i playi don't play basketball to win;i play against myself, to excise my demons,i play for the roar of the music in my ears,i play for the snarl of lyrics in my throat,i play for the blessed silence that reigns in my head.i don't play basketball against others;i play because it is personal for me,i play until i can't tell if it's sweat or tears,i play for the ache of overused muscles,i play for the rush in my ears that blocks everything out.i don't play with any kind of official rules;i play for the thud thud smack of the ball,i play hot or cold, no matter what the season.i play for as long or short as i want to,i play as lazy or as hard as i can take.i don't play for anyone else but me.
The PhotographIt starts with a photograph.It's been years, but the room is unchanged, if a little dustier. They haven't dared to touch this last piece of their fallen brother, a shrine to the boy who loved words and the worlds they unlocked. When they step into the room, they can almost pretend he's still there.Damon finds it first. He bows his head over the faded polaroid, closes his brother and remembers the brother he idolized. He thinks of being a toddler, tossed squealing into the air before being caught; of nights spent at the kitchen table, getting help with the homework he couldn't do; chasing after the older brothers who often didn't want their baby brother tagging along.Dylan notices, and comes over to see what he's found. He takes the photograph he's offered and looks for a few moments before letting out a string of curse words - his way of trying not to cry. He thinks of the brother who always charged headfirst into life; who defended his younger brothers from neighborhood bullies by