Santa Monica (Short Story‪)‬

Michael Green handled the news of his son's death the way he handled all his news: three jumpers from the left of the key, three from the top of the circle, and three from the right. Each time he let the ball fall into his hands, skin settling against leather. Then, he torqued his wrists, sending the ball through the blank California sky and waiting to hear the twitch of the net that meant that everything was right with what he did. He felt the warm breeze from the Pacific Ocean rub against his skin, and in the distance he could hear cracking waves and the aimless noise of tourists on the Santa Monica pier. He continued his routine. He moved to the left corner, one step inside the three-point line. He shot three jumpers, hitting all three. For twenty-seven years--all his adult life--he had practiced like this; he could shoot until he forgot his body, forgot what neighborhood he was in. Eventually, it all fell away.