Something She Can Feel

I looked up at the sun and thought about my hair.

“Jr, your game was good. Maybe you should play Evan, so May can see your skills from over here ... then maybe she can anticipate your moves better,” I said, knowing just how to rub my brother’s ego to make him insist upon playing again.

“Hmm,” he said, pretending to consider my suggestion before responding. “Maybe you’re right.” He tilted his head and paused reflectively. “Yeah. Let’s play, Evan.” He pointed to Evan as if he was enlisting him into the Army and picked his racket back up. “And May, you can watch, so you can see me move.”

Evan popped up and gathered his racket as well. As May sat down, I rolled my eyes at Jr. If I could count on one thing from him, it was his ego leading to disaster.

“Thanks for saving me from having to sit here arguing with him for another half hour,” May said, settling into her seat next to me. “Your brother keeps me in prayer.”

“Oh, that was for me,” I said. “If my hair feels one more drop of sweat, this mop will be an Afro for sure.”

We both chuckled, and when I refocused, I saw Jack Newsome stepping into the gate. He was alone and dressed in some loose-fitting shorts and a Prophet House T-shirt.

“Pastor Newsome,” May said.

“Hey, everyone,” he said, walking onto the court.

May and I got up and walked over to greet him, meeting Evan and Jr halfway.

“Your father invited me out to play this morning,” he said.

“He did?” Jr asked, scowling as if he was ready to bounce Jack off of the court.

“Well, welcome,” May said pleasantly. “Let’s get you a racket.”

Jr mean-mugged Jack for as long as he could before we continued pleasantries and decided to let him play in the next match. He claimed he hadn’t played in a while and needed to loosen up. Jr, smelling weakness in his unfortunate opponent, was adamant that he help. In fact, Jr added, he was just about to show everyone his new serve.

Evan, May, and I scrunched up on the small bench and watched the two get into position. The only thing missing was a commentators’ table and microphones. Jack had no clue, but this was sure to be the hottest action the courts had seen since the infamous Justin and Jr matches in the nineties.

“I hope your brother doesn’t embarrass us. The man’s a guest,” May whispered, sitting on my left.

“I think that’s part of the problem,” Evan said on my right.

Jr hit the first ball hard, but Jack, who apparently knew how to “anticipate a play,” hit the ball right back at Jr, slamming it at his feet.

“Nasty,” I said, watching Jr hustle to get the ball as May had. “Good and nasty.”

The ball was up again and the pair hit it side to side, fast and forcefully. It was more like a fight than a match. We could hear them grunting with each hit. And when the ball came down on Jr’s side again, he flung his white head band to the ground and started bouncing around on his feet like a fighter.

“They kinda look alike,” Evan said, his head moving as we watched the ball.

I looked back and forth between my brother and Jack. Jr was lighter and a bit taller, but from where we were sitting, they did look a lot alike. The same build, way of hitting the ball. Even their profiles favored one another with the sun’s shadows.

“Well, you know what they say about people hating each other looking like one another,” May offered.

“I thought that was about people who were always together,” I said as the ball slammed at Jr’s feet again.

This battle went on until my mother called us all into the house to eat. Jr lagged behind, cursing and spitting so much that my mother told him to sit outside and cool down before he came inside the house.

Fortunately, for the sanity of my family, Jack, who was as cool as a politician after the match, had to get back to the church to excuse the children’s Bible study academy, so he had to leave. He made his apologies and promised to join us again next time. Only we knew that next time would be more like never once Jr spoke to my father. I volunteered to walk Jack to the car. He was a year older than Jr and lived just blocks away from us growing up, but I never got to know him very well outside of the church. He was an interesting man—dedicated to the church and God. Like my father, he had a strong grasp of the Bible, but he’d taught at the Johnson C. Smith Theological Seminary in North Carolina, so he tended to think of things in the Bible in less conventional ways than my father. He wanted to break things down, ask questions, and explore other texts. This came through in his smart, lecture-like sermons, which attracted a young, more educated population. Unlike other assistant pastors, when the church knew Jack was going to lead a sermon, they showed up in numbers. I thought this was why Jr was so jealous of him.

As we walked to the car, I complimented him on his backhand and apologized for Jr’s behavior.

“He’ll have to accept it on his own time,” Jack said openly, and I assumed he was talking about his eventual leadership of Prophet House.

“Jr is stubborn. He gets that from our father. I’m sure he’ll be okay,” I replied.

“I’m happy to hear that.”