Chapter 1 — Throwing the Ball Through the Rain

Nguyen An returned to school on a low afternoon, when gray clouds formed a long line on the roof of the gym. She stood outside the gate, looking at the repainted school name but still noticed the dent on the left pillar. Three years ago, An used to lean on it after a loss, her shoes sticky with mud, her palms burning from holding the ball too tightly. At that time, she promised herself never to return. The promise of a thirteen-year-old turned out to be lighter than a phone call from her mother: "This year I'm going to school close to home, so I can go to school so I don't have to travel."

In the yard, the sound of the ball bouncing was sparse. An followed the sound and saw that the basketball board on the east side had only one iron rim left, and the net was more than half broken. The field surface has blurred white paint streaks, and between the two boundaries is a leaf-shaped puddle. Duy Phong is standing on the ladder, using a wrench to tighten the screw under the board. He wore a loose gym shirt, his hands were oily, his hair was blown up by the wind. Seeing An, Phong almost dropped the wrench.

“Are you really back?”

“If it's not true, then who am I talking to?” An put down her bag and tried to speak as if the past three years were just one long vacation. Phong looked at her new shoes and then at the puddle. “This pair is not for the yard.” An replied that she had no intention of playing yet. Phong smiled very lightly, the kind of smile that he didn't believe but didn't want to force.

At the end of the yard, a notice board was overturned by the wind. An picked it up and saw a plan to build a school parking lot. The words "dismantle the old basketball field" are in the landscape renovation section. She read it twice, then asked when the yard would be demolished. Phong climbed down the ladder and wiped his hands on a towel. He said the council will meet after the rainy season sports tournament, if the school cannot prove that the field is still used regularly.

“Is the women's team still active?” An asked.

Phong did not answer immediately. A ball rolled out from the warehouse door and stopped at her feet. On the glossy surface there is a streak of blue ink that looks like a half-erased handwriting. An bent down to pick it up, a familiar feeling running along her wrist. Phong said the team is still on the list, but only three people left to practice. He pointed to the locked iron door. "Nhien keeps the key. She said if you come back, don't let you hide."

An wanted to laugh, but the phone vibrated. A text message from her homeroom teacher reminded her to go to the gym to pick up her uniform. She held the ball and threw it toward the rim. The ball touched the board, bounced off, and fell into a puddle of water. Phong looked at her, didn't say "nice throw" but just gave her the towel. An wiped the ball, looked at the field shimmering in the afternoon light and wondered if a place that was about to disappear still had the right to call her back.

It started to rain. Phong pulled the canvas to cover the basket, An held one corner of the rope. The two struggled so much that water splashed their shoulders. When the canvas finally stood still, Phong pointed to the warehouse door. On the lock is a crumpled piece of paper: "Friday, five o'clock. Anyone who wants to play can open it themselves." An recognized Nhien's handwriting. She returned the piece of paper, accepted the set of keys Phong gave her and said: "I'll come. Just to see."

On the way home, An walked around the old classroom. The wall that once held basketball team photos has been painted cream, but there are still four straight nail holes. She remembers her photo in the bottom row, hair cut short, hand holding a ball higher than her shoulder. In the photo, An smiles as if she knows the future will fit in the palm of her hand. She once believed that a defeat could erase everything, but the wall proves that memory does not listen to those who want to erase it.

Her mother waited for her at the pho restaurant at the end of the alley. Mom didn't ask An if she played basketball. She just gave her a dry towel and told her hair to drip onto the table. An said the field was about to be dismantled, the women's team only had three people left, and a girl named Nhien had given her the key. Mom listened, then asked if An would play again if the yard wasn't destroyed. An said she didn't know. Mom gave her a piece of meat and said that if she didn't know, the answer could be left overnight.

That night, An opened the old shoe box. The city basketball shoes still have glue streaks on the toe and the left lace is frayed. She tried to put her feet on, but they felt tighter because she hadn't worn them for three years. On the shoe lining is the letter N.H., which could be the seller's name, or could be the pen stroke she once wrote. An wiped it with her pen and stopped; she didn't want to erase a trace just because she couldn't remember who it belonged to.

In the new class group, one student sent a photo of the parking plan and asked who would object. An didn't knock right away. She read comments from people who wanted parking, people who were worried about losing the yard, and people who just asked if the school would fix the restrooms. She realized that people weren't standing on two neat sides like the poster. If they want to keep the field, the team must understand the people who need a parking lot.

An composed a short message: "I'm learning the history and usage of the yard. If anyone has information or wants to give suggestions, just send them; don't attack others." She read it three times before sending it. The message wasn't outstanding, but then a friend said his father often took sick people to school and there was really a shortage of parking. An noted that opinion in the notebook, placing it next to information about the women's team.

The next morning, Ms. Hanh sent her the practice schedule and application form. The commitment section has only three lines, but An writes an additional line on the back: "I have the right to take time off when sick or when having family matters; leave will be announced in advance and will not be used to evaluate personality." Ms. Hanh looked at it and signed next to it. An put the application in her briefcase, not knowing whether she had signed for a basketball team or a new way of life.

In the new classroom, An sat next to the window and saw a corner of the yard. The math teacher was teaching the system of equations, but her eyes kept stopping at the yellow Phong tape streaks on the field. Every time someone passed by, An guessed what they were doing: a sixth grader looking for a ball, a janitor pulling a cart, a teacher reading a plan. She realized that observing didn't make the exercise any easier, but it helped her know that a place belonged to more than just the person competing.

During recess, a friend named Khanh asked An if it was true that she had taken the city exam. An asked Khanh where he knew from. Khanh said the old photo is still in the class group. An wanted to tell him to delete it, but then realized she had no right to ask a historical photo disappear just because she didn't want to be reminded. She said if you repost, please ask her and the others in the photo. Khanh nodded, opened his phone and deleted the draft, then asked An if he could help the team on opening day. An said yes, but you have to read the rules.

That afternoon, An and Tran made a list of things the team was doing that no one was in charge of. There are small items like bringing water, cleaning lines, returning keys, but there are also big items like handling injuries, receiving photo deletion requests, and reporting when the course is closed. An used to think playing basketball was about running, passing, and throwing; Now she sees a team that also has people standing on the sidelines to keep the game from collapsing. Tran said that if you don't write it down, everyone will assume that the person who does it the most has to do it forever.

Phong sent An a photo of the east basket after removing the old net. On the back of the board is a line of measurements written in pencil. An asked where he got it from. Phong said that line came from a previous student, probably the person who last repaired the yard. They did not know the name, but decided to keep the lead in the technical file. A watermark can also let others know that someone has measured and tried.

That evening, Mom asked An if she wanted to buy new shoes. An said the old pair can still be used, just a bit tight. Mom didn't force her, just gave her the bus card so she could choose for herself. An opened the sales page, looked at the brightly colored shoes, then closed it. She doesn't want to buy a new promise with furniture yet. She'll try it for a few weeks, take care of her knee and see if she really wants to continue.

Before going to bed, An wrote down her weekly schedule in her notebook: two practice sessions, one open session, one document preparation session, and one rest session. She left Wednesday night free so that if her mother needed to go to the doctor, she could go with her. The schedule wasn't as pretty as the competition schedule, but it was the first schedule that didn't force her to choose just one thing. The phone vibrated, Nhien sent a key icon. An replied with the ball icon, then put the phone down.

In the darkness, An still remembered Phong's voice talking about the crack: a warning sign, not a border. She wondered how many things in her life had been considered borderline just because no one put up warning signs. The question has no answer, but tomorrow she will bring it to the yard with her old shoes.

An added a line below the calendar: "Going slowly does not mean turning around." Then she put the notebook next to her shoes, ready for the first day.

Outside the window, the rain stopped. An heard the sound of a car running down the street and thought of the yard behind the school. Tomorrow she won't care how much she plays; She just needs to show up on time, ask questions when she's unclear, and don't leave in the middle of a pass.