I stood at halfcourt, my Spider-Man underoos bunched in my palm, my eyes on the basket. First, I spun past an imaginary Sir Charles Barkley. Not an easy task, he fought Godzilla. Then, I crossovered a fictional Larry Johnson, adorned in full Grandmama drag. The only thing standing between me and my glory was a diminutive make-believe Spud Webb. A quick pump fake and I was in the air. Launching towards my dunk, my tongue hanging from the side of my mouth like I had seen Jordan do so many Saturday mornings on NBA Inside Stuff and ProStars. I came down hard on the rim, a perfect basket. The crowd (my mom) cheered.

I may have been benched for the majority of my short lived SYSO junior basketball career but I was hella good at cleaning up my room.