Odes to Joy

Odes to Adair Park · Track 21 · middle

Pickup Basketball at Adair Park I Playground

Per feedback_city_album_formula — sports heritage add-on. Pickup basketball at the Adair Park I playground court, the neighborhood kids and older guys who still ball after work, the streetball nicknames that get earned and stuck. Southwest Atlanta basketball heritage. Bo with the bleacher swagger.

Lyrics

Yeah.
Sun's high. Court's hot.
Got the old heads stretchin' by the fence.
Got the youngbloods lookin' at their phones.
Same scene. Different year.
Let's see who got game today.

That's Deacon on the wing, still got that lefty hook from 1998.
Knee brace tight, but the eyes are sharp.
Little Man Fresh, they call him Silk, got the new Kobes on.
Thinks his crossover is unguardable. We'll see.
Unc is callin' fouls from the sideline already.
He ain't played in a decade but he's the ref, the coach, the gospel.
Check ball. The chain nets waitin' for their song.

This ain't no wood floor, no gymnasium gleam.
This is Adair Park blacktop, a Southwest Atlanta dream.
Chain nets go *shing* when you hit it pure.
Five on five 'til the porch lights on Lillian Avenue call you home for sure.
Yeah, the bounce is different here. You gotta know the cracks.
You win here, you get respect. No turnin' back.

Silk drives left, Deacon cuts him off, seen that move since the kid was ten.
A little trash talk under the breath, "Try that again."
The ball whips around the key, no-look pass to the corner.
Somebody shouts "Game time!" from a porch. Mrs. Henderson.
The rhythm gets fast, a blur of arms and legs and sweat.
This is where you settle last week's argument.
This is where you earn your summer name.

This ain't no wood floor, no gymnasium gleam.
This is Adair Park blacktop, a Southwest Atlanta dream.
Chain nets go *shing* when you hit it pure.
Five on five 'til the porch lights on Lillian Avenue call you home for sure.
Yeah, the bounce is different here. You gotta know the cracks.
You win here, you get respect. No turnin' back.

Some nights, you can almost see the ghosts.
The players from the 70s, the 90s.
The legends who never left the neighborhood.
They taught your father that jump shot.
He taught you.
Now you're watchin' your nephew try to learn the same spin move.
It's more than a court. It's a bloodline on asphalt.

Game.
Ball don't lie.
Yeah. Run it back tomorrow.
Same time, same court.
Pick a song