Memory #3: Imaginary Friend
When I was very young I had an imaginary friend who played with me. What we mostly played, though not exclusively, were sports. Football, mainly. Baseball and basketball to. There is a photo of me, in some dusty album somewhere, wearing one of my father’s tattered church basketball jerseys. I hold a red, white, and blue basketball, in the stone cold, unfinished basement of our rural Wakarusa home. Behind me, a wooden backboard and a full-sized basketball rim and net hang on the wall, five feet or so from the concrete floor. I suspect my friend and I had just finished a wild game, defeating some imagined team, for my cheeks look flushed and rosy. My father’s jersey hangs to my ankles.
I think my friend—Rebound, he was called—had made the winning shot that day.
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