There was about an hour of sunlight left at the hardtop basketball courts in this Northern New Jersey town. These courts were the scene of hard fought pick-up games involving really good players. I had come to see my cousin, a local star on any court, hardwood or blacktop. I had lit up at these courts a few years before, but I had given up playing hoops in favor of finding a meaningful work career. Breaking a nose, losing teeth and pulling muscles were no longer in the equation.
My cousin’s father was my father’s younger brother who had tragically died of a brain tumor. I wasn’t close to my cousin—we were separated by nine years—and he was committed to staying locally while I was on the move–next stop, California. But still there was that blood connection and when I waved hello he found a way to get me on his team. We held the court (beat everyone) although we struggled in a few games when we should have walked over our opponents—we were simply too “amped,” a common street ball affliction. We played until darkness ended the up and down cadence and the jangling of chain nets.
We would have gone for beers but my cousin had to go to work. I never saw him again. I left for California a short time later and the years passed before my father gave me the news: cousin Genie had died of brain tumor at the age of 35. The tumor was in the same place as the one that took his father.
The image of this hardtop basketball court in fading light has been with me for 40 years. Sometimes I replay dribbling to the top of the key, faking a jumper and passing off to my cousin who dunks. My eyes stung back then with perspiration, now they’re just wet with the regret of losing touch with someone I thought I’d catch up with later.
Too often in life there is no “later.” It is beyond us to know when we will make the final pass, have that final hug, wave that last goodbye. And this is why I say goodbye with love when the journey is as simple as going to work.
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