Just me and him

The gym is empty.

Just me and him.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bench, feet nowhere near the floor.

His little legs swing slow, like the air’s thicker than it should be.

There’s a ball nearby—flat and still. No bounce left in it. It just sits there, quiet. Like us.

He doesn’t say much.

He doesn’t have to.

His eyes are locked on the court. Like he’s waiting for something to happen.

Or maybe remembering something that did.

His hands are folded in his lap, fingers tapping against each other—soft, rhythmic, like he’s calming himself without realizing it.

I sit beside him.

Older. Heavier. Carrying more years than I meant to.

I don’t say his name. He doesn’t need it.

After a while, he glances up.

“You’re big,” he says.

I nod.

“You’re quiet,” he adds.

“So are you,” I reply.

He looks back at the court.

“I don’t like loud yelling,” he says, not looking at me. “It hurts my chest.”

I feel it.

Like someone reached in and pressed on something soft I thought had hardened.

“I know,” I say. “Me too.”

He reaches down and grabs the ball—not to bounce it, just to hold it.

It barely fits in his arms, but he doesn’t let go.

“You remember me?” he asks.

“I never forgot,” I say.

“You were gone.”

“I was trying to get strong,” I tell him. “I thought if I could just hold everything up, maybe you wouldn’t have to carry it.”

He doesn’t answer.

But he leans over and rests his head against my arm.

It’s the first time I’ve felt him relax.

“You mad at me?” I whisper.

He shakes his head, slow.

“You try hard,” he says. “You just get tired.”

And right then, I can’t breathe.

This little boy—this two-year-old version of me—doesn’t need an apology.

He just needed presence. Safety. A lap to lean into.

We sit there like that for a long time.

No game. No whistle. No coach.

Just one man and the boy he used to be.

Making peace at courtside.