This One Looks Like a Boy. Lorimer Shenher

apples,” he added, referring to the annual two-week harvest and pie-making enterprise our one apple tree generated. “I don’t think I’ll have enough work for three of you.” I heard regret in his voice, but he wouldn’t meet my gaze.

      My construction apprenticeship under my father ended unceremoniously in that moment, without another word. As was my habit, I retreated to the rec room downstairs to listen to music in the dark. Bruce Springsteen, the Ramones, the Sex Pistols, the Clash, Joy Division, the Cure, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, and so many other artists spoke to my teenaged anger, angst, and upset. But it was Bruce Springsteen I most closely related to; his early lyrics of disconnection and hopelessness, trying to find his place in a world he didn’t fit into, resonated strongly with me.

      Realizing I couldn’t stay downstairs forever, I enrolled myself in the University of Calgary basketball summer league and camps, taking the bus to campus several times a week to play with top high school– and university-level players. I threw myself fully into basketball, first out of desperation—but this quickly grew into love. For the first time in my life, I felt almost comfortable in my body.

      I grew to love the impromptu pickup games I played in more than camp and league play, mainly because the players in those games included me readily. We played for hours without referees and with no organization. Few women players at that time would join pickup games with men. In those days, sports other than figure skating, swimming, soccer, or gymnastics were considered “unladylike” and masculine by some. More than a few times in the ’80s and ’90s, I saw female players pack up and go home without playing rather than join an impromptu pickup game if there weren’t enough players for a women-only game.