Free The Welcome Committee of Butternut Creek by Jane Myers Perrine Page A

flowers, their branches stretched up and up before crashing down in cascades of pink or purple or cottony white. Every now and then, a dog came to the fence and sniffed or growled. Several barked loudly enough to be called back by waving neighbors.
    “Good evening, Preacher,” a man called from his yard.
    Recognizing the voice and face of a church member but not remembering his name, Adam wandered over to the fence.
    The member of the congregation glanced at the ball Adam carried. “Looking for a game?” He pointed. “Over yonder. A block south and a couple more east. Goliad Park. Always a game going on.”
    Adam followed the directions. As he got closer, the noise and the glow of lights blazing through trees drew his attention.
    On the court, two teams, players of different sizes and colors, worked hard, sweat dripping down their faces and bodies causing dark skin to glow like ebony. Near the fence stood several more guys and a couple of girls, all watching and cheering. On a court farther south, young women played.
    If this had been a party or social hour, Adam would have walked away, uncomfortable because he didn’t know anyone. But this was ball . He didn’t lack confidence here. “I’ve got next,” he yelled. Did the rules and phrases from Kentucky work here?
    The games stopped. Everyone—those on both courts and those watching—turned toward him. Adam knew exactly what they saw: a newcomer, a tall, skinny old guy carrying a ball. Most of the players outweighed him by thirty pounds, and Adam had at least five or ten years on them. A few snickered. Others grinned and laughed.
    “I’ve got next,” he repeated, undaunted.
    They nodded before resuming their games.
    While they played, Adam dribbled toward one of the baskets outside the court and tossed up a few shots, then moved farther away and put several more in.
    “You shoot like that when you’re guarded?”
    Slowly and deliberately, Adam took another shot, missed, rebounded, and put it in before glancing at the speaker. The kid outweighed him and was stronger but Adam had more experience, a few inches’ advantage in height, and longer arms.
    Sweat glistened on the player’s dark skin, which meant he must have warmed up and been playing already. Should be good competition.
    “Try me.” Adam tossed the ball to him.
    Expressionless, the kid watched him for a second, then put the ball on the cracked asphalt and dribbled, glancing left, then right, and from Adam’s feet to his eyes, watching and judging his movements. With a fake to the left and a drive to the right, the other player broke toward the basket. Like a hustler, Adam gave him that one. An early score made the other guy overconfident and cockier.
    The kid turned with a big grin. With swagger and attitude, he tossed Adam the ball. The preacher had the guy exactly where he wanted him. Before he could react, Adam put the ball in the air for a long shot. The ball didn’t make a sound as it passed through the metal chain of the basket. All that swagger and attitude disappeared, and the two got down to playing ball.
    For the next thirty minutes, they fought. Despite the breeze, sweat poured down them both. They threw elbows, tripped each other, shoved and talked trash. Adam’s trash talk consisted of “Oh, yeah?” and “Who’s your daddy?” among other tame taunts, but it worked okay for him. The kid used tougher phrases filled with words the preacher hadn’t used in years, but they didn’t bother him. He didn’t really hear them. All he cared about was the game, the competition. When he played ball, Adam wasn’t clumsy or uncertain or too young and inexperienced. He was in the zone.
    Within a few minutes, a small crowd had gathered, including the guys who’d been playing when he arrived. After a hard-fought game, Adam won thirty to twenty-six.
    “Hey, Pops, you play pretty well for a skinny guy,” his opponent said.
    Adam read the subtext: pretty good for a skinny white guy . The