The Boy and the Bushel

Joseph was gone; that is, no one could find him. But, what am I saying: it’s not like anyone was looking for him. “Joseph is missing”—that’s all anyone said. You’d wonder what happened that he was missing; or more, what happened that no one cared.

Joseph Franklin: 13 years old, 9th grader, smart, reserved, and kind. He didn’t wear glasses (he wasn’t that smart). But he had a problem: he was small. Oh? what’s the problem with that? Well, then he had another problem: he wanted to join the basketball team. Wait, what’s the problem with that? He had another one: no one else was small. What’s the problem wi—they were punks. To them, Joseph joining the basketball team was like a hamster joining a track race, and they treated him so. But he had another problem: he couldn’t improve. From morning throughout, he was always practicing. Dribbles, shots, runs—if you saw, it would’ve looked like a kid on a sugar rush. Whenever people passed by, they would laugh and make fun. But he was determined to get better.

Studying was difficult, trying to balance it with basketball, but Joseph managed to keep good grades. The rest of the basketball team struggled to keep grades. His teachers were impressed and persuaded him to pursue his studies; “Basketball,” was his only answer. “But, you are not very good, Joseph.” “Basketball.” “But, wouldn’t you like to—” “Basketball.” “Yes, bu—” “Basket”—”you have such poten—” “Ball.”

He tried to make friends: no one seemed to care. Wherever he walked through the lockers, he had a special name. “Hey! Jo-suck!” He didn’t try sitting with others and no one sat with him. “He practices so hard but he can’t even make a basket,” the kids would say to each other at lunch whenever they looked over to him. He didn’t understand why or what he did that made him so unlikable, but it didn't really affect him. Everyday after school, he’d walk past the other students; they’d always take a quick glance, but immediately look away once he returned the eye contact. Then he’d walk home.

Then there were games.

What do you do when the best players need a break? Put in the 9th graders—even if they suck and don’t know what to do. But not Joseph! He listened during practice, he knew what to do.

There he was: Joseph Franklin with the ball, carefully deciding what to do—how to move—where to go. He dashed to the left and—no, he tripped, landing on his face. It's just one mistake, right? Sure, but the feelings are different when that costs the game. The guard in front of Joseph casually grabbed the ball, then dashed over for the basket. Technically it’s not totally his fault, since the game wasn’t over yet, but try telling that to a team and coach that lost by 2 points.

Did this discourage Joseph? Not really; at least, no one could say: the only thing anyone was concerned with was Joseph’s bad luck on the team. “Once he entered the game, all the players started messing up their shots and plays. I guess Jo-suck is contagious. I wonder if they’ll even get a win with him on the team.” They didn’t pay attention to whether he was affected or not. All people knew was he went back to his customary, scrupulous practice.

Someone had to pity him, right? At least a little bit? If two people don’t fit in, at least they have that in common, right? And it’s not like everyone fits it. Did anyone try to reach out to him?

Nope. Joseph was an outsider to the outsiders. At least, that’s what it seemed. Whenever he met another student’s glance, it was immediately broken off, vigorously. He tried talking to people, but they didn’t seem interested in talking. After school, everyone avoided him. But that didn’t bother him much. Maybe he didn’t deserve their friendship? Maybe they were right to ignore him? Besides, it didn’t matter: he had more important things to be concerned with. Then he’d walk home; crossing the street during a red light. Then he’d make it home. 

It was the final game of the season. Joseph’s team hadn’t won a game all year, and whenever he was put in, he messed up somewhere. But this time, something would be different—Joseph knew it.

It was the final quarter. The team's best player had just been injured and the coach needed a substitute. With everyone already tired, Joseph was the only option. With the points so close (the opposite team, up by 1), everyone worried about adding Joseph. The loud, optimistic, rowdy crowd suddenly went quiet when he entered the court. Then the ball played. There was only a minute left on the clock. The score was tight. All the players were tired. Then came the last play.

One of his teammates, trapped in a corner, threw the ball out in the open. Joseph ran and caught it right in the center. The whole audience fell silent. With a pause Joseph took the ball and launched it into the air.

A loud gasp came from the crowd as the ball flew into the air. It went high up, aiming for the basket. Suddenly, it started sinking towards the floor, going nowhere. But instead of hitting the floor, it landed right into the hands of a rookie who caught it. Immediately, he shot it with a few seconds remaining.

It was a perfect shot, going straight through the net. The game was over. The audience cheered. The coach leapt out of his seat. The team ran to the scorer. Everyone was happy, everyone was there—except Joseph.

What happened to him? Where did he go? No one was paying attention, so they didn’t see. Maybe he took the back exit. Maybe he walked right out the front door. Maybe the side exit. But one thing was certain: Joseph was gone.

No one heard. No one noticed. No one cared. “Joseph is missing. Joseph is gone”—maybe that was better than the won game.

There was a small bushel area near the outer part of the school. Joseph was there. He was sitting down under it, tucking his knees.

He sat there in silence. Then, there was a faint cry, a faint call. Small tears started rolling down his face. “Remember,” there was a voice in his head. “It’s for your mother.”

That clear image entered his head. The deathbed, the tube, the beeping; his motionless mother laying there in that hospital room.

Life changed when Joseph’s mother died. His dad used to be so happy, always smiling. Now, he only knew two things: beer and basketball. “Never!” he used to tell his wife. “You’ll never see me with a drink.”

“How was it today,” his father always asked after school. Joseph would hand him a fold of papers. “Good. You did all your drills. This will help you, you know. If you keep doing these, you can make your mother proud. She can rest in peace. You never amounted to anything while she was here: this is how you can make it up to us, alright?” and he’d start chugging. “Just make a perfect shot.”

Only one thought owned Joseph’s mind, only one thought drove all his actions. Regardless of the shouting, lack of food, lack of sleep, Joseph knew didn’t let anything steer him. “Your father loves you. Remember that.” Those were his mother’s last words.

“I failed,” the little boy whispered in a shower of tears. He curled himself under the bushel and lay there till night.

Then he walked home. He crossed the street; this time it was green.

THE END