A Tear for the Unknown

July 3, 1971

The wind tears through the neighbourhood, sending anything in its path into the air. Trees bend with the whirling wind, as if by doing the wind's bidding, they shall be spared their lives. The few fragile ones give in and their roots are pulled away, and are unkindly thrown and discarded. The heavy downpour lends havoc to the scenery, even the waves on the breakwater from the Bay make known they are ready to devastate. The streets are deserted, save for a few cars and jitneys, as even the vagabonds have taken cover.

Yet, Jason runs to the basketball court with his ball, defying the winds, defying the rain, defying the strange feelings and fighting to keep them within. At first a few tentative dribbling, then as the rain pelts his face, he drives the ball hard on the watery concrete. This court is his, his territory, his kingdom. He rules here. He does not care whether there is rain or wind or hurling trees, this is where he is most at home. His skills are honed here, his presence revered by the unquestioning grounds that happily welcome his weight.

He drops the ball on the ground and unbuttons his shirt, throwing it to the side of the court. Then he pulls his pants down, struggling for a moment to get them off his legs without undoing his sneakers, now soaked with the water that had accumulated on the ground. The pants end on the other side of the court, disappearing into a puddle.

He picks up his basketball once again and dribbles it for a long time. The cold makes him shiver, but he does not care. No, if he does not want to feel cold, here in his court, he will not feel the cold. The anger, the emotions he has been stifling, these he channels to the ball. The more anger he feels, the harder the ball hits the ground in a watery splash. The harder the wind blows, the harder the rain fell, the angrier Jason gets, the ball hits the ground harder, and the water splashes strongly, sometimes even hitting his face.

He stands in front of the basket and sends the ball through. He stands farther back each time until he reaches mid-court. He knows, if he concentrates enough he can shoot the ball from that distance. He raises the ball, his eyes, despite the rain pelting his face, intensely focused on the basket.

But if one looks closer, one does not see just a young man stripped down to his underwear shooting baskets on the basketball court in the middle of a typhoon. As Jason thrusts the ball forward, tears blur his vision. And when the ball does not go through, he yells as loud as he can and the tears keep coming. And he yells some more, bidding the tears away, sending them with the wind as it blows devastation around the city.

Veronica. Veronica!

Several months ago, she was within his grasp. She had smiled at him. She talked to him. She came when he had asked her to see him play. She was there. Didn't he do that impossible layup just for her? Didn't he play his hardest so the team would win the game, for her?

She wasn't like the girls who ogled and giggled. She was so together, so calm, so mysterious. When she smiled, it was hard to guess what she was thinking. But he had watched her from the hallway of his third floor classroom as she walked across the quadrangle - she walked with purpose; the A to B, the here to there, no nonesense purpose. And yet he has seen her as playful. The few times he had seen her laugh, she threw her head back without a care, she laughed without pretensions. Her laugh was genuine and he longed to share laughs with her.

But he has never overcome his shyness. Even when he decided he'd be man enough to have a shot of rhum so he would not be shy. She just held him tongue-tied. He thought her piercing gaze can stop a train in its tracks. He could never guess what was in her mind.

And yet somehow he knew, there was something in there for him. And he wanted to know what it was.

But now she's gone, and he is left with the questions he didn't know how to ask. She has moved on. And somehow he knows he, too, must.