I have a secret that I’ve never told anyone before. It’s a memory that has stayed hidden in the depths of my mind for over 30 years. It’s a story that involves my best friend’s death and how basketball played a major role in it. This memory has been tucked away, buried behind cobwebs and forgotten boxes in the farthest corner of my mind, until now. Writing this book has brought it all to the surface, and I can no longer keep it to myself.
It happened when I was just six years old, and my best friend, Chris, was seven. We were two bundles of energy who lived in neighboring tenement buildings in the crime-ridden Washington DC projects. We were inseparable, always together, whether it was walking to school or spending our afternoons at the local court. We were consumed by basketball, and it was our shared passion that brought us together.
Chris was a natural talent. He had incredible ball handling and dribbling skills, and he could move on the court like a young Michael Jordan. I was envious of his talent, but I loved playing alongside him. We dreamed of one day making it to the NBA together. We knew it was possible if we practiced every day.
One day, as we were playing at the local court, Chris pulled off an amazing move. He broke the ankles of an older kid who was trying to defend him. It was a moment of pure excitement and skill. We all cheered, but little did we know, that move would have devastating consequences.
The older kid, who was a member of a local gang, didn’t take kindly to being shown up. In a fit of rage, he pulled out a gun and shot Chris. The sound of the gunshot echoed through the court, and chaos ensued. Everyone scattered, fearing for their own lives. But I couldn’t move. I was frozen in shock, watching as my best friend fell to the ground, clutching his stomach.
The shooter calmly rode away on his bike, leaving us all in a state of terror. I rushed to Chris’s side, cradling his head and torso, trying to comfort him as he gasped for air. I prayed for an ambulance to arrive, but in our neighborhood, help didn’t come quickly. All I could do was wait, tears streaming down my face, as Chris slowly slipped away.
The other kids who had been playing with us stood around, unable to help. They were strangers, just like we were to them. They were frozen, unable to process what had just happened. We were all just kids, caught up in a moment of violence that none of us could fully understand.
My father eventually pulled me away from Chris’s lifeless body, and I watched as he desperately searched for signs of life. I sought refuge with my mother, finding solace in her warm embrace. There was nothing more we could do. Chris was gone.
His father arrived shortly after, and I watched as he picked up his son’s lifeless body. He carried him away, just as the ambulance finally arrived, too late to save him. The flashing red lights blurred in my teary eyes as I sat in the car, waiting for my parents to return.
Back at home, I couldn’t make sense of what had happened. My mother cleaned me up and put me to bed, while my father spoke with her in the kitchen. I stared at the shadows dancing under our bedroom door, trying to make out their muffled voices, but they remained distant and incomprehensible. I drifted off to sleep, haunted by the loss of my best friend.
That day changed the course of my life forever. It shattered my innocence and left me with a pain that I could never truly escape. And yet, as I tell my story, I realize that I can’t leave this memory out. It shaped who I am today, and it’s a part of my journey to the NBA. It’s a part of Chris’s legacy, and I owe it to him to share our story.
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