The Fleeting Youth of Those Years

Over time, wounds stop hurting, and people tend to forget the pain they once experienced. The memory of that basketball match incident in our first year of high school, where someone tragically lost their life, had gradually grown faint in everyone’s minds. Class 5 of our third year decided to organize a basketball competition for the grade. However, Fan Guang, our star player, was no longer in our class, having transferred to the second year of high school. Naturally, Bao Le was reluctant to participate in the game.

“Anyone who wants to play can go ahead. I’m definitely not joining. We’ll just end up getting crushed out there, no question about it. Embarrassing myself like that isn’t exactly my thing,” Bao Le said, leaning sideways against me as he spoke to a few of the guys who often played basketball. Not long ago, Bao Le had moved his desk to the back to sit with me because sitting too close to Liu Yan made it hard for him to focus on studying.

“It’s no big deal. Aside from Class 5 and Class 3, no other class in the grade can match us. Come on, you know this. Class 1 right next door is practically all girls, and Class 6 and Class 4 are full of honest, clumsy types who can’t dribble to save their lives…”

The group started analyzing the strengths and weaknesses of the third-year classes, speaking as if our participation alone would guarantee us a spot in the top three.

“That’s nonsense. Class 16 has Da Hei, who’s ridiculously tall, plus Xiao Hei. Da Hei doesn’t need any introduction-he’s on the sports team and has that height advantage. And Xiao Hei may not be on the team, but his three-pointers are impossible to guard against. And don’t forget Class 12-how on earth are we supposed to defend against their tall players?” Bao Le said, straightening up as he cracked his neck before breaking down the insurmountable advantages of the other classes. He looked around at everyone and then slouched back over his desk, falling silent.

The atmosphere seemed to freeze. You could hear every person’s breathing clearly. Wen Youhan walked past me from behind; her footsteps were so light, but this time, for some reason, I could hear every step she took.

Liu Yan must have overheard their conversation. She walked over, smiling as she said, “It’s just a basketball game. Why not join and get some exercise? Winning or losing isn’t that big of a deal, is it?”

Lin Dashun, who had been sprawled out at the back, sat up, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. After staring blankly for a few seconds, he turned to Bao Le and asked, “Bao, what’s everyone talking about?”

It seemed Lin Dashun had been up all night at the Internet Cafe again, fighting bosses in some game. Even with their heated discussion, he was completely clueless about what was going on.

“They’re all looking at the hole in your pants,” I joked, grinning at Dafen.

“Where? I don’t see anything!” Dafen said, dropping his chin to his chest as he tried to look down at his pants, his wide eyes scanning for the nonexistent tear.

Laughter erupted. Dafen eventually looked up and rolled his eyes. About seven seconds later, he bolted from his seat, came up to me, and swung a punch.

Liu Yan clutched her stomach, laughing uncontrollably, while Bao Le grinned and said, “What kind of youth would it be if you didn’t embarrass yourself at least once? All right, I’ll join the basketball game.”

Cheers broke out in the classroom-a release of long-restrained excitement. This basketball game wasn’t about winning or losing; it was simply about creating memories, moments of brilliance in our youth that we could always cherish.

Every day during the ten-minute midday break, Bao Le and a few of the others would head to the playground to practice basketball. Our homeroom teacher, Liu Haijun, had stopped discouraging us from playing basketball ever since we entered third year of high school. Perhaps he thought that by this point, it wasn’t worth pressuring us about studying all the time.

I sat by the wall near the door, in the second-to-last row. Mo Shunlu and Lin Dashun sat in the very last row, but they had pulled their desks all the way back against the wall so they could lean on it during class. This created a pathway behind me and Bao Le. Except for the students in the first three rows, most of the class entered the room through the back door. Our classroom was located on the west side of the teaching building, and from the back door, a single step brought you to the stairwell. Perhaps time felt so short during third year that everyone tried to save even a few steps in their pursuit of their dreams.

Wen Youhan went to the toilet every morning after breakfast-her colitis had never truly resolved. Each morning, I would also grab a half-finished test paper, or sometimes someone else’s, and head to the toilet. Perhaps, deep down, I wanted to run into her.

If love is a chance encounter followed by an accident, then you and I are nothing more than two sorrowful playmates, unwilling to let go of our toys for the sake of allowing the other person to have it all. And so, love turns into hate.