Without Dibby Munsen, there is no one to break the line. No one to captain the opposing team, no one who volunteers to lead. No one to know how long we stand there on the basketball court, backs pressed against the chain-link fence. No one to remember who asked, where’s Dibby first.
Without Dibby Munsen, we play Horse without a ball, arms and hands shooting arcs in the air. Dibby always brings the ball, inflated, slaps it so hard we can hear the hollow bellow. Tells us to listen up like our coaches do in school. Like our fathers do when they try to teach us about life. Like we try to do without Dibby Munsen but there’s no one left to listen when we’re all shouting at once.
Without Dibby Munsen, we become feral when girls walk by. Some of us whistle, others click their tongues, wink, while a few of us try to invite them home. When they ask about Dibby, we pretend not to care. Say Who cares? Don’t you want a real man, and flex our hairless arms and smile to distract from our hairless upper lips.
Without Dibby Munsen, the girls tell us whatever and we try to act like it doesn’t hurt, that we know we’ve forgotten how to act and we wish Dibby Munsen was here to say sorry.
Without Dibby Munsen, we no longer function so we just lay down on the court. Count the planes that fly overhead. One, two, eight, nine. One of us says do you think—and we tell him to shut up because, no, we don’t think. We are boys, still boys, that shoot hoops and we sweat and we always go home before the street lights come on.
Boys who eat our food and sneak food from our siblings if we have them. Boys who scratch what we want, where we want, when we want unless our mom’s can see. And we are boys who watch basketball and football and baseball at home and dream of that being us. Listen to our fathers say that used to be them, that they’ll make it so that’ll be us.
And when we become boys who can admit that they’re tired, we’ll go to our childhood room and we’ll think about Dibby Munsen, who wants to run track and tries to explain how running without tackling or shooting or hitting anything still counts as a sport. Dibby, who we hope is at home, in his bed, sleeping and dreaming his dreams.
However, we remain without Dibby Munsen. The next day. Next week. Next month. One of us asks if any of us knows…and we don’t. We just sit on the court, backs pressed against the chain-link fence.
Without Dibby Munsen, we grow into men. Men who grow up. Men who grow out, expand until our stomachs crowd the doorways, we press ourselves through. Men who lose touch. Some of us abandon the city, the court, without ever looking back. Other choose to stay. For my siblings. For my mom. For my dad and the bills and I like it here. Why would I leave now?
Without Dibby Munsen, we learn about women. We learn about love. How to love with respect and respectfully love the curves and crevices of women. Some of us will also learn about dying. Sometimes too soon. Sometimes, in the moment we see death heading our way, too late to even think about who we love, who we want, what we want. Too late to even think about some kid we once knew named Dibby.
Some of us become fathers who watch baseball and football and basketball with kids who say that diving and pole vault and skateboarding are all sports too and they ask us to try and we tell them we’ll watch, all while thinking about Dibby Munsen.
None of us will remember who asked, what ever happened to Dibby, first. Maybe the one who still lays on the court and counts planes and the muscles that wheeze when he tries to stand. Or the one, while watching the basketball game who says, I knew a guy who could – the thought sacrificed for a winning 3-pointer or a bad call. Someone who talks to their kids about running. About track and about days spent on the court. About Dibby. Someone whose kids ask who? Says we’ve never mentioned him before.
Someone will Google “Dibby Munsen” and return with a life’s history of links. Someone calls. All of us call, and we’ll remember who we once were. Our memories triggered by the voices on the line. By the names we forgot. By the memories of the boys we were when Dibby Munsen was there.
Who we became when he wasn’t.
We’ll Google:
Dibby Munsen
Dibby
Dib
Until the rest of his name appears in grey.
And we’ll think, without Dibby Munsen, we were without war. No need for any of us to go overseas. No need for us. No need for us to wear green or white or black or guns or boots decorated with metals or blood or holes. No need for us, on a wall to be erected in our memory. Our names etched in white. So deep we can paint each letter with the skin of our fingers. So shallow, we have to follow each groove again just to make sure it’s there.
He’s there.
Dibby Munsen.
