The Boy’s team is in the midst running drills when I walk in. They’re going one-on-one from the top of the key. When it’s his turn to take the offensive drill, he dribbles in, picks up the ball quite far from the basket, and tries to lob it over the defender. An air ball. And I can see the disappointment and disgust in his face.

He heads back to the backcourt line (I think that’s what it’s called) and stands in line for his next turn, but he seems to let anyone in front of him who wants to take an earlier turn. And there are plenty who want to.

Eventually, he drifts into the background as others excitedly take their turns, and he ends up leaning against the wall and watching the others. He pulls on his hoodie and sits down.

Later, when they’re scrimmaging, he does the best he can with the knowledge he has, but the truth is, we never watch basketball so he’s got nothing to imitate. And I really know very little about the sport, so I’m of little help to him. He does his best, but it’s clear the other boys have had lots of experience playing basketball in their neighborhood.

“I never get passes,” he’ll say later in the car. “Because I’m just not as good as they are.” All he sees are his deficits, and the lack of inclusion from other boys confirms it in his mind. When he does get a pass, it’s like he wants to get it out of his hands as fast as possible.

It’s tough to watch: I can certainly relate. I was never that confident when I found myself playing basketball, and I hated playing with those who were much better. I, too, felt I was out of my comfort zone.

But the Boy soldiers through, going to each practice, giving it his best show.

“I admire you for that, buddy,” I tell him on the way home.

“Thank you,” he says, then adds after a moment, “I don’t think basketball is for me.”