When people first see my shot, there’s a bit of head scratching. Because of my shooting arm. My form starts out fine–a good base in the legs, elbow under the ball, ball off my palm–but ends too quickly, a flick of the wrist before my arm fully extends. It looks rushed, anxious. With two normal arms, it would be queer mechanics. This can play to my advantage. If my defender has not played against me before and I hit a shot with the odd looking, wrist-flicking shot, he may attribute it to luck. I’ll get another open look. When I bury the second, he gets “the look” from his teammates. Those are free points. If I get rolling, the opposing team is in a bad spot. I may not be the best basketball player. I damn sure am not the most gifted athlete. But I can hit shots. I can ball. Despite my Erb’s Palsy.

Mozart park was buzzing with energy. The edges of the concrete teemed with guys waiting for their chance to play. At the tables surrounding the court, afternoon indulgences were turning into evening libations as bachata out of portable speakers. Across the playground, the high pitch yelps of children intermingled with the low grunts of male competition. Over the years, I’ve shed any timidity about asking who has “next” and if they will pick me up. No one will advocate for me, so I am forthright and forceful. A thin man who I’d never seen at the park before had next. 

“Pick me up?”

“Are you nice?” he looked me up and down. 

No time for humility, “I’ll be a problem for anyone out there.” I motioned toward the court, holding a ball on my hip.

“Alright, I’ll pick you up.” One of his five valued slots. 

I nodded and went to warm-up on an open hoop. 

The guy who picked me up made a quick assessment. He saw my clothes and shoes, all basketball gear; he heard the way I asked about “next,” indicating this wasn’t my first time navigating the succession lines of pickup; and he felt the aggressive way I requested–half demand, half request–and felt a sense of confidence. He took all that in. When I went out to warm-up, I could feel his eyes on me, assessing the skills of his acquisition.

I took a mid-range jumper and missed. Missed badly. Front-left of the rim. I was tight, needed to loosen up. He said something about my shot. He wasn’t talking to himself, but performing for everyone waiting. 

Outwardly, I was unfazed by the miss, by his comments. It was the first shot of the day. A cold shot. Just needed to warm-up. I shot more. I displayed my ball handling. Inwardly, I knew what he was looking at. 

It was an odd chicken-wing-shot that missed from midrange. When time came for our team to take the court, the man who called “next” stopped me, “Nah man, I dropped you off my squad. You have to wait.”

On the day of my birth, there were complications. I was born about a month premature. Generally, a baby born a month early is small. I was not. A hefty 9 lbs. 2 oz. My mother struggled through the delivery, a prolonged, painful process. In an effort to help, the doctor pulled on my neck. One of my shoulders got stuck, a situation called shoulder dystocia, and the pulling exacerbated the complications. Nerves in the brachial plexus region of my neck were severed. As a result, when I was born, my right arm was paralyzed. I eventually regained limited movement. My right arm has always hung a bit crooked, a bit weaker, a bit shorter.

Erb’s Palsy is the resulting condition. I have it in my right arm. My shooting arm. Rather than swaying with swagger down by my hip like Michael Jordan, my right arm has always hung in front of my torso, bent at about 110 degrees. Some muscles simply unable to develop due to the lack of range of motion. My left arm has always been significantly stronger. I am right handed. I write, throw, and shoot with my right hand. My Erb’s side, slightly bent.

I don’t remember what birthday, maybe seven. I remember the moisture in the air from melted snow, I remember how dirty everyone’s hands were. “Playing basketball” meant a small horde of children throwing basketballs through every possible contortion at the hoop in my driveway. Without an adjustable rim to bring the basket height down, most shots fell short, bouncing out into the sandy street or rolling into the muddy grass. Whenever someone hit, it was cause for celebration. A yelp of exclamation, a jumping high five. Some kids made more than others. Nick made a good number, Casey too. Casey would go on to be voted “most athletic” in middle and high school. Nick moved away before we could witness his athletic development, but I assume that success on the day’s herculean task of “shooting” a basketball to a ten-foot hoop portended potential. 

I didn’t make any shots. None. I couldn’t. It was my birthday. It was my basketball hoop.

Nick exclaimed to me, “I’ve made ten shots! How many have you made?”

My mind moved in a blur, “Four.” I lied. My voice stopped, blocked. Waiting to see if anyone would question me. My cheeks rushed hot. Nick nodded and tossed a ball in the air. 

I worried someone would find me out. Like they’d been watching me all along. Keeping track. In the birthday party chaos, who would be able to track how many shots each kid was making? 

I said four. A reasonable lie–not too outlandish, not too small. A lie humble enough to admit I couldn’t make as many shots as the top dogs. I kept the lie up until we went inside for cake, ice cream, and presents. I don’t remember what I got for presents. I remember everyone else making shots.

My inability to make a shot that day has stayed with me. I didn’t make four shots. I made none. 

When everyone at my birthday party was using their two good arms to throw up shots, I was doing my best with my Erb’s arm. I assume that’s the reason I couldn’t make a shot. Ten feet is a high target for a seven-year-old. It proved to be too high for my uneven little arms. At the time, I had never heard of Erb’s Palsy. I vaguely knew that one arm was different, but I saw no reason other kids should make more shots. No reason I shouldn’t make any. It didn’t make sense. I lied to make sense of it. 

Despite that early defeat, I stayed in love with basketball. Whenever my dad was out in the driveway putting up shots, I went out to join. Unaware of Erb’s Palsy’s existence, I nurtured an unfettered belief in myself. Eventually, I learned to hitch the ball over to the side to get a little extra power to shoot. At ten, I attended my first basketball camp. I aimed to win competitions and stand out. 

I excelled as a ball handler. My favorite game was “dribble knockout.” Every player would dribble a basketball around the court and use their off-hand to knock the ball of a competing player off the court. Every player for themselves. As players were eliminated, the bounds of the court shrank into half court, the three-point line, the inner key, and then the two final competitors would duel at center court. One morning, I made it to the final stage. My nemesis and I made our way to center court and our coach exclaimed, “Ohhhh, it’s Nate and John, two ball handling phenoms!” We weren’t really phenoms. It is the sort of thing a coach at a youth basketball camp will say to build confidence. It worked. I believed. 

John and I locked eyes as we entered the circle at center court. We set down in our trained stance: knees bent, ball on our strong side, protecting the ball with our off arm. All the other campers surrounded. All eyes on us. I slid cautiously over and made a swipe at John’s ball. Missed. Exposed with the swipe, John went after my ball. I made a quick dribble from right to left to avoid his hand. As I shifted my feet to regain a defensive posture, John opened up his stance and I saw my opportunity, leaned in, and punched his ball out of the circle. “Nate wins!” There were a few cheers of approval from my fellow campers. Nate Gagnon, phenom of phenoms.

On another morning, I did not feel so phenomenal. Another game focusing on ball handling. Another opportunity to excel, I thought. This time, the whole camp was split into two teams. Each team lined up at the end and sent one person out at a time. The active player would complete a ball handling task down to one end and back, then the next person in the group. A relay style race. 

“Great, I can be the leader of my team!” I fantasized about being carried out by my victorious squad.  

Our team made it through the first two movements (speed dribble and crossovers) in short order. The other team remained close. I needed to pull my team ahead. Next was speed walk down the court rotating the ball around our torsos without letting it hit the floor. I took a step out and struggled to get the ball behind my back. I shifted my hips out of the way and got the ball around. Slow and awkward. My right arm just couldn’t get the ball behind my back. I made a couple more cumbersome rotations, trying to keep up my pace. I dropped the ball. My face flushed. I chased it down. The other team rushed ahead. People who I would have knocked out easily in Dribble Knockout smoothly rotated that ball behind their back moving down the court. My heart pounded. A member of the opposing team lapped me as I made it to one end, twisting to get the ball around my body. Tears squeezed behind my eyes. After the turn, one of the coaches picked me up and advanced me forward. My chest tightened. I hated needing to be helped. I wanted off that court in the worst way. When I finally made it back, there was no way we’d catch up. I lost the race for our team. I wanted to lead, but I was the weakest link.

I had no idea why that movement was so hard for me. I had no idea why others could do it so effortlessly. What I did know was that I never wanted that embarrassment again. I practice that drill to this day. I’m much better at it now. It’s still not as fluid as I’d like. As I practice, I wonder if people notice.

Middle school is awkward. We become aware of our bodies. We become aware of the bodies of others. In middle school, I had a teammate named Andrew, a good defender and rebounder. Tall and strong, he was one of the first players to show underarm hair out of his cutoff jersey. He was a rough and tumble basketball player whose game reflected his prowess on the football field. He got in foul trouble often, shoving opponents to the floor with reckless abandon. Andrew was the type of player you like to have on your team, hate to play against. In high school, he joined the wrestling team.

Andrew was also the kind of kid who said what he thought. Unvarnished honesty. Just as his aggressive physical play got him sent to the bench with foul trouble, his commitment to truth telling got him to the principal’s office on more than a couple occasions.

One day in practice, Andrew, true to form, was plainly talking about all the players on our own team he was sure he could beat one-on-one. Eventually, he got to me, who he was sure he could dismantle. I vehemently disagreed. I’d be giving up size, but Andrew was simply nowhere near my level of skill. I’d been playing basketball almost year-round. I played other sports, but basketball was my sport. In my estimation, there was only one guy on our team I could not beat, and that was not Andrew. (Casey, of “most athletic” fame.) 

I fumed. “There is no way. How many points did you even score last game? You’re a great defender, but you can’t shoot or dribble.”

He shot back, “I’m a lot better dribbler than you think. Plus, you dribble so high I could take the ball away.”

My face burned. “You could not take the ball from me! I’m a guard. I bring the ball up. You get the ball if I pass it to you.” I may have relaxed the fundamental standard to ‘keep the ball low,’ but that was only because I had enough skill to bend the rules, right?

“You have to keep the ball high because of your arm,” Andrew replied. “You can’t help it. It just hangs out there. I could take it away. Easy.” He mocked my Erb’s arm by keeping his arm bent and swaying it around in front of him.

My throat closed up. That was the first time someone else brought up my arm. He brought it up as a disadvantage. A fatal flaw. I’d explained my arm to plenty of people before. Whenever I had a new coach in a shooting clinic, I explained I had an injury limiting my range of motion. They’d shrug, “Okay, do the best you can.” We’d move on. I made more shots than I missed, however it looked. 

But here was Andrew, painfully-honest-Andrew, saying that I could not beat him one-on-one because my Erb’s arm, my shooting arm. When you’re a kid, adults will be encouraging, it often takes another child to deliver harsh truths.

I realized that other people not only noticed the difference in my arms, but thought about it. Andrew didn’t sit and think about why he could beat me, his answer was ready. He’d thought about it before, probably talked about it. In the world of middle school, I knew what that meant. Other people talked about it too. Andrew had no filter. He didn’t get in trouble in class because he was the only one who didn’t want to do a pointless assignment, he got in trouble because he would say what everyone was thinking but wouldn’t say. 

My mind scrambled. Did everyone on the team think this? Was this whispered in the hall as I carried my books to class? Did girls think about this when I asked for a dance? 

I’d play him. I’d beat him. I’d crush him. “That’s ridiculous. Let’s play.”

We didn’t play. The coach moved on with practice. We did more drills. I was more self-conscious of my arm than ever before. All those people whispering behind my back–doubting me, questioning me. But I did not think for one second that he might be right. I knew I could beat Andrew. At that moment, I would have happily lined up against any player to show them who would win one-on-one. They may doubt me, they were wrong.

Guys leaning on the chain link fence surrounding Mozart’s court looked at me, “What?” I feigned disbelief. I knew why he dropped me. I didn’t look right to him. “You said you’d pick me up? You’re picking up him?” I pointed towards his new teammate, a chubby guy with shoes laced low so the tongues would jut out. I performed incredulity, but I half expected it. “Alright man, that’s your choice. You’re going to regret it.” That, I meant with every fiber of my being. I scouted him out as well. Poor balance on his shot, no skill with his off-hand, just a couple basic dribble moves that he used repetitively. I knew I was better than him and he was dropping me from his team. 

When I did make it to the court, I matched up with him, trying to lock eyes. He left me open at first, I got easy buckets. He tried to defend harder, but I shook him off easily. He was smaller, less skilled, too slow, too reactive. His team made a switch, but it made no difference. I was on. Our team won big. I tried to catch his eye again. I wanted the guy who dropped me to look at me and know what a mistake he made. He didn’t look. I didn’t get that satisfaction. 

I went to the park the other day. By myself. I worked on my behind-the-back dribbling. Remembering being carried through a drill while letting my team down. I’m still better going right to left. Despite being convinced that I could have beaten Andrew one-on-one in middle school, I know that he’s right about my arm needing the ball to be a bit higher. I keep it low. Readying myself for that possible day of redemption. I shoot. I shoot hundreds of shots. May never have the picture-perfect finish, but I will punish anyone who thinks to leave me open. If someone drops me from their team, I’ll be ready to make them pay.

At 39, I still hold onto the pain of feeling different, insufficient. It fuels me. Sometimes I think it makes me better, sometimes worse. Remembering those moments brings me motivation. I wish I could say the fuel to work on my game comes from a place of joy. But I can’t honestly say that. When I shoot now, though, I don’t have to lie now about how many shots I’ve made. And I have a feeling that I could finally take Casey.

NATHAN GAGNON is an MFA candidate at Emerson College and has work published in The Boycott Times and Anti-Heroin Chic Magazine.