Presence
Mid-worship, Midjourney
This piece was written as part of a course on creative non-fiction writing. The assignment was as follows:
” Dirty Hands” — Good writing in any genre depends on detail. Write a "dirty-hands" piece of your own. Your topic should be something you know first hand and can describe with many interesting details not available to an outsider. Focus on details you actually observe, not information from background reading and the like.
On Sunday morning, I arrive early. The ritual requires two, at least. Four is better, ten is best, but two will do.
I see through the glass double-doors that three are already there. Good. I pull open one of the doors and step onto the polished maple. It's bright inside, like always. The overhead fluorescents cast a white glare on the floor that tracks my footsteps.
Dua's latest is playing my ears via those white wireless earbuds, the kind that everyone ridiculed and now everyone wears.
Noticing me and my noise-cancelling accoutrements, Trey cocks his head, raises his eyebrows, and holds up two fingers. I nod and walk toward an open spot on one of the wooden benches. It looks a bit like a pew.
I sit down. I remove my hooded sweatshirt; in a moment, I'll be plenty warm. I pull the buds from my ears, right, then left, and snap them into their case. The last thing I do before I rise from the pew is pop in a clear mouthguard; I've chipped too many teeth doing this. I clench down to check the fit and feel the thermoplastic press against my molars.
"Do I get to warm up?" I ask, lisping.
"Nah, I gotta run soon. You'll be fine," Trey says.
"Alright."
The ritual is joined, and we four begin. "Two on two."
It doesn't happen immediately — my cheeks have reddened and sweat has begun to roll down them — but it doesn't take long to feel His presence.
Trey throws me the ball. I catch it about 20 feet from the hoop. I know what I want: I want to put the ball into the hoop. The person blocking my path, a fellow adherent but, for this exercise, my opponent, also knows what I want. He arrives to me just after the ball and crouches low, his back to the basket, arched, his eyes angled upwards to look for clues in mine.
I move the ball to from right to left and bounce it down. It sort of floats back up and left, outside my frame, and I float with it — both my feet leave the ground, priming the tendons in my lower legs for explosion. My opponent mirrors me, the floating, the priming, the buildup of potential energy in his trunk. When my feet arrive back to the maple, I attack. I "punch" the ball off the floor with such force that it's immediately back in my hand, and I plant my right shoulder into the defender's chest. The impact staggers him for a moment. I'm moving slowly again, gathering. My eyes flicker upward toward the basket to measure the distance and angle. He regains balance and makes to close the gap, lest I use the space to rise up over him and fling the ball towards the hoop. But to his surprise and mine, my slow step and flicker is a feint. I'm already re-exploding: one more bounce of the ball and I'm past him and flipping it out of my left hand up off the glass backboard through the nylon.
Just after, it occurs to me that I've never done that before. I’ve scored before, sure, but a float-hesi-jab-punch to a left-handed finish, no, never. This is how I know He is with me, or was, for a moment. Who else could have shown the way? For a moment, I was unconscious, and someone else was at the controls. That feeling is why I show up on Sunday mornings. I’m chasing it, and I suspect the others are too.
Not everyone can see what He wants to show. Not everyone is looking. Not that I blame them. What self-respecting god would show you only the things you want to see?
As I’m walking back to the top of the key, I glance over at Trey and smirk. He smiles back. We're still losing, but that was sort of smooth.