Page 7 of Loving the Legend
It sounds like her. Memories transport me back to Brooklyn, where I hear Mom’s ebullient laughter echoing throughout the kitchen.
I squeeze my eyes shut. The ache is sharp.
Not today...
I try to pluck it away, but like an invasive weed, the thought breaks through.
They exist only in memory.
And memories fade with time.
I looked it up once—athazagoraphobia—the fear of forgetting someone or being forgotten. They call it a social phobia. I call it an orphan’s fear. The years have taught me it’s futile fighting it, even if facing it means surrendering to a hollowing anguish.
“Let’s see,” Adam says, reeling me back. He braces my shoulders and meets my gaze. His eyes are glossy too. There’s an immersive room inside of both of us where memories of Brooklyn project off the walls. We try to keep the door shut, but invisible tethers—a whiff of a scent or the echo of a baritone laugh—yank us inside. And when I’m in there, the world outside the room reduces to a distant memory. Yesterday, Bob Marley’s “Is This Love” hurled me from the airport cafe to our old livingroom, where Dad wrapped his arms around Mom’s waist. Dad and Bob’s voices intermingled as he and Mom rocked to the music. The memory almost brought me to my knees.
“Take a deep breath. You know, besides my drop-dead good looks, I have superpowers of my own.”
I roll my eyes. “Is that right?”
“I think you got specks of dust or something in your eyes. They did a weird rolling thing.” He smirks. “My superpower tells me that some of the greatest experiences of your life are yet to come, starting today.”
His confidence is a lifeline.
“I hope so. Any chance your superpower can confirm the number of championship rings I’ll cop?”
He grins. “You’ve been chasing rings since the first time you picked up a ball.”
I chuckle. It’s mostly true.
“At least four.” He winks and pats my chest. “Now, what’d’ya say we get you drafted?”
Entering the Blue Room,I recognize players I’ve played against in college and others I’ve seen or read about on ESPN. I recognize a seven-foot-five international player who’s a big deal in the UK. Dude’s a beanstalk.
“Pretty Boy Ty.” I hear as Adam and I make our way to our seats. I turn toward the voice and come face-to-face with Jeff Banks, arguably the best shooting guard Duke University has ever seen. Rocking a silver metallic suit, flashy as ever, he’s six-foot-six and lanky with a head full of thick curls. He has a vertical labret piercing, big round eyes, and a boyish smile.Analysts predict that Jeff will be picked in the top five of the first draft.
“If it isn’t the Prince of Duke in the flesh.” I extend my hand and pull him into a quick hug. His palms are clammy. “You nervous too?”
“Hell yeah, but ‘Prince’?” He smirks. “I think you meant the God of Duke.”
I throw my arm over Adam’s shoulder. “Unc, meet the very humble Jeff Banks.”
“Whoa, the resemblance is uncanny,” Jeff says, glancing between us. “Pleasure to meet you, sir.” He extends his hand to Adam.
I look a lot like my uncle, who looked like his older brother, my dad. I have his and dad’s height, but Adam has way more muscle.
“Likewise. I saw one of your games against North Carolina. You crushed them,” Adam recalls.
“Ah, back in February, yeah, that game was lit. I damn near ruptured my Achilles.”
Adam grimaces. “Every balla’s nightmare.”
“Word.” He nods at me. “I just wanted to wish you good luck. Remember, we earned our spot here, even though we’re nervous. I’ll find you later. Peace.” He braces my shoulder, then he’s off.
“Nice kid,” Adam says as we watch him fade into the crowd.
“Yeah, but he has an ego larger than this arena. Weird combo.” I shake my head, then lead the way to our seats.
On some level, I know that it’s normal to be anxious on a day like today, but I didn’t expect to feel…so much. My parents would have been crazy proud to be here today. The countless practices they drove me to through the years, the games attended, and the pep talks. This is as much their day as my own. The day sits heavily, and my wiring is off like I could blow a fuseat any moment. I hate the driver who cheated them out of being here today. If they were, Dad would be crying happy tears. Mom would be, too, but in her reserved way. Uncle Adam is the best surrogate parent I could’ve hoped for, but it’s still not the same. They’ve left a gaping hole in both of our lives.
