I took a few shots, then sat on a nearby bench and encouraged Ethan. He was particularly deadly that morning. He immediately hit five in a row, pushing the ball two-handed from his chest, jumping a bit as he released. I was amazed, as always. He was as good as me, as good as anyone.
As he shot away, I wondered, not for the first time, if things had been different, if his chromosomes were normal, what kind of player he could have been. Would he have made the basketball team, would he have played? Started? Would he have been a point guard, or the shooting guard that I was? Would I have been one of those ex-jock fathers who lived vicariously through him? When you have a child like Ethan, you have to contend with a fair amount of “what if” moments, and though they diminish over the years, they could and would still ambush you at odd times and at odd places. Like a park in Wilmington, Delaware.
“Nice shot!”
“More!”
“Okay, shoot more. Take your hat off—you’ll shoot better. Your hat, take it off.”
I sat back, squinted up at the sky, relaxed. This was a good morning: the girls were burying the hatchet, I was inching closer to Mary, and Ethan was in a fine mood. What was more, he hadn’t uttered the name Rita in close to twenty-four hours. Based on experience, I knew the word had not stuck. The danger had passed.
Eventually, Ethan walked over and buried his head in my lap.
“What’s going on? You tired? Need a break? Halftime?”
“Play,” he said softly. He was being shy and tentative because I often turned this particular request down. I knew what he wanted to do.
“Play what?”
“Play.”
“What game do you want to play? Chess?”
“No!”
“Um, Monopoly? That’s always fun.”
“No!”
“Oh, I know, poker! That’s it. I bet Sal taught you.”
“No!”
“Then what game, dude-man, what game? You have me wondering here.”
“Illini,” he said, his voice muffled.
“What?”
“Illini.”
“Oh. Wow, never would have guessed that. Never. You want me to play Illini?”
He sat up, eyes gleaming. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
“Illini, huh?” I surveyed the park: the court was still empty, and while there was a cluster of children and parents by the swings, they were a good distance away. I stood. “Sure, why not? We haven’t played that in a long time. Okay, Illini!”
“Dee!”
“Right, you be Dee. Okay.”
From time to time, at Ethan’s request, we would reenact the final minutes of the famous Illinois–Arizona game. I, of course, took on the heroic role of Deron Williams, and he of star guard Dee Brown. It was a ritual that required energy and enthusiasm. Fortunately, I had enough of both in the tank that morning.
Back on the court, I stretched, touching my toes a few times, before launching into the well-worn narrative.
“Wow, a close game throughout. Arizona has exploded into a fifteen-point lead. Once again the first double-digit deficit the number-one team Illinois has faced all season! This crowd is stunned.”
“Shoot!”
“Okay.” I officially commenced the comeback by hoisting a shot from the top of the key that was nothing but net. “Deron Williams gets three of those fifteen points back! This game is far from over!”
Ethan retrieved the ball and bounced it back to me. I dribbled off to the left of the basket and continued the long-since-memorized play-by-play. “Brown feeds Williams. Williams for three. Got it! Deron Williams with the biggest three of his life!”
“Face!”
“Look at his face! The look of determination!”
“Back!”
“He’s putting the Illini on his back right now!”
Ethan gleefully jumped up and down and yelled, “Go, Illini!” then bounced another pass my way. This time I dribbled to the free-throw line, faked my invisible defender, and took another shot. This too went in. Like Deron had been years before, I was on fire. “Right between the—!”
“Eyes!” Ethan screeched with joy.
We kept this up for a good fifteen minutes under a hazy sun, Ethan feeding me passes while I provided the running commentary, which climaxed with, “The Illini are going to the Final Four! The Illini are going to the Final Four!” Afterward we went to a McDonald’s for Sprites, where we sat happily in a booth celebrating the amazing victory.
“Wow!”
“Wow is right. That game was wow!” I said, squeezing his hand. “I remember Sal hugging the crap out of me after that. He hugged me so hard, he hurt my back. I was in pain for a week.”
“Sal!”
“Yeah, Sal. One of the world’s all-time huggers. He actually practices hugging.”
“Me!”
“You what?
“Me!” Ethan stood up and extended his arms.
It took me a moment to realize what he wanted. This was new. “What? Oh, sure, sure.” I stood and, in the middle of the crowded McDonald’s, we hugged hard.
“Done!”
“No, not yet,” I said, burying my face in his hair.
“Done!”
“No, not yet.” I said.
*
When we returned to the hotel, we found the girls slouching in oversize chairs in the lobby. With their large round sunglasses and chalky faces, they looked like strung-out rock stars waiting for their limo. Neither one said anything as we approached.