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“Whatever. I’m through givin’ you basketball lessons for the day,” Dee said as he bent his lean, brown, six-foot frame over and gripped the bottom of his shorts. I called him Dee for short. He hated being called Dominic. Sweat dripped from the ends of his neck-length cornrows as he gasped for breath.

I surveyed the fans around the basketball court to see if any honeys worth gettin’ at were in attendance. Mosswood Park, Oakland’s version of Rucker Park in New York, was a tree-lined park located a couple miles north of downtown. Three full-length basketball courts, swings, monkey bars, a sandbox, stood off to the side of a large grassy area where outdoor concerts and other events were held.

Streetball had become so popular that people would circle the courts and watch us play. Players from all over the area—including Dee and me—came to show our skills on the weekends. There were many Streetball groupies there, eager to get with the best players on the court.

“You see any hotties?” Dee asked. He could tell by the way my hazel eyes swept the crowd that I was on the prowl.

“Nah, just a bunch of the regulars,” I answered.

Dee walked over, tapped me on the shoulder and pointed. “Ain’t that ya girl, Yo-Yo, over there by the hotdog cart?”

“Oh shit!” I picked up my t-shirt and pulled it over my head. “If she sees me, she’s gonna fuck up all my action. Let’s bounce before she brings her ass over here.”

Nearly all the fellas were shirtless on that hot August Sunday. Appreciative glances trailed my tall, athletically built frame. Nearing thirty-years-old, bald headed, sporting a neatly trimmed goatee, most women considered me a black Adonis. In my mind, they were exactly right.

As we strolled past the sandbox, toward the parking lot, the hairs stood up on the back of my neck. Just when I thought I’d shaken Yo-Yo, I found out I was wrong.

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