Four months later, on the morning of my first NBA game, I sat in our living room.
Only now the tired walls were replenished by a fresh coat of paint, my reflection mirrored off a big screen television, and I sat on a leather couch big enough for Shaquille O’Neal.
When I entered the Pride locker room no one was around.
The silence in the room was replaced by the humming of his wheelchair as he left.
They’re gonna tell the story about that night again.” His face dropped.
I got you a seat in the corner, nobody’s gonna see you.” “Nobody’s gonna see me, is that what you said?
When I roll down that aisle, every camera in that place is gonna focus on me and this chair.
” “Excited, nervous, everything.” There was an uncomfortable silence.
I got you and Mom tickets.” He stared at the floor while he spoke, “You know I can’t do that, Tony.” “Sure you can.
I flipped on the lights and walked into the center of the blue carpet where a huge Pride logo shone down from the ceiling.
A clock on the wall read p.m., four hours until game time.
Two security guards were clearing a path as Mike wheeled himself through crowds of people toward the front row.
I moved in front of my locker and stared at my number 14 jersey, the name HOPE was printed in big blue letters across the back.
I had six pairs of sneakers, size twelves, five pairs of practice shorts, a stack of t-shirts, headbands, wristbands and socks.