Myron took a few steps, his shoes echoing against the old parquet wood floor. He stopped and stood at center court for a moment. The familiar smell of sweat still hung in the air. They probably still held gym classes in here, or was that a smell, mixed with some sort of heavy-duty janitorial cleaner, that would always be embedded in the woodwork? To some the smell was probably horrid. For Myron it was something closer to celestial.

Smells brought you back. “Déjà vu” was too weak a term for what Myron was experiencing now. He slowly spun, taking it all in. He looked up at the concrete-and-brick wall above the door. The sign was still there.

TOP BASKETBALL SCORERS OF ALL TIME

1. MYRON BOLITAR

The memories rushed at him so hard and fast he nearly fell back. The old rickety stands were pushed into the wall, but in Myron’s eyes they were accordion-pulled-out and full. His mind’s eye saw his old teammates and coaches, and for a moment he tried to calculate how many hours he had spent in this gymnasium, how it had all gone so well here, on this floor, in the confines of the basketball court. Sports were supposed to be a reflection of life, a life lesson, a test of endurance and strength, a great preparation for the real world. That was what they always told you. But that wasn’t the case for Myron.

Everything came easy to Myron on the court. In real life, not so much.

He walked back outside and into the sunlight. He got back into the limo. “Wrong gym,” Myron said. “I think the new one is around the other side of the football field.”

The driver took him toward the new facility. When he opened the door, he heard the comforting echo from a dribbling basketball and the familiar squeak of sneakers on the playing surface. Mood music. The new gymnasium was state-of-the-art, whatever that meant. It had bright lights and cool scoreboards and comfortable seats with backs. Everything glistened. But the smell—the combo of sweat and chemical cleaners—was still there. That made Myron smile.

The high school boys’ team was scrimmaging, half the team wearing white, the other half green. Myron sat in the front row and watched and tried not to smile too broadly. They were good players, in better shape and more physical than in his day. The Lancers were undefeated so far this season, and rumor had it that they had a chance of breaking the winning streak set more than twenty-five years ago when the last basketball All-American graced this court.

Yep, you guessed it.

There were good players running up and down this court, some even great, but one stood out among the rest.

A sophomore named Mickey Bolitar. Myron’s nephew.

Mickey circled to the corner, juked, got the pass, faked the three, drove hard to the hoop on the baseline. The kid was poetry in motion. It was damn near impossible to take your eyes off him. You could see it right away. The greatness. Myron studied his nephew’s face and saw that look of what they called “being in the zone,” focused yet relaxed, on edge yet laid back, whatever terminology you wanted to use, but really it could all be summed up in one word.