It’s Sunday morning, and I roll up to the rec center in my navy workout shorts, high socks, Nike slides, and old Drexel University basketball jersey. Without fail I wear a Drexel jersey to play pickup. I have several of them. They’re ten, eleven years old by now, but they’re in immaculate shape, kept alive by something like magic or willpower. I don’t wear this jersey because it’s my favorite, though it is. (My shoulders look great in it.) I wear it so that when I, a nonbinary player whom everybody reads as a woman, walk into a gym full of dudes who think they’re hot shit, there’s a chance one of them might point to my chest and ask, “Did you ball in college?” To which I’ll say, “Yeah, D1.” Once they hear that I played at Division 1, the highest collegiate level, they might say, “Oh, word?” or, “That’s what’s up.” With this sliver of approval, the door opens for me, just a crack.