The days after Elias Moreno submitted his draft papers passed quietly—almost cruelly so.
Nothing changed.
No calls.
No emails.
No acknowledgment that his name had landed on anyone's desk.
And yet, every morning, when he woke up and tested his knee against the floor, a small, stubborn part of him whispered the same thought:
Maybe.
He didn't expect much. He told himself that repeatedly, like a prayer meant to lower disappointment before it could strike. Thirty-eight was not an age scouts circled with excitement. It was an age they avoided with polite smiles.
Still, Elias wished—quietly, carefully—that someone, somewhere, might read his submission and understand what it really was.
Not arrogance.
Not desperation.
But desire.
A desire that had survived years of silence.
Life, however, did not pause for wishing.
Elias went to work every day at King Lao Restaurant, tying his apron with the same deliberate calm he brought to stretching his muscles. The restaurant was always busy—families, office workers, couples sharing plates of noodles and rice. Elias moved between tables with practiced efficiency, balancing trays, refilling glasses, offering polite smiles.
Some customers noticed his professionalism.
"You've got a good attitude," one man said, slipping a folded bill into Elias' hand.
Others noticed something harder to name—an energy beneath the quiet.
"You used to be an athlete?" a woman asked once, eyeing the way he stood, straight-backed and balanced.
Elias smiled. "A long time ago."
Tips came occasionally. Not much, but enough to remind him that effort still mattered, even in small places.
When his shift ended and his feet ached from standing, Elias didn't always go straight home. He usually went to a near by street court to play. But that night, he walked a few blocks farther—to a nearby gym tucked between old buildings and convenience stores. The lights inside were harsh, the floors worn smooth by decades of footsteps.
The gym smelled like sweat and rubber and memory.
Basketballs echoed sharply against the hardwood. Laughter bounced off the walls. The sound stirred something deep in Elias' chest—familiar, comforting, dangerous.
He didn't come every night. Only when his body felt right. Only when his knee stayed quiet.
Just in case, he told himself.
Just in case someone, somewhere, gave him a chance.
That night, the gym was busier than usual. A group of college-aged players occupied the main court—long limbs, quick feet, loud voices. They moved with the careless confidence of youth, talking trash between shots.
Elias warmed up alone on the side. He dribbled slowly at first, warming his hands, feeling the familiar sting in his fingertips. Every motion took intention now. Nothing came for free at forty.
Once, twenty years ago, his body had obeyed without question.
Once, he had been called with many namrs "next in line, mr. hot shot and others," all showing how great he is at basketball.
He lined up at the free-throw line and closed his eyes. Breath in. Breath out. The shot arced cleanly through the net.
Swish.
Elias smiled, brief and private.
"Still got it," he whispered, though he wasn't sure who he was trying to convince.
Most people who loved basketball learned, eventually, how to let it go.
Elias never did.
Yes, his knee gave out at twenty-two during a summer league tournament.
His knee healed.
But the oppurtunity never came back he said to himself.
By tweenty five, life had taught him other roles—husband, then ex-husband; warehouse supervisor; night-shift trainer and now as a waiter —but none of those roles ever fit the way basketball had.
The game didn't just live in his hands; it lived in his decisions, in the way he measured time by shot clocks and distance by court lengths.
By thirty-five, his friends laughed when he talked about his desire to still playing professionally.
But now he is thirty eight....
He keeps taking slow jumpers, listening to the ball kiss the rim and drop cleanly through the net. His form was compact, economical. No wasted motion.
A shout cut through the air.
Then.
"Hey! We're short one!"
Elias kept shooting, pretending not to hear.
"Yo, old man!" another voice called, laughing. "You play?"
Elias hesitated. He bounced the ball once, feeling its weight. Part of him wanted to shake his head, grab his bag, and leave. He didn't need this. He wasn't here to prove anything.
Then someone from the opposing team snorted. "C'mon, look at him. You think he still got it?"
Laughter followed.
Elias turned slowly.
He saw it in their eyes—not cruelty exactly, just the careless dismissal of youth. The assumption that time had already won.
He exhaled.
"Alright," he said quietly. "One game."
The court shifted to make space for him. Some smirked. Others watched with curiosity. Elias joined the team that had called him over—five strangers, none expecting much.
The ball tipped.
At first, Elias didn't force anything. He moved the ball quickly, passed out of double teams, set solid screens. He let the younger players run, cut, shoot. His presence was subtle, almost invisible.
The score slipped away from them.
"Man, he's just standing around," someone muttered.
Elias heard it. He always heard it.
The opposing team grew bolder, pressing harder, talking louder. A fast break dunk rattled the rim. The gap widened.
Down by six. Then eight.
One of Elias' teammates looked at him, frustration creeping in. "You gonna do something?"
Elias nodded once.
He brought the ball up the next possession. His dribble was calm, low, controlled. A defender crowded him, grinning.
"Careful, old man," the defender said. "Don't pull something."
Elias didn't respond.
He shifted his weight—just slightly—and crossed over. The defender reacted late. Elias stepped through the lane, gathering speed. For a split second, gravity hesitated.
Then Elias rose.
Not as high as he once could. But high enough.
His hand gripped the ball firmly as he dunked it cleanly through the rim. The sound—sharp, undeniable—cut through the gym like thunder.
Silence followed.
On the next play, Elias read the passing lane before the ball left the opponent's hands. He stepped in, stole it clean, and went the other way.
Another dunk.
This one harder and a little difficult... a thunderous 360°.
The gym erupted.
"What the—"
"Did you see that?"
The game changed instantly. Elias' teammates moved with new confidence. The opposing team tightened up, confusion replacing arrogance.
Elias controlled the pace now. He directed traffic with quick gestures, sharp passes. A defender sagged off him, daring him to shoot.
Elias smiled faintly.
He stepped into the shot—smooth, balanced—and released.
Swish.
The score tightened. Possession by possession, the gap disappeared.
Final play. Tie game.
The ball found Elias' hands beyond the arc. Two defenders closed fast. He didn't rush. He didn't hesitate.
He step back, rose up and released the shot just as the clock expired.
The ball arced high, slow, perfect.
A three pointer.
Nothing but net.
Then gym exploded.
His teammates stared at him in disbelief. One shook his head, laughing. "Man… we shouldn't have messed with you."
The opposing team approached, some smiling sheepishly, others nodding with respect.
Then someone tap Elias on his.right shoulder
"Still got it man."
Elias just smile and leave.
Then one of the players ask the father, "Who was that guy sir?"
"You know, when that guy was still young, he was a great player who almost made it in the big league."
Then Elias retrieved his bag quietly, heart pounding—not from exhaustion, but from something deeper. He felt alive in a way that surprised him.
As he left the gym, his knee held steady.
Outside, the night air was cool. Elias walked home slowly, a faint smile lingering on his face.
He still didn't expect much.
But just in case…
He was ready.