spent.
String Music
Washington, D.C., 2001
Tonio Harris
Down around my way, when Iâm not in school or lookin out for my moms and little sister, I like to run ball. Pickup games mostly. Thatâs not the only kind of basketball I do. I been playin organized all my life, the Jelleff league and Urban Coalition, too. Matter of fact, Iâm playin for my school team right now, in what used to be called the Interhigh. Itâs no boast to say that I can hold my own in most any kind of game. But pickup is where I really get amped.
In organized ball, they expect you to pass a whole bunch, take the percentage shot. Not too much showboatin, nothin like that. In pickup, we ref our own games, and most of the hackin and pushin and stuff, except for the flagrant, it gets allowed. I can deal with that. But in pickup, see, you can pretty much freestyle, try everything out you been practicing on your own. Like those Kobe and Vince moves. What Iâm sayin is, out here on the asphalt, you can really show your shit.
Where I come from, youâve got to understand, most of the time itâs rough. I donât have to describe it if you know the area of D.C. Iâm talkin about: the Fourth District, down around Park View, in Northwest. I got problems at home, I got problems at school, I got problems walkin down the street. I probâly got problems with my future, you want the plain truth. When Iâm runnin ball, though, I donât think on those problems at all. Itâs like all the chains are off, you understand what Iâm sayin? Maybe you grew up somewheres else, and if you did, itâd be hard for you to see. But Iâm just tryin to describe it, is all.
Hereâs an example: earlier today I got into this beef with this boy James Wallace. We was runnin ball over on the playground where I go to school, Roosevelt High, on 13th Street, just a little bit north of my neighborhood. Thereâs never any chains left on those outdoor buckets, but the rims up at Roosevelt are straight, and the backboards are forgiving. Thatâs like my home court. Those buckets they got, I been playin them since I was kid, and I can shoot the eyes out of those motherfuckers most any day of the week.
We had a four-on-four thing goin on, a pretty good one, too. It was the second game we had played. Wallace and his boys, after we beat âem the first game, they went over to Wallaceâs car, a black Maxima with a spoiler and pretty rims, and fired up a blunt. They were gettin their heads up and listenin to the new Nas comin out the speakers from the open doors of the car. I donât like Nasâs new shit much as I did Illmatic, but it sounded pretty good.
Wallace and them, they with a dealer in my neighborhood, so they always got good herb, too. I got no problem with that. I might even have hit some of that hydro with âem if theyâd asked. But they didnât ask.
Anyway, they came back pink-eyed, lookin all cooked and shit, debatin over which was better, Phillies or White Owls. We started the second game. Me and mines went up by three or four buckets pretty quick. Right about then I knew we was gonna win this one like we won the first, âcause I had just caught a little fire.
Wallace decided to cover me. He had switched off with this other dude, Antuane, but Antuane couldnât run with me, not one bit. So Wallace switched, and right away he was all chest-out, talkin shit about how ânow we gonna seeâ and all that. Whateva. I was on my inside game that day and I knew it. I mean, I was crossin motherfuckers out, just driving the paint at will. And Wallace, he was slow on me by like, half a step. I had stopped passin to the other fellas at that point, âcause it was just too easy to take it in on him. I mean, he was givin it to me, so why not?
Bout the third time I drove the lane and kissed one in, Wallace bumped me while I was walkin back up to the foul line to take the check. Then he
String Music
Washington, D.C., 2001
Tonio Harris
Down around my way, when Iâm not in school or lookin out for my moms and little sister, I like to run ball. Pickup games mostly. Thatâs not the only kind of basketball I do. I been playin organized all my life, the Jelleff league and Urban Coalition, too. Matter of fact, Iâm playin for my school team right now, in what used to be called the Interhigh. Itâs no boast to say that I can hold my own in most any kind of game. But pickup is where I really get amped.
In organized ball, they expect you to pass a whole bunch, take the percentage shot. Not too much showboatin, nothin like that. In pickup, we ref our own games, and most of the hackin and pushin and stuff, except for the flagrant, it gets allowed. I can deal with that. But in pickup, see, you can pretty much freestyle, try everything out you been practicing on your own. Like those Kobe and Vince moves. What Iâm sayin is, out here on the asphalt, you can really show your shit.
Where I come from, youâve got to understand, most of the time itâs rough. I donât have to describe it if you know the area of D.C. Iâm talkin about: the Fourth District, down around Park View, in Northwest. I got problems at home, I got problems at school, I got problems walkin down the street. I probâly got problems with my future, you want the plain truth. When Iâm runnin ball, though, I donât think on those problems at all. Itâs like all the chains are off, you understand what Iâm sayin? Maybe you grew up somewheres else, and if you did, itâd be hard for you to see. But Iâm just tryin to describe it, is all.
Hereâs an example: earlier today I got into this beef with this boy James Wallace. We was runnin ball over on the playground where I go to school, Roosevelt High, on 13th Street, just a little bit north of my neighborhood. Thereâs never any chains left on those outdoor buckets, but the rims up at Roosevelt are straight, and the backboards are forgiving. Thatâs like my home court. Those buckets they got, I been playin them since I was kid, and I can shoot the eyes out of those motherfuckers most any day of the week.
We had a four-on-four thing goin on, a pretty good one, too. It was the second game we had played. Wallace and his boys, after we beat âem the first game, they went over to Wallaceâs car, a black Maxima with a spoiler and pretty rims, and fired up a blunt. They were gettin their heads up and listenin to the new Nas comin out the speakers from the open doors of the car. I donât like Nasâs new shit much as I did Illmatic, but it sounded pretty good.
Wallace and them, they with a dealer in my neighborhood, so they always got good herb, too. I got no problem with that. I might even have hit some of that hydro with âem if theyâd asked. But they didnât ask.
Anyway, they came back pink-eyed, lookin all cooked and shit, debatin over which was better, Phillies or White Owls. We started the second game. Me and mines went up by three or four buckets pretty quick. Right about then I knew we was gonna win this one like we won the first, âcause I had just caught a little fire.
Wallace decided to cover me. He had switched off with this other dude, Antuane, but Antuane couldnât run with me, not one bit. So Wallace switched, and right away he was all chest-out, talkin shit about how ânow we gonna seeâ and all that. Whateva. I was on my inside game that day and I knew it. I mean, I was crossin motherfuckers out, just driving the paint at will. And Wallace, he was slow on me by like, half a step. I had stopped passin to the other fellas at that point, âcause it was just too easy to take it in on him. I mean, he was givin it to me, so why not?
Bout the third time I drove the lane and kissed one in, Wallace bumped me while I was walkin back up to the foul line to take the check. Then he
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