“You sure? I remember you being a shooter, Mr. Nichols.”
I appreciated the compliment more than I should have, but resisted the opportunity to embarrass myself. “No, thanks. I’m beat.”
“Some other guys might come too,” Kyle said.
“More reason for me to sit.”
I wearily made my over to a nearby bench and collapsed with a thud, exhausted. I couldn’t believe how long the day had been; the pool in Indianapolis was an absolute lifetime ago. I sighed and stretched out my legs. I would have to do it all over again tomorrow.
“Hoops!” Ethan yelled.
“Hoops,” I said, but not quite as enthusiastically.
“Illini!”
“No, we’re not playing that tonight.”
“What’s he want to do?” Kyle asked.
“Nothing, this thing we do, this game. He’ll be fine. You can just shoot with him.”
I watched Ethan take up a position just inside the free-throw line. Once situated, he immediately began making shots: one became two, two became three, three became four, the ball flying in a high, looping arc.
“Man, I forgot how good he was at this,” Kyle said, smiling. “He could teach me.”
Ethan kept this up for a while, showing off, I suspect, while Kyle and I looked on. Finally, after a few misses, he bounced the ball to Kyle and took a seat on the ground, halfway between my bench and the basket.
“Hoops!” he commanded.
“Okay, buddy,” Kyle said. “Guess it’s my turn.”
Sitting there in the warm Kentucky night while Kyle shot, watching the ball sail smooth and pure against the darkening sky, I felt equilibrium returning. Each time Kyle made a basket and each time Ethan cheered, my head began to clear and my spirits rose. I sat back. I had made it this far.
As Kyle shot, I said a silent prayer of thanks. Like some kind of angel, he had descended, picked me up off the ground, and dusted me off. This was, fortunately, not an uncommon occurrence. Over the years, numerous times, too many times to count, just as I was about to reach my breaking point, just when I thought I couldn’t take another minute, another second, out of nowhere—at the grocery store, at the park, at restaurants—angels, Ethan’s angels, would appear and save us: strangers in stores would stop to talk to Ethan; neighbors took him for a walks. Once a truck driver in a parking lot, someone I had never seen before, or ever again, gave Ethan his baseball cap. Another time, while Ethan was in the midst of a meltdown in a parking lot, a policeman distracted him by letting him sit in a squad car. These acts, simple and impulsive, kept me going, reaffirmed my belief in God, in a universe that could, at least at times, mean well. I stretched out my legs farther, exhaled. We had a long way to go; I hoped there were a lot of angels still out there.
About a half hour later three other players arrived, emerging one by one from the shadows that ringed the lighted court. Two of them, giants, wore easy smiles, but the third and shortest, was expressionless. I immediately recognized him as Tyrell Dee. Big. Time. Player. I sat up.
“Ethan, move over here,” I said. “Get closer.”
“He’s okay!” Kyle yelled.
The two Bigs gave Ethan hesitant smiles then nodded hello in my direction before taking their first shots. Tyrell took no interest, however. He stood sullenly near the basket, head down, texting with one hand. All the boys were wearing oversize shorts that hung low, but Tyrell’s shorts were outrageous, a comedy, hovering just inches above his ankles. He wasn’t as tall as Kyle—I put him at six-two—but in his sleeveless white T-shirt, I could see the coiled power in his arms and chest. The kid was ripped.
I was apprehensive at first and a little embarrassed; I hoped Kyle hadn’t asked his teammates to come on our behalf. But after a few minutes I began to relax and enjoy the show. Other than Tyrell Dee, the players clearly didn’t mind being there.
Ethan scooted over by me, and we both watched on in silence, bordering on awe as the players shot away.
“Dunk!” Ethan yelled.
“Ethan, shhh!” I said.
Kyle heard Ethan and obliged, dunking the ball with both hands, his mouth wide open with effort. This was followed immediately by another slam, by one of the Bigs. Within seconds a full-fledged dunking contest was under way, the iron backboard shaking as if it were in a hurricane. I sat speechless, not sure, once again, if the players were putting on a show just for Ethan, or if this was some off-season nightly ritual. Regardless, Ethan was more than appreciative, answering each dunk with applause and an exclamation. “Dunk!” he cried.