Freddie rubbed his sweaty face on the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “I didn’t know you played.”

“I don’t. I got a game tomorrow.”

“But you don’t know how to play.”

José had been worrying about this on his bike ride over. He had told Estela that he had won tournaments.

“I’ll learn,” José said.

“In one day? Get serious.”

“It’s against a girl.”

“So. She’ll probably whip you twenty-one to nada.”

“No way.”

But José’s mind twisted with worry. What if she did, he asked himself. What if she whipped him through and through. He recalled her crushing the milk carton with one blow of her fist.

He recalled the sandwiches she downed at lunch. Still, he had never encountered a girl who was better than he was at sports, except for Dolores Ramirez. She could hit homers with the best of them.

Uncle Freddie pulled his racket from the garage wall. Then he explained to José how to grip the racket. He told him that the game was like handball. The play was off the front, the ceiling, and the side walls. “Whatever you do don’t look behind you. The ball comes back—fast. You can get your ojos knocked out.”

“Yeah, I got it,” José said vaguely, feeling the weight of the racket in his hand. He liked how it felt when he pounded the sweet spot of the strings against his palm.

Freddie resumed lifting weights, and José biked home, swinging the racket as he rode.