BETWEEN WORLDS - Chapter 10
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Coach's office existed in defiance of time and administrative budgets. The same wood-paneled walls, mismatched furniture, and trophy-filled shelves had greeted Langston Hughes basketball players for over two decades. Metal filing cabinets lined one wall, surfaces decorated with team photos marking progression of years. Different faces, identical expressions of teenage determination beneath blue and gold jerseys.
Azeil lingered in the doorway, sweat cooling against his skin as the adrenaline of practice gradually faded. He catalogued the room's details with unconscious precision, laminated court diagrams taped to the wall, a worn hardwood rolling chair behind the desk cluttered with playbooks and scouting reports, three championship trophies prominently displayed despite being outnumbered by runner-up plaques. Different from Highland Prep's glass-and-chrome look, where Coach Alan's office resembled a corporate executive's suite more than a basketball sanctuary.
"Close the door," Coach said, settling into a rolling chair with careful movements of a man whose body remembered every injury it had sustained. "Have a seat."
Azeil complied, moving to the chair opposite Coach. Up close, the desk revealed more personal details. A coffee mug decorated with cartoon basketballs, photo frames positioned so only Coach could see their contents, a plastic container of cough drops suggesting perpetual battle with gym acoustics.
"You played well today," Coach observed, leaning back slightly, chair protesting with metallic groan. "Different from that championship game. More controlled."
Azeil considered this assessment and recognized its accuracy. "That was... I was desperate then," he admitted. "A last chance to prove myself after spending most of the season on bench."
"And today?"
"Just trying to find my place," Azeil replied, the honest answer surprising even himself. Six weeks ago, such unguarded responses would have been unthinkable. Everything carefully measured, potential advantages and liabilities weighed before each word.
Coach nodded, something like approval flickering across features. "Fair enough." He opened the drawer, retrieving a folder that he placed between them with deliberate care. "I got your transfer paperwork last week. Impressive academic record."
The change in subject carried purpose rather than distraction. Coach's methodical approach to the conversation revealed basketball strategy applied to human interactions, probing for openings and establishing rhythm before executing the actual play.
"My mom insisted on it," Azeil said, the reference emerging more easily than it would have even days ago. "Basketball was important, but grades were non-negotiable."
"Sounds like Elise," Coach replied, a small smile touching corners of mouth. "She had her priorities straight, even back then."
The casual reference to his mom's teenage years, a period Azeil knew almost nothing about, registered like a gentle current beneath their conversation's surface. Coach offered something here, an opening to knowledge Azeil hadn't realized he was seeking until now.
"You said you went to school with her," Azeil noted, caution still coloring his approach to this unexplored territory.
"Two years ahead of her," Coach confirmed, his gaze shifting to some middle distance beyond Azeil's shoulder, memory changing perspective. "Everybody knew Elise Carter. Not just because she was valedictorian, though that would've been enough. She was..." he searched for a proper description, "...inevitable. Like gravity or sunrise. Some people just are."
The description settled in Azeil's chest with physical weight, recognition of something he'd always understood about his mom without having words to capture it. Her certainty, her unwavering focus, her assumption that obstacles existed to be navigated rather than surrendered to.
"She never talked about Langston," Azeil said, his admission carrying both confusion and slightest edge of betrayal. "Never mentioned going here or growing up in this neighborhood. It's like her life started at Howard University."
Coach considered this, unsurprised. "For some people, past is weight to shed rather than carry. Especially people going somewhere different from where they started." He paused, then carefully added, "But that doesn't mean it didn't shape them."
The observation landed with unexpected impact, not just regarding his mom but also reflecting Azeil's own circumstances. Careful compartmentalization of Highland and Langston, strategic management of identity in both spaces, effort to present only what each environment valued.
"Did she play basketball here?" Azeil asked, question arising from genuine curiosity rather than strategic information gathering.
Coach smiled, a full expression that transformed his usually serious features. "Like you wouldn't believe," he replied, genuine appreciation with a warming tone. "Not on an official team, girls' sports weren't funded properly at the time. But she had this crossover in pickup games that would leave defenders standing still, wondering where the ball went."
Azeil felt an unexpected surge of emotion at this detail. His mom's basketball prowess, never mentioned in all their years of courtside discussions and post-game analysis. She'd taught him shooting form, defensive positioning, mental approach to competition. But she'd never framed these lessons as drawn from personal experience, merely as objective basketball wisdom gathered from observation.
Maybe he’d been foolish to not notice.
"She taught me everything I know about the game," Azeil said, memories surfacing of weekend mornings at public courts, his mom rebounding for hours without complaint, her precise feedback after each shot.
"And now you're playing on same court she did," Coach observed, the connection deliberately highlighted. "Life has strange symmetry sometimes."
The comment carried weight beyond simple wording, acknowledgment of unintended yet somehow fitting pathways, of circles completing despite tragic interruption. Elise Carter had left Langston Hughes for Howard University, for law school, for a career that carried her into a different social strata. Now her son had returned, retracing steps she had deliberately moved beyond.
"I still don't understand why she never mentioned it," his confusion genuine. "She was proud of everything she accomplished. Why hide where she came from?"
Coach remained quiet for moment, organizing thoughts. "Your mom faced different circumstances than you," he finally said, words measured. "Coming from Langston in those days, entering the legal profession, which wasn't exactly welcoming to Black women, she made certain choices about her narrative." He leaned forward slightly. "Not dishonesty. Strategy."
Azeil recognized the distinction immediately, the same calculated presentation he'd used at Highland Prep, emphasizing what would gain acceptance while minimizing elements that might trigger prejudice or dismissal. His mom hadn't been ashamed of Langston; she'd been strategic about which parts of herself to highlight in which contexts.
"Like code-switching," he said, borrowing the term Nia had used during their football game conversation.
"Exactly," Coach agreed, appreciation evident in his expression. "Elise was brilliant at reading rooms, understanding what would advance her goals versus what might hinder them." His gaze sharpened. "Sound familiar?"
The parallel was undeniable. Azeil's careful navigation of Highland Prep's social landscape, strategic management of identity in spaces designed to exclude more than include. Recognition that this skill hadn't developed in isolation but had perhaps been inherited, modeled by his mom throughout childhood.
"She wanted better for you," Coach continued, his tone gentle but direct. "That's why she worked so hard to get you into Highland Prep, pushed you academically and athletically. Not because Langston wasn't good enough, but because she understood which doors opened more easily from which starting points."
Insight offered perspective Azeil hadn't considered, his mom's choices viewed not as rejection of her past but as pragmatic navigation toward her son's future. A scholarship to Highland Prep wasn't merely academic opportunity but strategic positioning, creating access to networks and resources Langston couldn't provide.
"Then why am I here now?" Azeil asked, question emerging from that still-raw place where grief and confusion mixed together. "If she worked so hard to get me into that world, why did everything collapse back to where she started?"
The question hung between them, layered with complexity. Coach didn't rush to answer, allowing the inquiry its due respect.
"Life rarely follows paths we map for it," he said finally, voice carrying wisdom of someone who had witnessed many such disruptions. "Your mom built the strongest foundation she could for you. That it looks different than she planned doesn't mean it's weaker."
His presence at Langston was viewed not as failure or collapse but as unexpected continuation, different expression of the same underlying strength his mom had cultivated.
"Your dad coming back into picture wasn't part of her plan," Coach acknowledged, observation carrying no judgment. "But she chose him once, saw something in him worth building life with, however briefly. Now you can understand that choice in ways you couldn't before."
Azeil felt something shift inside his chest, not healing exactly, but movement where there had been stillness, circulation returning to emotional territories frozen in grief's suspended animation.
"I'm still figuring that out," he admitted, thinking of his dad's backyard basketball court, wordless offering of ball with its note: FOR WHEN YOU'RE READY. Small gestures of connection carried more weight than their surface simplicity suggested.
Coach nodded, understanding evident in his expression. "That's as it should be. Relationships take time to find their shape." He paused, then added with careful emphasis, "Including ones you’ll build with this team."
A shift back to basketball carried more natural progression rather than abrupt redirection, acknowledgment that all these elements connected in Azeil's current circumstances, each feeding into others in ways still being discovered.
"Zahair's not going to make it easy," Azeil observed, the morning's confrontation fresh in memory.
"No, he won't," Coach agreed without hesitation. "He's carrying his own burdens, fighting his own battles. Some deservedly, some not." His expression hardened slightly. "But that doesn't excuse crossing lines like he did today. There's competition, and then there's cruelty. I don't tolerate latter in my gym."
"Rest of team seems..." Azeil searched for the right characterization, "...less hostile than I expected."
"Basketball creates its own currency," Coach replied with a hint of satisfaction. "Respect earned through performance speaks louder than most prejudices, at least on the court." He leaned back in his chair. "You showed something today, not just skill, but toughness. Mental discipline. The ability to take a hit and stay focused on the larger goal."
The assessment carried approval without sentimentality, recognizing qualities valued regardless of which jersey Azeil wore. Not Highland's technical precision or country club polish, but fundamentals that transcended environment, resilience, focus, strategic thinking under pressure.
"I need to know if you're committed," Coach said, shifting from observation to direct inquiry. "Not just to basketball, but to this team. These players. This school." His gaze held Azeil's without wavering. "No halfway measures. Either you're Langston Hughes or you're not."
The challenge was deliberately stark, allowing no equivocation or strategic ambiguity. Coach wasn't asking Azeil to abandon Highland experiences or deny complex identity. He was asking for authentic investment in current circumstances, whatever shape they might take.
He thought of his mom's careful planning now rendered irrelevant by her absence. Of his dad's awkward attempts at connection. Of Nia's perspective on grief and forward movement. Of Marco and Devon and Tyson, their cautious acceptance during morning's scrimmage.
"I'm here," he said finally, a simple statement carrying layers of meaning beyond surface. "Not just physically. I'm committed."
Coach studied him for long moment, weighing declaration against decades of experience with teenage certainties and uncertainties. Whatever he saw in Azeil's expression appeared to satisfy him.
"Good," he said, closing folder on desk with sense of conclusion. "Practice tomorrow at 6:30 AM. Don't be late." He paused, then added with careful emphasis, "And Azeil? Your mom would be proud. Not just of how you played today, but of how you handled yourself."
Azeil swallowed against sudden tightness in throat, emotions he'd carefully managed threatening to break through maintained barriers.
"Thank you," he managed, simple acknowledgment inadequate to moment's weight yet somehow sufficient.
As he rose to leave, Coach spoke again. "One more thing," he said, reaching into desk drawer. "Found this when I was clearing out old storage boxes last week. Thought you might want it."
He handed over a photograph, edges slightly worn, colors faded by time. Azeil accepted it with careful hands, eyes widening as he registered what he was seeing. Langston Hughes gym, circa late 1990s, the coed intramural basketball team posed beneath a hoop. And there in front row, basketball cradled against her hip, stood his mom, younger than he'd ever seen her in photos, her expression containing none of the careful composure he'd known throughout life. Instead, she grinned with unguarded joy, one arm slung around a teammate's shoulders, her Langston Hughes t-shirt bright against brown skin.
"First place intramural champions, 1998," Coach explained, observing Azeil's reaction. "Your mom hit the game-winning shot. Same spot on the court where you made yours against us last February."
His mom had stood where he had stood, had experienced the same suspended moment of potential before release, had known the same exhilaration of perfect execution under pressure.
"Can I keep this?" Azeil asked, his voice steadier than he'd expected.
"It's yours, figure she'd want you to have it."
Azeil tucked the photo carefully into gym bag. The photo provided connection to his mom he hadn't known existed, shared experience across time, threads connecting their separate journeys.
"Now get cleaned up," Coach said, his tone returning to usual practical authority. "Bell for first period rings in twenty minutes."
Outside Coach's office, the gym had emptied, players dispersed to showers and lockers, a mundane rhythm of school day beginning. But the space felt different now, not just site of this morning's practice or Friday's confrontation, but a place containing history directly connected to Azeil's own. His mom had played here, learned the game's language in same space, felt the same hardwood beneath her sneakers.
As he headed toward locker room, movement in the corner of his eye caused him to turn. Nia still sat in bleachers, now gathering things as if preparing to leave. She looked up, their eyes meeting across gym's empty expanse.
"Good practice," she said simply, voice carrying easily in the quiet space.
"Why’d you come?" Azeil asked, surprised she'd remained through his conversation with Coach.
“Wanted to see if you played differently than you did at Highland."
Azeil appreciated her directness, absence of fake encouragement or strategic positioning.
"Did I?" he asked, genuinely interested in her assessment.
"Yes and no," Nia reached the gym floor. "Same skills, different expression. Less calculated, more..." searching for the right words, "...present." She paused. “Coach give you the third degree?”
"More like a history lesson," Azeil replied. "About my mom. Turns out she played here too."
Nia's expression revealed no surprise, only thoughtful consideration. "That explains a few things," she observed. "Connection to Langston, why your dad's house is in this neighborhood."
Her analytical approach reminded Azeil suddenly of his mom, the way she'd assess situations by examining structural elements rather than surface appearances.
"Dad never mentioned it either," Azeil said, still processing this new understanding of family history. "Though we haven't exactly had in-depth conversations about... well, anything."
"Parents are complicated," Nia observed, adjusting her backpack strap casually. "Even the best ones have chapters they don't share, reasons they keep to themselves."
Azeil nodded his head, understanding that more and more with each passing day.
"Want to walk to class together?" Nia asked, glancing at wall clock.
The invitation carried deliberate casualness that belied significance, a public alignment after Friday night's confrontation, a statement made through proximity rather than declaration. Azeil recognized what she was offering: not just companionship to first period, but visible association at school where social geography carried consequence.
"Yeah," he agreed, the single syllable inadequate to moment's weight yet somehow sufficient. "Just need to grab my stuff from locker room. Meet you out front in five?"
Nia nodded, smile small but genuine. "I'll be there."
As she pushed through gym doors, Azeil felt something settle into place, not resolution exactly, but a forward motion, a step taken with certainty rather than calculation. He glanced once more around gym, seeing it differently now. Not just Langston's court or the site of practice, but part of a continuum that included his mom's journey, his current circumstances, and whatever the future might unfold from this point forward.
His mom's words echoed in memory: "Basketball is like life, little one. Breathe through pressure." Advice that carried new meaning now, knowing she had stood on same court facing her own pressures, challenges, and uncertain future. Symmetry didn't ease his grief but somehow made it more bearable, their experiences connected across time through shared space and circumstance.
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Between Worlds is a fiction novel by Craig Griffin. New chapters post every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Subscribe to get them delivered to your inbox.