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often the Scorpions took on new players, especially fourteen-
year-olds, and this was a chance of a lifetime for Greg. He
What you Think?ou Think?
hadn’t been allowed to play high school ball, which he had What y
really wanted to do, but playing for the Community Center What is referred as
team was the next best thing. Report cards were due in life time chance for
a week, and Greg had been hoping for the best. But the Greg and why ?
principal had ended the suspense early when she sent the
letter saying Greg would probably fail in math if he didn’t

spend more time studying.

“And you want to play basketball?” His father’s brows knitted over deep brown eyes.
“That must be some kind of a joke. Now you just get into your room and hit those
books.”

That had been two nights before. His father’s words, like the distant thunder that now
echoed through the streets of Harlem, still rumbled softly in his ears.

It was beginning to cool. Gusts of wind made bits of paper dance between the parked
cars. There was a flash of lightning nearby, and soon large drops of rain splashed onto
his jeans. He stood to go upstairs, thought of the lecture that probably awaited him

if he did anything except shut himself in his room with his math book, and started
walking down the street instead. Down the block there was an old tenement that had
been abandoned for some months. Some of the guys had held an impromptu checker
tournament there the week before, and Greg had noticed that the door, once boarded

over, had been slightly ajar.
Pulling his collar up as high as he could, he checked for traffic and made a dash across

the street. He reached the house just as another flash of lightning changed the night
to day instantly, then returned the graffiti-scarred building to the grim shadows. He
vaulted over the outer stairs and pushed tentatively on the door. It was open, and he
let himself in.

The inside of the building was dark except for the dim light that filtered through the
dirty windows from the street lamps. There was a room a few feet from the door, and
from where he stood in the entrance, Greg could see a squarish patch of light on the

floor. He entered the room, frowning at the musty smell. It was a large room that might
have been someone’s parlor at one time. Squinting, Greg could see an old table on its
side against one wall, what looked like a pile of rags or a torn mattress in the corner,
and a couch, with one side broken, in front of the window.

He went to the couch. The side that wasn’t broken was comfortable enough, though a
little creaky. From the spot he could see the blinking neon sign over the bodega on the

corner. He sat awhile, watching the sign blink first green then red, allowing his mind

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