Lester wanted to stay the week at his son’s house.  And he didn’t want to.  Behind his indecision were three things he disliked.   He was moving to Arizona to avoid his first dislike--creeping arthritis.  But this forced him to face his second dislike--the idea of growing old alone.  His son’s invitation to stay with him during the week of the movers at least offered temporary respite from this fear, but presented his third dislike, smart-aleck kids, namely his grandson.  After drumming his fingers on the table and watching rain clouds pass over one afternoon, he decided that aging scared him more than a mouthy kid, and he felt a dull ache in his joints when he thought of leaving without at least trying to understand how a modern-day grandson’s twisted mind worked.

     The inevitable battle between him and the grandson began the morning after his arrival.  Lester was at the kitchen table sifting through a box of his things which his son had kept over the years.

     “I’ll be damned.  My old high school yearbook.” He turned to the winter sports section and smiled at his once lean body in a basketball uniform.

     His grandson, Charlie, came in with a bowl of cheerios.  “I wouldn’t be caught dead in those shorts,” Charlie said, looking over at the young Lester and his teammates.  “You guys sure couldn’t shoot for beans.  Look at that guy.  Why does he have his knee up when he’s shooting way outside the key?  Looks like a fairy.”  He snickered and stuffed a spoonful of cheerios into his mouth.  Milk dribbled down his chin.

     “That fairy happens to be your grandpa.  And that team happened to go to the city championships that year.  Not too shabby, considering we had nothing but a barn to practice in,” Lester answered.

     “Great.  Now you’re not going to tell me another boring story about slogging to school through knee-deep cow shit, right?”

     Lester looked at his 13 year old grandson and sighed.  His son had been bad enough at this age.  Each succeeding generation grew worse.  Evolution was a myth.  Man was de-volving.

     “I mean, what am I supposed to do,” his grandson continued, “find a cow pasture to walk across?  Move to rural Minnesota in the winter?  Build a cabin with no running water and a hole in the ground for a shitter?”

     Lester thought about how he had raised his son through the turbulent 60’s.  The kids then were rebels, but the majority had been at least peace-loving.  This generation was rebellious and belligerent.  Down right cocky sons-of-bitches.

     “Can’t live in the past, Gramps.  And I hope you’re not planning on raising chickens again on your front lawn in Arizona.  Why don’t you buy some decent clothes?  Listen to real music.  Take a computer class.  Anything.”  His grandson threw up his hands, grabbed his basketball, and was out the front door.

     He shook his head.  This was beyond disrespect for one’s elders.  It was harassment.  His son came in with the morning paper and sat beside him.

     “Kids.  They’re devolving back to apes, I tell you,” Lester mumbled.

     “What?” His son looked up from his paper.

     “Fine gentleman you’re bringing up.  According to him, I need to get with the program--learn how to play video games and waste money on clothes I don’t need.”

     His son looked at Lester’s polyester Target shirt.  “It wouldn’t hurt you to get some new clothes.”

     “Yeah?  A little fear of God and frugality wouldn’t hurt the likes of you two, either.  I’m going for my morning walk.”  He hoisted his stiff hips out of his chair and shuffled off toward the front door. 

     White leather high-top shoes with a basketball player emblem on the tongues leaned against each other on the doormat.  Lester looked at his navy-blue canvas boat shoes, then back again at the high-tops.  Probably cost a fortune.  He looked to make sure his son was still reading, then slipped off his boat shoes and put on the high-tops.  Hmmm, not a bad fit.  He raised up on his toes, sank back on the soft healed soles.  His thin lips drew up into a crooked smile.  He strutted, as best he could, out the front door toward the basketball hoop and grandson in the driveway.

     His grandson smirked at his swagger but stopped his lazy dribble when he looked at Lester’s feet. “Those are almost brand new shoes.  Come on Gramps, take them off.”

     “Well I’ll be... I get less respect than a pair of shoes.  Throw me the damn ball.”

     The boy heaved a sigh and lobbed the ball to Lester.  “Better not scuff ‘em.  They’re the new Michael Jordan’s.”

     Basketball’s gone to hell,” Lester said shaking his head.  “You wouldn’t have caught Bob Cousy worrying about his shoes or show-boating with useless dribbles between the legs.”

     “That dribbling isn’t useless.  Who’s this Bob Floosey, anyway?”

     “Cousy.  And you just watch the old man.  Maybe you’ll learn a thing or two.” His arm arched up and forward like a swan neck and released the ball.  A perfect swish.

     “Lucky first shot,” the boy snorted.  “And what century did you learn to shoot in?”

     Swish.

     “Luck again.”

     Swish.

     “You’re on a roll.  So what?”

     Swish again, this time from behind the three-point line.

     “The priss ain’t flapping at the jaw so much now, is he?  You have the guts for a game to ten?”  He winked at the boy.

     “You can barely get your feet off the ground.”

     “So I was right.  You don’t have it in you.”

     “--Old fart goes first.”

     Lester noticed his grandson’s tight lips and felt him stewing in his comments.  The ball had rolled and come to rest by the boy’s feet, but he could see his grandson wasn’t about to pick the ball up for him.  He felt his back and knees strain and protest as he bent for the ball.

     The fire had left Lester’s legs decades ago.  But there was wise cunning and strength still in his hands.  His grandson swatted the ball several times, but could not dislodge it from his iron grip.  Though slouched at the shoulders, Lester still had a good six inches on the boy.  He launched his swan-like shots beyond the key.  The swishing continued.  And the sound tickled Lester as much as the rhythmic brushing of a woman’s thighs in silk pants.

     His grandson matched Lester’s long languid shots with cat-like faints and scrambles to the hoop.  The between-the-legs and behind-the-back dribbles had appeared like targets for easy steals.  But Lester found his head jerking like a chicken’s and the boy was around him and driving to the hoop before he could see straight.

     “Nine to nine.  Game point,” Lester said, taking the ball. “Maybe you do know a thing or two.  Still, you’re lacking in the fundamentals.  You’re good, I’ll grant you that.  Real good.  But you could be better if you had a handle on the basics.”  Lester looked into the boy’s face to confirm he had quelled the disrespect, but instead saw a trench soldier biting his lip.

     In his years of going to city tournaments and some championship games, Lester had learned that basketball was a mental game.  Sometimes you had to reach into your guts.  Other times, you played it like a poker game.  You read your opponents face.  Drew out the cunning move.  He knew this was the right time.  He pump-faked a shot and heaved his body into a dribble.  But he was surprised to discover that over the decades his reflexes had slowed to half the speed of his wits.  In his cock-sure zeal, his toe caught a rock.  His grandson watched his decrepit body twist and fall to the pavement.

     “Woe, you okay, Gramps?”

     “Grab one of those rags inside the garage.”

     “Holy shit.”  The boy froze when he saw the gouge on the heal of his grandpa’s hand.  The blood flowed like a sheet of oil paint over the inside of Lester’s forearm.  Red droplets splattered on the gray concrete.

     “What’s the matter?  Didn’t think the old fart could bleed?

     “No, I--“

     “Get the damn rag.”

     The boy scampered to the rag box and back.  His hands trembled, almost flailed, as he wound the rag around his grandpa’s hand.

     “Easy there, Grandpa.  Take my hand and shoulder.”

     “I’m okay.  I can drag my own sorry ass off the court.”

     “Crap.  I’m right here--just take my hand.”

     “All right, then.”  He was surprised at the grip of the boy’s small hand.  It trembled with the force of a wounded deer clinging to life.

     His grandson had insisted that they get him inside, have Dad rush them to the doctor.  Instead, he told the boy he needed to catch his breath, sit on the front steps and steady his rackety old knees.  The boy argued with him at first.  Then they debated about basketball, both certain that civilization depended upon the outcome. They debated about the merit of the between-the-leg dribble.  About uniforms that were once too tight and now too baggy to properly play in.  About which was more effective--the hook shot or fade-away jumper.  And they almost forgot about Lester’s bandaged hand.

     “Your new Michael Jordan shoes--I scuffed the right toe.”  Lester grimaced.

     “Tell me more about this Cousy guy.”

     Lester felt the wind kick up, listened to the flutter of the silky net above the driveway.  His hips and knees ached.  It was a peculiar ache that seeped up into his chest, lost its edge, turned as warm and smooth as brandy.

     “Cousy.  The guy was a magician, but he didn’t overdo it,” he finally responded to his grandson.  And Lester allowed himself the brief pleasure of imagining his arthritis had been carried away with the wind.