Why I Can’t Stop Watching Women’s Basketball
Because biceps and quads and shoulders for days. Because lit women, hungry women, growling look-at-me fast-breaking behind-the-back-passing three-point-shooting-28-feet-out swoosh women. Chest-crashing blood-spitting skull-cracking and play on women. Women who own ball, court, confidence, six-plus feet of bone and plasma and muscle and ass-kicking. Own swagger, own fans, own media, own dominance, own queerness, own the...
With the Braves On, My Father Washes Me
A week before my twenty-sixth birthday, I lie morphine-cradled in the recovery wing of Pelham Medical Center. I reek of sweat and surgical tape, blood and unsalted hospital beef, my hospital gown sweet with syrup from several spilled fruit cups. It’s Friday, which means I’ve been stagnant in bed for a week. Deciding my stench...
Flying Still Matters
Growing up playing sports everyone called me Crane. Whether my coaches were screaming at me, barking at me, cursing me under their breath, or praising me, it was Crane this, Crane that. I liked the sound of it in their mouths, reminding me that I was an athlete. To be an athlete, in my eyes,...
Heavy Metal
To avoid the Hernandez brothers, lean tough kids with scarred knuckles, reputations, and stolen cigarettes, I cut through the back lot of the local body shop on my way home from school, passed slow by the twisted wrecks and starred windshields, awed by the hard lines and the graceful curves where Detroit’s finest met bridge abutments...
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