the next guy
Superstar
Hipster nation rises.
Within the first three days of my arrival in New York, and my exploration of its courts, I had a knife pulled on me. Well, not a knife, but a box cutter with a neon green handle. I was playing basketball for the second time at Edmonds Playground in Fort Greene Park when my team was about to be knocked off the court. I decided that the other team was not going to get an easy layup to finish us off, and I fouled an unassuming-looking guy hard enough to knock him down.
That neon green cutter fell out of his pocket and rattled against the concrete. The guy, Bookie, snatched it up and looked at me indignantly. I naïvely asked him what it was for. He pressed the blade up with his thumb and said, Its my poker.
This indirect threat came in front of dozens of playground patrons, and his friends were quietly talking him down. But I valued my face far too much to have questioned his intentions. I put my hands up and backed away slowly.