Tim Warren by Roger D'Agostin

Fat, duck-footed, already parting his hair two inches from his left ear, can’t catch, can’t run, and wears gym shorts with pockets so he can bury his hands.

Tim Warren doesn’t ask to play point guard, start, take the ball out, or complain no one passes.

He tells me halfway through the season he prefers to be called Timothy. 

Timothy Warren sits at the end of the bench, a full imaginary friend in between the next player, legs crossed, biting his lower lip, immersing himself in the words of Edgar Allen Poe and when I ask him to go into the game, “Just the last two minutes of the half,” he folds the book over his index finger and looks up with an expression I can only describe as wanting.  

I don’t add, “Your mom’s here.”

Timothy Warren never abbreviated epidermolysis bullosa once the entire season. Never said a word when the kids whispered the mummy’s here.  

Timothy Warren double dribbles, travels, and gets hit in the face when he’s not ready for a pass the last game of the season, when I try to play him for an entire quarter. I call a timeout and tell him to stay in the corners. “Keep your hands out. Remember, make a triangle. Thumbs in a line. At your chest.” He manages to catch the ball and promptly steps out of bounds. I hear his mom yell, “Good try.”  

Timothy Warren tells me after the game, “Next year I’ll bring Kafka.” Then he wheels his mom out of the gym like a proud parent with a stroller.

Roger D'Agostin is a writer living in Connecticut.  His most recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Paper Dragon, Blood + Honey Magazine, and The Bookends Review.