4338.206 · July 25, 2018 AD
The Naturalist on the Court
Jerome Smith arrives at the chapel for Wednesday night young adult basketball, reading the car park like a naturalist reads a habitat — who's here, who's missing, what it means. Inside, the cultural hall runs on its usual fuel of cheap cordial, diplomatic team selection, and the unspoken social architecture of two combined wards. Jerome watches more than he plays, notices more than he says, and overhears two things he wasn't meant to: a cryptic conversation about the temple presidency outside the Bishop's office, and a quiet verdict from the sideline about young men who haven't served missions. One lands as a mystery. The other lands as a bruise.
Dad drops Jerome at the chapel and drives off into the suburban dark. The building is as familiar as his own shadow — loose brick on the third step, faulty bathroom lock, carpet that hasn't changed in a decade. On his way in, Jerome catches a fragment of conversation between Bishop Hahn and a grey-haired stranger: something about the temple presidency, a timeline, handling things carefully. It sounds weighted in a way ordinary church business rarely does. He files it away and keeps walking.
The cultural hall is already filling — Playford and Paralowie wards combined, the usual blend of obligation and genuine enthusiasm. Samuel Baker is at the centre of it, spinning a basketball and narrating his own brilliance. Jerome falls into the warm-up rhythm with him, the easy banter of two friends who know each other well enough to leave the serious things unsaid. James Hahn arrives and works the room with the polished awareness of a Bishop's son who has never known anything else. Nate Baker hovers at the edges, present but barely participating, his one-word answers closing doors before anyone can look inside.
Team selection plays out as the small diplomatic exercise it always is — complicated briefly when someone suggests shirts and skins, a proposal quietly smothered by James before the returned missionaries have to navigate the garment question in public. Jerome watches the room divide along invisible lines and wonders, not for the first time, which side of them he falls on.
During the break, Megan Ashworth brings him a cup of cordial and a conversation that is kind, funny, and aimed at something more. She asks about uni, about postgrad, about the expectations that aren't really his. Jerome likes her. He knows he should like her more. When she suggests they talk properly sometime, the tightening in his chest is not anticipation.
Back on the bench for a rotation, he overhears two young women discussing someone who hasn't served a mission — the words casual, cutting, and clearly not meant for his ears. The verdict is plain: a young man who hasn't committed isn't worth considering. The sting is familiar, old enough that he sometimes forgets he is carrying it. He returns to the court and throws himself into the game with more force than necessary, letting the physical work fill the space where thought wants to be. Run. Pass. Defend. The simplest algorithm. The only one he trusts.
