Ah, basketball.

The gym had a healthy crowd for the rivalry. Some people pointed and whispered as Myron walked by. Welcome to Minor-League Local Celebrity. A few came over and said hello—old teachers, old neighbors, those guys in every town who hang out at games even when their kids aren’t playing anymore.

From near the foul line, Mickey spotted them and gave a quick wave. Dad—or in Mickey’s case, Grandpa—waved back. Dad started to make his way up the stands. He always took the back row. He didn’t want to be the center of attention. Dad never yelled, never called out, never “coached,” never rode referees, never moaned, never complained. He might clap. When he got really excited during a big game, when Myron would hit a big shot, he might say, “Nice pass, Bob,” or something like that, deflecting the praise. Dad never cheered for his own son. It simply wasn’t done.

“If I have to cheer for you to know I’m proud,” Dad once told Myron, “then I’m doing something wrong.”

Never one to miss a moment of nostalgia, Myron flashed back to those long-ago days when he would warm up on a court like this and look across the gym and watch his dad take the steps of the bleachers two at a time. Not today, of course. Today Dad’s movements were more hesitant and shuffle-like. He took frequent breaks. He grimaced and got out of breath. Myron put his hand out to help him, but his dad shook it off.

“I feel great,” he said. “It’s just the knee.”

But he didn’t look great. “Okay, Dad.”

They sat in the top row, just the two of them.

“I like it up here,” Dad said.

Myron nodded.

“Myron?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m fine.”

“I know.”

“Your mother and I are getting older; that’s all.”

And that’s the problem, Myron wanted to say. He got it—to everything there is a season, turn, turn, turn, the earth revolves, life cycles—but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

The horn buzzed. The players stopped warming up and headed to their benches. The guy on the microphone began, as every New Jersey high school basketball game must, by reading the state’s sportsmanship policy:

“‘There will be no tolerance for negative statements or actions between opposing players and coaches. This includes taunting, baiting, berating opponents, “trash-talking,” or actions which ridicule or cause embarrassment to them. Any verbal, written, or physical conduct related to race, gender, ethnicity, disability, sexual orientation or religion shall not be tolerated, could subject the violator to ejection, and may result in penalties being assessed against your team. If such comments are heard, a penalty will be assessed immediately. We have been instructed not to issue warnings. It is your responsibility to remind your team of this policy.’”

“A necessary evil,” Dad said. Then, motioning to the spot where the fathers sat, he added, “It doesn’t stop those jackasses.”

Mickey’s short tenure at the high school had not been without controversy. He was back on the team, however unlikely that had seemed a few weeks back, but there were some residual bad feelings. Myron saw among those vocal dads his old nemesis and former high school teammate Eddie Taylor, now the chief of police in town. Taylor hadn’t seen Myron yet, but he glared hard at Mickey.