The park was louder than George expected.
Laughter overlapped with music from a speaker someone brought. The smell of grilled food drifted through the air. Folding chairs lined the edge of the court, crowded with aunts, uncles, cousins—family he barely recognized but somehow felt safe around.
George stood close to his parents, fingers hooked into his dad's shirt.
"Don't wander off," his mom said, smiling as she fixed his hair.
George nodded, but his eyes were already elsewhere.
The basketball court.
A group of men were gathering near the sideline. Some stretched. Some argued about teams. One of them stood out immediately—not because he was loud, but because he wasn't.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Calm eyes.
His uncle.
"That's him," his dad said, following George's gaze.
"Your Uncle Mike."
George had seen him on TV before. Jerseys. Crowds. Highlights. But seeing him here—wearing a plain shirt, tying his shoes like everyone else—felt different.
More real.
"Did he really play in the NBA?" George whispered.
His dad smiled. "Still does."
"Alright, let's keep it friendly," Uncle Mike said, spinning the ball on one finger before handing it off.
"No injuries. I'm not explaining that to anybody's wife."
Laughter erupted.
George sat on the edge of the court, knees tucked in, chin resting on his hands.
The game started slow. Old friends feeling each other out. Trash talk that didn't mean anything.
Then Uncle Mike moved.
It wasn't fast.
It wasn't flashy.
But the court… changed.
George didn't know how else to explain it.
The ball sounded different when it hit the floor.
Passes landed exactly where hands expected them.
Shots didn't rush. They waited.
When Uncle Mike scored, no one complained.
When he passed, no one hesitated.
It was like everyone else was reacting—
and he was deciding.
George felt his chest tighten.
He didn't blink.
"Why is he not trying hard?" George asked his dad.
His dad glanced down at him. "He is."
George frowned. That didn't make sense.
Uncle Mike stole the ball with a small step George almost missed. A clean layup followed. No celebration. Just a nod.
The game kept going.
George leaned forward without realizing it.
For a brief moment—just one—everything on the court lined up.
The spacing.
The timing.
The silence right before a shot went in.
George felt it in his hands.
A strange warmth.
A pull.
The ball hit the net.
And something inside him answered.
After the game, Uncle Mike walked over, sweat on his neck, smiling as family crowded him.
His eyes dropped.
"You were watching pretty hard," he said.
George froze. "…Yeah."
Uncle Mike handed him the ball.
"Here," he said. "What'd you see?"
George looked at it. Then up at his uncle.
"I don't know," he said honestly.
"But it felt like the court was talking."
Uncle Mike's smile faded—just a little.
Then he nodded.
"Good," he said. "Don't forget that."
George didn't know it yet.
But that was the day the game noticed him back.