Before My Life Began (1985)
“I was dead tired, drenched from walking home in the rain, and when he came toward me, smiling—he’d been squatting in the small alcove where the mailman left his shoulder bags each morning—I felt nothing, not even irritation.
“Hey—you were terrific tonight, Davey. Really terrific. Twenty-three points and you hardly played most of the last quarter.”
“Thanks.”
I started up the stairs. My arms and legs felt waterlogged. All I wanted to do was sleep.
“Stevey Komisarik said you were shooting the eyes out of the basket.” He laughed. “I thought it was a terrific way of putting it to a man like me, to shoot the eyes out of the basket.”
“Sure, Dad.”
“Davey?”
I stopped.
“I waited for you. I wanted to talk with you.”
“Sure.”
I shivered. I was sixteen years old, in the middle of my junior year at Erasmus, the leading scorer and rebounder on the team. During practices and games the guys would sometimes talk to me as if I were someone ordinary, just another player.
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