Miguel
Thoughts on a life cut short, memories of a teammate, and what could've been.
A wise man once told me that he’s now at the age where he’s going to more funerals than weddings. I’m not there yet, but it’s closer than it used to be.
I start my Friday morning, sitting with a cup of hot water with lemon in my new favorite mug. The mug is powder blue, with the words “Love You, Dad” inscribed in white, bold lettering. I don’t let my children call me “Dad.” No, that title is reserved for a distant future. For now, they must call me “Daddy” at all times, or I simply won’t reply.
These quiet moments before work are usually when I gather my thoughts, but today, there’s a bit of tension in the air. I’ve got a dentist appointment later, and the thought puts me on edge. I mean, “devil” and “dentist” both start with “de,” right? Coincidence? I think not.
As I try to shake off the anxiety, my phone buzzes. It’s my father calling. I don’t call him “Dad” either; “Pops” suits him better.
“Hey,” he says, his voice steady.
“Whaddup, Pops,” I reply while scanning my emails.
“I won’t keep you, but I wanted to share something with you,” he begins, his tone shifting slightly.
“There’s a woman I minister to,” he continues. “She’s the crosswalk monitor up the corner by Amestoy and Miguel’s house. I told her we knew the family that used to live there. She said, ‘At the spooky house?’ Y’know, I had forgotten people called it that. So I told her, ‘Yeah, I used to coach the boy that lived there, Miguel.’ And then she said, ‘Awww, he’s no longer with us.’ I asked her what she meant, and she said he was shot and killed.”
His words hit me hard, like an unsuspecting wave. Miguel. No longer with us. Just like that.
Suddenly, I’m brought back to when Miguel and I were the best players on our park recreation basketball team, the Pacers from Rush Gym. He was the defensive anchor, and I took charge of the offense. We clashed often, even getting into a fight in the locker room during halftime. We were two alphas on a mission, both determined to win. That relentless energy took us to the championship game, where everything felt bigger—the cheerleaders, the local cable broadcast teams, the Rowley Park Lakers. It felt like we were playing for more than just a trophy. We were playing for the heart of the city. It meant something to us.
But all that buildup led to a massive letdown. Those Lakers waxed us something awful.
They beat us so badly, that it felt biblical. I mean, we didn’t even break into double digits.
I can still see their dweeby little faces, chomping on McDonald’s after the game, and I can still hear my pops telling me to go congratulate them. If you’re reading this Pops, I just want you to know that I didn’t congratulate them. I’m sorry. I hated them then, and I hate them now.
But we got our lick back. Weeks later, Miguel and I led our team to victory over those same Lakers in the all-star tournament. When the final buzzer sounded, it was like Rocky beating Drago. One of our teammates was Samoan and his mom and aunts launched us in the air. Man, the strength of those women was incredible.
Like I said, it meant something to us.
After that season, though, Miguel and I went our separate ways. We ended up at different middle schools, and after spending my freshman year at Gardena High, I transferred to a school outside the city. While Miguel would run into Pops now and then, I never saw him again. Not in person, at least.
My mind drifts back to the first time I visited Miguel’s house. It was 1998, and his mom had ordered WWF Unforgiven on pay-per-view. I was surprised I was even allowed to go since the only house I’d ever visited was my best friend Chris’s, which was in the opposite direction of Miguel’s. I remember sneaking a splash of Cool Water from the bathroom cabinet—Miguel had older sisters, and you just never know. The crunch of leaves under my sneakers still echoes in my memory as I ran to his house. Miguel greeted me by shooting a BB gun at me from behind a tree. His laughter gave him away. That night, his mom made meatloaf. I thought meatloaf was something that only existed on TV.
Now, that charming spooky house is gone, replaced by modern townhomes. And Miguel? He’s gone too, leaving behind memories like ripples in a lake. I wonder where the balance lies between the life he should have lived and the one that claimed his. Gang life never tempted me, thanks to a father who had seen its destruction up close, leaving the Navy early to protect his mom and brother. He made sure I never crossed that path. But for Miguel, the pull was too strong to resist.
The sense of loss hits me harder now, not just for Miguel, but for the boy he was and the man he could have become. I think about our battles on the court, our fights in the locker room, the way we pushed each other like brothers. I wonder what I would say to Miguel if I could see him now. Would he recognize the man I’ve become? Would I recognize him if he had lived a different life? Maybe we’d reminisce about our days as teammates or debate who would win if we played one-on-one at our peaks. But that’s a conversation we’ll never get to have.
After the call ends, I sit in silence, letting the weight of it all settle in. There’s no going back. He’s not coming back. The hot water in my cup has cooled, but the memories of the boy who could steal a basketball like his life depended on it are still warm. If only he could have stolen one more day.
Really good
Beautiful writing.