuckin' snore. This. Us. This is real friends, Bo. Never forget that."

It was the most profound thing I had ever heard out of Boots' mouth, so I never questioned him about our unusual friendship again. Besides, for the homework, movies, and Pop's life lessons, I had Jessie. And for everything else, there was Boots.

I caught up with him the next day at our usual spot—the corner of Downs and Ridge, a few blocks away from that spot my grandma dropped me off on my first day at Prep.

Boots was late, but when he came strolling up with two cups of Dunkin Donuts ice coffee in his hands, those green eyes wide like usual, I felt my heart lift. When he reached me standing on the corner, my faded Levis, t-shirt, and Jansport backpack very much overshadowing his public basketball t-shirt and sweats, he made a big display of taking a long sip of each coffee. He licked his lips, tilted his head, then handed me the one in his right hand.

"This one's sweeter. Like you like it."

And then I truly couldn't ignore the pound pound pound of my chest and the heat that rose to my cheeks and the lump in my throat as I swallowed down how unusually itchy this all made me.

"Thanks, man."

And then, he winked. It was a stupid Boots wink that meant absolutely nothing at all, because by now Boots was used to all the attention his faded jackets and tight jeans and swoopy hair got from girls, so I knew it meant absolutely nothing because I had seen him toss it around like it was nothing. And it was. Nothing.

But right there, right then, it was everything.