There is a tall, gangly teen on the basketball court outside my window.
He carries his right forearm up, his arm bent at a 90-degree angle against his body, his hand partially fisted. Sometimes that hand flaps.
His whole right side is stiff, it doesn’t move the way his left side does.
He bounces the ball with his left hand, shoots with the strength of his left arm and hand alone.
Sometimes after sinking a hoop he claps jubilantly.
He keeps shooting. Over and over and over again. From close up and far away. He lopes exuberantly around the court, unbothered by the unevenness of his gait.
He doesn’t give up.
When he leaves he walks past my window. I wave and he waves back.