*
Kyle Baker lived directly across the street from us and used to spend time, quite a bit of time, shooting hoops with Ethan. Their friendship had originally been court mandated. A few years back Kyle had been arrested for plowing into a parked and, fortunately, empty car in downtown Wilton. While drinking was suspected, no official charges were ever filed against him. The local Chicago media had a field day, however; Kyle was Illinois’s “Mr. Basketball”—the state’s best basketball player. A hailstorm of negative press ensued. Consequently, the Wilton police were forced to come up with some form of punishment to quell the mounting controversy. While I was never privy to all the backroom machinations, the court decided that one of his many penances would be community service, and that one of those many services would be to spend time, four hours a week for six months, teaching a special-needs boy from Wilton, Ethan Nichols, how to play basketball.
After some discussion, Mary and I agreed to this. We were going through our divorce at that time, and both of the girls were out of the house, so any help we could get with Ethan, we took. Besides, we knew Kyle. He had come over a few times before the accident to play with Ethan in the driveway, and we felt he was basically a good kid.
To our delight, the arrangement worked. Ethan lived for his visits with Kyle (which Mary and I were required to dutifully report to the police) and loved playing basketball with him. Long after his probation had ended, Kyle continued to come around and play with Ethan, teaching him how to shoot, how to dribble. During his senior year, Ethan and I went to all of Kyle’s games, sitting right behind the bench, staying as long as Ethan lasted.
I hadn’t seen much of Kyle since he left for the University of Louisville and, when we met up with him that night at a park somewhere just off campus, I was surprised to see him sporting a buzz cut. His floppy hair had been a trademark.
“Hey, Mr. Nichols. Hey, Ethan!” he yelled as we approached. The park’s basketball court was well lit and still glistening from the rain.
I hadn’t told Ethan we were meeting Kyle—the anticipation would have been too great—so when he saw his old friend, he went predictably crazy.
“Kyle! Kyle! Kyle!” he screamed. He dropped my hand and ran, stiff-legged, over to him.
The two met in an awkward embrace under the basket, Kyle patting him on the back and smiling, a little embarrassed.
“Hey, buddy. Want to shoot some hoops?”
“How. Many. Me. Make?”
“You’re going to make fifty baskets,” Kyle said.
“How. Many. You. Make?”
“I’m going to make ten.” Kyle looked over at me. “Is it okay?”
“Yes, of course.” I remembered to reach out and shake his hand. “What’s with the hair?”
He shrugged. “Was getting in the way.”
“I never knew you had freckles. When did that start? I guess we could never see your face.”
He shrugged again, smiled. He was a classic-looking all-American kid, right off the streets of Mayberry: blue eyes, blond hair, a major “aw-shucks” dimple-smile thing going. His appearance was deceiving, though; on the court, dude was stone-cold.
“How’s school going?”
“Okay.”
“How’s the team looking?”
“We’ll be pretty good. Tyrell is coming back, which kind of surprised everyone, and just about everyone else is too. We lost Tommy, though.”
“Herr? The big guy? Did he get drafted? I don’t remember.”
Kyle shook his head. “He just signed on with a team in Croatia.”
“Croatia? I thought he went late second round.”
“He’ll be okay, he’s still making a lot of money. “
“Kid could jump. And he was great with those outlet passes. Kevin Love good.” I forgot how much I liked talking basketball with Kyle. Made me feel young. “Well, we watch your games when we can. That Kansas game was tough. Ethan and I watched that one at Rafferty’s. Remember, Ethan? They let us sit at the bar?”
Ethan had lost interest in our conversation and was picking at his fingernails.
“You played well in that game.”
“I missed that free throw.”
“You made the second one. Tied it.”
Kyle looked off to the side, across the park. I silently cursed myself for having brought that game up: Louisville had lost in overtime. “We’ll be okay this year,” he said.
“Well, even though you should have gone to Illinois, we’re all proud of you. You’re the most famous person to come out of Wilton.”
“I don’t know. I think Mindy is probably the most famous person to come out of Wilton. She’s really funny. That diaper thing.” He turned to Ethan. “But you’re pretty famous too,” he said. “Ready to shoot some hoops? Make it rain?”
Ethan looked up from his fingers. “Rain!”
“Do you want to play?” he asked me.
“What? Oh God, no. I’ll sit down. You guys go ahead.”