in Bryant Park. It’s like the United Nations of obscure ball games. The dreadlocked West Indian guy, the African guy (“Hey, Africa!” the West Indian guy calls), the two middle-aged white guys and the younger, paunchy white guy with a really strange way of hurling the ball and holding his cig with the other hand, the South Asian-looking guy. No females, though. And I don’t understand it at all. The tiny red ball, the clanking metal balls (how do they remember which was whose?), one guy gets four throws and the next just one. Clank! A high shot and the balls go jumping. They all laugh.

The smell of boxwood; vacation in town.


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