DIY (Daydream It Yourself) Basketball

Like any other love story, he tested his feelings in stages.

He started by simulating the sport on a sofa chair. He knelt on the floor and aimed a crumpled cartolina held together with Scotch tape at a paper cup hoop. The ball didn’t even resemble a sphere as he was hopeless at arts. His hands played two teams of two, switching identities in his head as the game unfolded. He narrated every move like a live broadcast, complete with timeouts where imaginary players huddled over game plans. It was as complicated as it sounded, but his wildly conservative parents had trained his young mind to invent distractions just to survive boredom—at least until a friend finally invited him to play Famicom like a normal kid.

Next stage. He attached a cut-up wood glue container to the window grills outside his house, turning it into a makeshift hoop. It resembled the sport’s earliest version when players shot into wooden buckets instead of metal rims with nets. This time, he crafted a bigger ball from taped-up newspaper. He still couldn’t dribble since the ball wouldn’t bounce. But at least he could run, jump, and shoot with both hands instead of three fingers. It lasted a few weeks. Then one morning, the hoop was gone. He figured his mother didn’t appreciate the aesthetic upgrade. Later that day, he spotted it on top of the trash can. There was no point arguing. That was just how things worked in their household.

Then he saw a kid on the street shooting a real basketball through a tire laid flat on the ground. It looked odd, but compared to his own setup, it was a clear step up so he asked to join. The floor-level hoop ruined his shooting form even before he stepped into a real court, but at least he got to hold and dribble an actual basketball, not something made from recycled craft materials. The thrill of that moment made him realize he needed the real thing.

One night, his parents were relaxing in front of the television. His mother was in a good mood, laughing, mostly because his father hadn’t done anything goofy enough to get on her nerves. Sensing the rare window, he asked for a full-size basketball. To his surprise, they agreed instantly. He’d even prepared counterarguments, knowing leisure requests usually ended in rejection. He took the quick win and retreated to his room before they could change their minds. It was far easier than asking for a Lego set, which he was still waiting for to this day.

He was playing tag on the street one cloudy afternoon when he saw his mother riding home on a tricycle sidecar, a plastic bag in her lap. Unless it was an oversized watermelon, it looked unmistakably like a basketball. The world slowed down. It was like seeing the girl of his dreams for the first time, when nothing mattered except watching her blink. A couple of his friends saw it too and urged him to go home and get it while the open court was still free.

He ran home without wasting a second. It was probably the fastest sprint of his young life, even quicker than the time he fled from a possibly rabid dog. He reached the house with a few seconds to spare before the tricycle pulled up. Before his mother could get off, he grabbed the ball and took off again, no greeting or thanks. He wouldn’t have blamed the driver for tackling him. To be fair, he did look like a snatcher.

He was too excited to pull the ball out of the plastic bag. The court was just ten row houses away. He ran, clutching it without dribbling, afraid it might slow him down. His friends saw him and followed.

When he finally stepped onto the playing field, he realized it was the first time he held a real basketball on a real court. It felt right. It felt satisfying. It felt like he was meant to be there. Like the universe had cleared the way for something great to begin.

He tore off the plastic bag, ran to the free throw line, and launched the ball with all his spirit. His first official shot sailed over the backboard and smacked a random boy on the head, sending him face-first to the ground.

It didn’t count. But definitely an early sign of unimaginable accuracy.

New TV Channels Without Falling Off the Roof — Kind Of

The sun glared at everything but the narrow patches of shade cast by the rowhouses. He coughed as the sweet dust of Mik-Mik clung to his throat, the sachet now empty. His father appeared, grinning so broadly he nearly skipped, trailed by a roving vendor hauling rooftop antennas.

His mother sensed the disturbance at once. She stepped outside, rolled her eyes (with such force that a few light objects followed), then slammed the front door. His father dashed inside to plead his case.

In their conservative Southeast Asian household, every luxury purchase sparked a lengthy debate. Fortunately, there was no furniture smashing or china-ware break-fest this time.

Excitement washed over him as his father reappeared—clearly exhausted but satisfied.

His father went straight to the vendor to haggle, standard protocol when the product lacked a barcode. It got ugly fast. Voices rose in a battle between the vendor’s vanishing profit margin and his father’s legendary cheapness, all to preserve the fragile tranquility beneath his mother’s looming wrath. His father crawled to the finish line, refusing to budge even though he knew the opposition held something that could easily be swung at someone.

The vendor finally conceded (maybe from sheer vocal exhaustion), and they settled on a discounted price. His father grabbed a box, shoved it into his hands, and ordered him to install it before even paying. He was surprised but took it anyway, thinking this might be his only contribution to the new channel crusade. New channels meant more faces on screen, not just the two fuzzy figures he’d barely recognized.

It took his father thirty minutes to convince him he wouldn’t fall, and another thirty to promise he wouldn't be electrocuted as long as it didn’t rain. He only wished the whole discussion hadn’t happened out front, where the neighbors could hear every word.

Hoping it was worth it, he climbed barefoot using the grills on the side of their house. No ladders, ropes, nets, prayers, good-luck taps, or signed insurance forms. Just his uneven family jewels and the drive to claim the digital entertainment he deserved. Anything but playing with snot or aimlessly shouting outside with the other unfortunate kids who had nothing better to do.

Climbing up was easy until he looked down. It felt like entering a pitch-dark tunnel. With every step forward, the way back narrowed behind him. When he reached the edge of the roof, he realized it was his first time that high and instantly added falling to his terror list. Leaving his slippers behind wasn’t smart either. The heat made it feel as if his soles were melting into the roof, and there was no butter to keep them from sticking.

His father climbed up to hand him his slippers (having seen his agony), the antenna (already wired to a long cable from the TV), plus some rolled metal wires and pliers. Then he climbed back down and walked a few meters away to get a better angle for shouting instructions.

He remembered his father once saying he was ecstatic to have a son. Now he understood why. He wore the wire around his neck, gripped the antenna in one hand and the pliers in the other. They weren’t heavy, but he knew one wrong move could turn him into a six o’clock news story.

He moved slowly away from the edge. Sweat blurred his vision and slicked his palms and feet, making each step harder. The rust helped with traction, along with the thrill of possibly needing a tetanus shot. His father shouted for him to step only where there were nails, to stay on the beams and avoid triggering some hidden Mario World tunnel that would drop him into the boss level, their living room, where his vicious mother awaited. He began to think his father cared more about roof damage than his neck, especially since he kept yelling how hard and expensive it would be to fix a broken roof.

He felt safer when he reached the middle, where a metal rod protruded from the structure, installed when the house was built. It was an old architectural feature anticipating a technology regression, the belief that people could survive a few more decades without cable. He slotted the antenna in and tied it to four metal wires anchored to nails to keep it upright.

He adjusted its position based on the TV quality his father called out. It took him another hour, because he wasn’t exactly skilled with pliers, wires, heights, or following instructions.

By the time his father was satisfied with the channel reception, it was nearly dark. Halfway down, he realized it was harder than going up. Still two meters high, he couldn’t reach one of the ledges he’d used earlier. He hung there for a moment, thinking. He could hear the new programs already playing inside, so he chose the fastest way down. By jumping. Ignoring gravity, inertia, and common sense.

He landed on his feet, curled on the ground, and hissed every curse word his young mind could summon while clutching his toes. After a few seconds, he gritted his teeth and limped inside, only to find his father already lounging with his feet up on the center table, laughing at the new people on the TV.