Shirts & Skins: A Short Story
Navigating invisible lines, and real stakes.
I grazed my tongue across the fresh cuts at the corners of my mouth from the sharp edges of the ice-pop wrapper. We’d taken refuge under the pavilion, the park’s only shaded area, to escape the midday summer sun. The sweet taste of sugar on my tounge and the refreshing icy chill in my hand made the tiny torture worth it. Juani, Martin, Wayne, Walt, and I sat facing the park’s north entrance, half-watching the older kids hoop on the south courts, half-watching for the signal we’d been waiting on all day.
Suddenly, Tiny–who didn’t live in our neighborhood, but had spent so much time there that he’d become one of us, came sprinting down the block and into the park.
“Here they come!”
The signal we’d all been waiting for. Earlier that morning, Tiny had told us how the day before, he’d challenged some kids from around the way, over by Alexander Park. He was with his cousins, and the boys wouldn’t let him play. So he trash talked them, told them how bad they were at playing football and how they would get destroyed if they ever came around to Hazelwood Park. They accepted his challenge and agreed to meet us at 12 noon.
In our neighborhood we fought all the time. But when outsiders pulled up, we were one.
Moments after Tiny arrived, six boys rolled up on two bikes. Three to each bike: one pedaling, one on the pegs, one on the handlebars. They dropped the bikes at the park’s north entrance. Tiny pointed them out: those were indeed the culprits from the day before. Squaring up, eyeing each other, we silently scanned for the most sensible matchups. Eyeballing their size, confidence, and street cred. The kid standing across from me matched my size and build, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes. I stared at the side of his face and said, “I got HIM.’”
Silence settled once we agreed on the field: the endzones on the north end marked by the newly planted tree and the south marked by a manhole in the grass near the edge of the park. Sidelines were the bushes on either side. We were playing tackle, not touch. Your quarterback had 4 Mississippis to throw it.
There was only one thing left to decide. Juani, got straight to the point.
“We got shirts!”
The Gaze
The first time I saw Kevin West’s Shirts & Skins, I couldn’t stop gravitating to it.
Six boys stare back at you, balls in hand, chins high, eyes ablaze, some flickering with uncertainty, others with pure determination. That familiar fight or flight that revs up seconds before the game starts.
It whisked me right back to Third Street. Right back to Hazelwood Park. Back where I learned that rivalry and brotherhood lived side by side.
It reminds me of the power of sports. Not the NFL. Not the glory. The backyard. The Neighborhood. We bonded and were transformed through competition. Through neighborhood games I learned about pride, protection and the art of showing up.
A Forgotten Freedom
The most powerful part of this image is what’s missing: adult supervision. No grownups hovering around–a freedom that was so central to my childhood. We were outside exploring, making friends, handling conflict, all on our own. It was a different time but a time I miss, when the community raised its kids and held them safe. I worry that my children won't get that—those unsupervised summer adventures, those neighborhood tests that made us who we are.
This painting brings it all back. The dirt. The sweat. The invisible lines drawn in the grass marking the end zone. The pre-game negotiations. Sizing up your man. When I first learned that the game of football was about more than just having fun.
What did your pickup games teach you?
Drop a comment and tell me about the rivalries, rules, or rites of passage from your neighborhood.
🙌🔥❤️