My standard approach is to pay no mind to the battle on the court and just walk up to the people on the sideline waiting to play. I clear my throat and channel Barry White’s bottomless voice: “Who’s got next?” Typically, no one looks me in the eye and any responses are mumbled.

I single out an individual and directly ask, “Do you have next?” It is a tactical maneuver because no one wants to be caught giving up his spot. “Yeah, I got next,” someone will say. I ask if he has a team together, and if not, I insist he should pick me up. Often, a player waiting already has a five, but the other four players are nowhere to be found.

“All right then,” I say without revealing my sense of rejection, “then I got next.”

Having next isn’t always guaranteed. At Tillary Park, the best ball I’ve found in Brooklyn so far, I had to wait three games until it was my turn. I was approached by four players and picked them up. After waiting close to two hours, my “next” came up.

I walked onto the court with my squad only to notice that there was one too many players inside the 3-point line. I stood there a little dumbfounded but the extra guy, an out-of-shape 20-something with inscrutable tattoos, had a look of assurance on his face; he knew what was going on.

Big John told me that it was he who had next. This trick has been pulled on me more than once. I knew to stand my ground. I told him that I had been at the park for over an hour before he even arrived. “Didn’t you hear? My boy called next for me.”

I looked for solidarity from my team, but they had left me for Big John. I felt like Robin Williams in “Hook” when Rufio momentarily convinced the Lost Boys that Williams was an impostor and they turned against him. It was like that except no one recognized I was Peter Pan. And because no one knew me, I was begrudgingly resigned to get the game after the one that was rightfully mine.

When it was finally my turn I resolved not to lose my spot. During my bitter wait, I was approached by several meager-looking characters whom other people would not pick up. Out of less than fully enthusiastic empathy for these rejected ballers, I picked them up.