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He thinks of her small, white hands, blue veined, gaunt, awkwardly knuckled. He’d teased her about the smallness of her hands, hers lost in the shadow of his when they pressed them together palm to palm to measure. The heavy drops of color on her nails barely reached the middle joints of his fingers. He’d teased her about her dwarf’s hands but he’d also said to her one night when the wind was rattling the windows of the apartment on Cedar and they lay listening and shivering though it was summer on the brass bed she’d found in a junk store on Haverford Avenue, near the Woolworth’s five-and-dime they’d picketed for two years, that God made little things closer to perfect than he ever made big things. Small, compact women like her could be perfectly formed, proportioned, and he’d smiled out loud running his hand up and down the just-right fine lines of her body, celebrating how good she felt to him.

She’d left him in May, when the shadows and green of the park had started to deepen. Hanging out, becoming a regular at the basketball court across the street in Regent Park was how he’d coped. No questions asked. Just the circle of stories. If you didn’t want to miss anything good you came early and stayed late. He learned to wait, be patient. Long hours waiting were not time lost but time doing nothing because there was nothing better to do. Basking in sunshine on a stone bench, too beat to play any longer, nowhere to go but an empty apartment, he’d watch the afternoon traffic in Regent Park, dog strollers, baby carriages, winos, kids, gays, students with blankets they’d spread out on the grassy banks of the hollow and books they’d pretend to read, the black men from the neighborhood who’d search the park for braless young mothers and white girls on blankets who didn’t care or didn’t know any better than to sit with their crotches exposed. When he’d sit for hours like that, cooking like that, he’d feel himself empty out, see himself seep away and hover in the air, a fine mist, a little, flattened-out gray cloud of something wavering in the heat, a presence as visible as the steam on the window as he stares for hours at winter.

He’s waiting for summer. For the guys to begin gathering on the court again. They’ll sit in the shade with their backs against the Cyclone fencing or lean on cars parked at the roller-coaster curb or lounge in the sun on low, stone benches catty-corner from the basketball court. Some older ones still drink wine, but most everybody cools out on reefer, when there’s reefer passed along, while they bullshit and wait for winners. He collects the stories they tell. He needs a story now. The right one now to get him through this long winter because she’s gone and won’t leave him alone.

In summer fine grit hangs in the air. Five minutes on the court and you’re coughing. City dirt and park dust blowing off bald patches from which green is long gone, and deadly ash blowing over from New Jersey. You can taste it some days, bitter in your spit. Chunks pepper your skin, burn your eyes. Early fall while it’s still warm enough to run outdoors the worst time of all. Leaves pile up against the fence, higher and higher, piles that explode and jitterbug across the court in the middle of a game, then sweep up again, slamming back where they blew from. After a while the leaves are ground into coarse, choking powder. You eat leaf trying to get in a little hoop before the weather turns, before those days when nobody’s home from work yet but it’s dark already and too cold to run again till spring. Fall’s the only time sweet syrupy wine beats reefer. Ripple, Manischewitz, Taylor’s Tawny Port coat your throat. He takes a hit when the jug comes round. He licks the sweetness from his lips, listens for his favorite stories one more time before everybody gives it up till next season.

His favorite stories made him giggle and laugh and hug the others, like they hugged him when a story got so good nobody’s legs could hold them up. Some stories got under his skin in peculiar ways. Some he liked to hear because they made the one performing them do crazy stuff with his voice and body. He learned to be patient, learned his favorites would be repeated, get a turn just like he got a turn on the joints and wine bottles circulating the edges of the court.

Of all the stories, the one about Doc had bothered him most. Its orbit was unpredictable. Twice in one week, then only once more last summer. He’d only heard Doc’s story three times, but that was enough to establish Doc behind and between the words of all the other stories. In a strange way Doc presided over the court. You didn’t need to mention him. He was just there. Regent Park stories began with Doc and ended with Doc and everything in between was preparation, proof the circle was unbroken.

They say Doc lived on Regent Square, one of the streets like Cedar, dead-ending at the park. On the hottest afternoons the guys from the court would head for Doc’s stoop. Jars of ice water, the good feeling and good talk they’d share in the shade of Doc’s little front yard was what drew them. Sometimes they’d spray Doc’s hose on one another. Get drenched like when they were kids and the city used to turn on fire hydrants in the summer. Some of Doc’s neighbors would give them dirty looks. Didn’t like a whole bunch of loud, sweaty, half-naked niggers backed up in their nice street where Doc was the only colored on the block. They say Doc didn’t care. He was just out there like everybody else having a good time.

Doc had played at the University. Same one where Doc taught for a while. They say Doc used to laugh when white people asked him if he was in the Athletic Department. No reason for niggers to be at the University if they weren’t playing ball or coaching ball. At least that’s what white people thought, and since they thought that way, that’s the way it was. Never more than a sprinkle of black faces in the white sea of the University. Doc used to laugh till the joke got old. People freedom-marching and freedom-dying, Doc said, but some dumb stuff never changed.

He first heard Doc’s story late one day, after the yellow streetlights had popped on. Pooner was finishing the one about gang warring in North Philly: Yeah. They sure nuff lynched this dude they caught on their turf. Hung him up on the goddamn poles behind the backboard. Little kids found the sucker in the morning with his tongue all black and shit down his legs, and the cops had to come cut him down. Worst part is them little kids finding a dead body swinging up there. Kids don’t be needing to find nothing like that. But those North Philly gangs don’t play. They don’t even let the dead rest in peace. Run in a funeral parlor and fuck up the funeral. Dumping over the casket and tearing up the flowers. Scaring people and turning the joint out. It’s some mean shit. But them gangs don’t play. They kill you they ain’t finished yet. Mess with your people, your house, your sorry-ass dead body to get even. Pooner finished telling it and he looked round at the fellows and people were shaking their heads and then there was a chorus of You got that right, man. It’s a bitch out there, man. Them niggers crazy, boy, and Pooner holds out his hand and somebody passes the joint. Pooner pinches it in two fingers and takes a deep drag. Everybody knows he’s finished, it’s somebody else’s turn.

One of the fellows says, I wonder what happened to old Doc. I always be thinking about Doc, wondering where the cat is, what he be doing now . . .

*  *  *  *  *

Don’t nobody know why Doc’s eyes start to going bad. It just happen. Doc never even wore glasses. Eyes good as anybody’s far as anybody knew till one day he come round he got goggles on. Like Kareem. And people kinda joking, you know. Doc got him some goggles. Watch out, youall. Doc be skyhooking youall to death today. Funning, you know. Cause Doc like to joke and play. Doc one the fellas like I said, so when he come round in goggles he subject to some teasing and one another thing like that cause nobody thought nothing serious wrong. Doc’s eyes just as good as yours or mine, far as anybody knew.

Doc been playing all his life. That’s why you could stand him on the foul line and point him at the hoop and more times than not, Doc could sink it. See he be remembering. His muscles know just what to do. You get his feet aimed right, line him up so he’s on target, and Doc would swish one for you. Was a game kinda. Sometimes you get a sucker and Doc win you some money. Swish. Then the cat lost the dough start crying. He ain’t blind. Can’t no blind man shoot no pill. Is you really blind, brother? You niggers trying to steal my money, trying to play me for a fool. When a dude start crying the blues like that Doc wouldn’t like it. He’d walk away. Wouldn’t answer.

Leave the man lone. You lost fair and square. Doc made the basket so shut up and pay up, chump.

Doc practiced. Remember how you’d hear him out here at night when people sleeping. It’s dark but what dark mean to Doc? Blacker than the rentman’s heart but don’t make no nevermind to Doc, he be steady shooting fouls. Always be somebody out there to chase the ball and throw it back. But shit, man. When Doc into his rhythm, didn’t need nobody chase the ball. Ball be swishing with that good backspin, that good arch bring it back blip, blip, blip, three bounces and it’s coming right back to Doc’s hands like he got a string on the pill. Spooky if you didn’t know Doc or know about foul shooting and understand when you got your shit together don’t matter if you blindfolded. You put the motherfucker up and you know it’s spozed to come running back just like a dog with a stick in his mouth.

Doc always be hanging at the court. Blind as wood but you couldn’t fool Doc. Eyes in his ears. Know you by your walk. He could tell if you wearing new sneaks, tell you if your old ones is laced or not. Know you by your breath. The holes you make in the air when you jump. Doc was hip, to who fucking who and who was getting fucked. Who could play ball and who was jiving. Doc use to be out here every weekend, steady rapping with the fellows and doing his foul-shot thing between games. Every once in a while somebody tease him, Hey, Doc. You want to run winners next go? Doc laugh and say, No, Dupree . . . I’m tired today, Dupree. Besides which you ain’t been on a winning team in a week have you, Du? And everybody laugh. You know, just funning cause Doc one the fellas.

But one Sunday the shit got stone serious. Sunday I’m telling youall about, the action was real nice. If you wasn’t ready, get back cause the brothers was cooking. Sixteen points, rise and fly. Next. Who got next? . . . Come on out here and take your ass kicking. One them good days when it’s hot and everybody’s juices is high and you feel you could play till next week. One them kind of days and a run’s just over. Doc gets up and he goes with Billy Moon to the foul line. Fellas hanging under the basket for the rebound. Ain’t hardly gon be a rebound Doc get hisself lined up right. But see, when the ball drop through the net you want to be the one grab it and throw it back to Billy. You want to be out there part of Doc shooting fouls just like you want to run when the running’s good.

Doc bounce the hall, one, two, three times like he does. Then he raise it. Sift it in his fingers. You know he’s a ball-player, a shooter already way the hall spin in them long fingers way he raises it and cocks his wrist. You know Doc can’t see a damn thing through his sunglasses but swear to God you’d think he was looking at the hoop way he study and measure. Then he shoots and ain’t a sound in whole Johnson. Seems like everybody’s heart stops. Everybody’s breath behind that ball pushing it and steadying it so it drops through clean as new money.

But that Sunday something went wrong. Couldna been wind cause wasn’t no wind. I was there. I know. Maybe Doc had playing on his mind. Couldn’t help have playing on his mind cause it was one those days wasn’t nothing better to do in the world than play. Whatever it was, soon as the ball left his hands, you could see Doc was missing, missing real bad. Way short and way off to the left. Might hit the backboard if everybody blew on it real hard.

A young boy, one them skinny, jumping-jack young boys got pogo sticks for legs, one them kids go up and don’t come back down till they ready, he was standing on the left side the lane and leap up all the sudden catch the pill out the air and jams it through. Blam. A monster dunk and everybody break out in Goddamn. Do it, Sky, and Did you see that nigger get up? People slapping five and all that mess. Then Sky, the young boy they call Sky, grinning like a Chessy cat and strutting out with the ball squeezed in one hand to give it to Doc. In his glory. Grinning and strutting. .

Gave you a little help, Doc.

Didn’t ask for no help, Sky. Why’d you fuck with my shot, Sky?

Well, up jumped the Devil. The joint gets real quiet again real quick. Doc ain’t cracked smile the first. He ain’t playing.

Sorry, Doc. Didn’t mean no harm, Doc.

You must think I’m some kind of chump fucking with my shot that way.

People start to feeling bad. Doc is steady getting on Sky’s case. Sky just a young, light-in-the-ass kid. Jump to the moon but he’s just a silly kid. Don’t mean no harm. He just out there like everybody else trying to do his thing. No harm in Sky but Doc ain’t playing and nobody else says shit. It’s quiet like when Doc’s shooting. Quiet as death and Sky don’t know what to do. Can’t wipe that lame look off his face and can’t back off and can’t hand the pill to Doc neither. He just stands there with his arm stretched out and his rusty fingers wrapped round the ball. Can’t hold it much longer, can’t let it go.

Seems like I coulda strolled over to Doc’s stoop for a drinka water and strolled back and those two still be standing there. Doc and Sky. Billy Moon off to one side so it’s just Doc and Sky.

Everybody holding they breath. Everybody want it over with and finally Doc says, Forget it, Sky. Just don’t play with my shots anymore. And then Doc say, Who has next winners?

If Doc was joking nobody took it for no joke. His voice still hard. Doc ain’t kidding around.

Who’s next? I want to run.

Now Doc knows who’s next. Leroy got next winners and Doc knows Leroy always saves a spot so he can pick up a big man from the losers. Leroy tell you to your face, I got my five, man, but everybody know Leroy saving a place so he can build him a winner and stay on the court. Leroy’s a cold dude that way, been that way since he first started coming round and ain’t never gon change and Doc knows that, everybody knows that but even Leroy ain’t cold enough to say no to Doc.

I got it, Doc.

You got your five yet?

You know you got a spot with me, Doc. Always did.

Then I’ma run.

Say to myself, Shit . . . Good God Almighty. Great Googa-Mooga. What is happening here? Doc can’t see shit. Doc blind as this bench I’m sitting on. What Doc gon do out there?

Well, it ain’t my game. If it was, I’d a lied and said I had five. Or maybe not. Don’t know what I’da done, to tell the truth. But Leroy didn’t have no choice. Doc caught him good. Course Doc knew all that before he asked.

Did Doc play? What kinda question is that? What you think I been talking about all this time, man? Course he played. Why the fuck he be asking for winners less he was gon play? Helluva run as I remember. Overtime and shit. Don’t remember who won. Somebody did, sure nuff. Leroy had him a strong unit. You know how he is. And Doc? Doc ain’t been out on the court for a while but Doc is Doc, you know. Held his own. . .

*  *  *  *  *

If he had tried to tell her about Doc, would it have made a difference? Would the idea of a blind man playing basketball get her attention or would she have listened the way she listened when he told her stories he’d read about slavery days when Africans could fly, change themselves to cats and hummingbirds, when black hoodoo priests and conjure queens were feared by powerful whites even though ordinary black lives weren’t worth a penny. To her it was folklore, superstition. Interesting because it revealed the psychology, the pathology of the oppressed. She listened intently, not because she thought she’d hear truth. For her, belief in magic was like belief in God. Nice work if you could get it. Her skepticism, her hardheaded practicality, like the smallness of her hands, appealed to him. Opposites attracting. But more and more as the years went by, he’d wanted her with him, wanted them to be together . . .

They were walking in Regent Park. It was clear to both of them that things weren’t going to work out. He’d never seen her so beautiful, perfect.

There should have been stars. Stars at least, and perhaps a sickle moon. Instead the edge of the world was on fire. They were walking in Regent Park and dusk had turned the tree trunks black. Beyond them in the distance, below the fading blue of sky, the colors of sunset were pinched into a narrow, radiant band. Perhaps he had listened too long. Perhaps he had listened too intently for his own voice to fill the emptiness. When he turned back to her, his eyes were glazed, stinging. Grit, chemicals, whatever it was coloring, poisoning the sky, blurred his vision. Before he could blink her into focus, before he could speak, she was gone.

If he’d known Doc’s story he would have said: There’s still a chance. There’s always a chance. I mean this guy, Doc. Christ. He was stone blind. But he got out on the court and played. Over there. Right over there. On that very court across the hollow from us. It happened. I’ve talked to people about it many times. If Doc could do that, then anything’s possible. We’re possible . . .

If a blind man could play basketball surely we . . . If he had known Doc’’s story, would it have saved them? He hears himself saying the words. The ball arches from Doc’s finger-tips, the miracle of it sinking. Would she have believed any of it?