The rest of the day was about the clients. One was upset because he had recently been traded. One was upset because he wanted to be traded. One was upset because she had been forced to attend a movie premiere in a town car when she was promised a stretch limousine. One was upset (notice the trend here) because he was staying in a hotel in Phoenix and couldn’t find his hotel key. “Why do they use these stupid cards as keys, Myron? Remember the days when you had the big ones with the tassels? I never lost those. Make sure they put me in hotels with those from now on, okay?”

“Sure thing,” Myron said.

An agent wore many hats—negotiator, handler, friend, financial consultant (Win did most of that), real estate agent, personal shopper, travel agent, damage controller, branding merchandiser, chauffeur, babysitter, parental figure—but what clients liked most was that an agent got more worked up over your interests than you did. Ten years ago, during a tense negotiation with a team owner, the client calmly told Myron, “I don’t take what he’s saying personally” and Myron replied, “Well, your agent does.” The client smiled. “That’s why I’ll never leave you.”

And that pretty much sums up the best agent-talent relationships.

At six o’clock, Myron made the very familiar turn onto his hometown street in the suburban paradise known as Livingston, New Jersey. Like much of the suburbs surrounding Manhattan, Livingston had been farmland, considered the boondocks, until the early 1960s when someone realized that it was less than an hour from the big city. Then the split-levels invaded and conquered. In the past few years, the McMansions—definition: how much interior square footage could we fit on how tiny a plot of land—had made serious inroads, but not yet on his street. When Myron pulled up to the familiar abode, second from the corner, the same one he’d lived in pretty much his whole life, the front door opened. His mother appeared.

Not that long ago—a few years ago even—his mother would sprint out down the concrete walk upon his arrival, as though it were a tarmac and he was a returning POW. Today she stayed by the door. He kissed her cheek and gave her a big hug. He could feel the gentle quake from her Parkinson’s. Dad was behind her, waiting and watching, as was his way, until it was his turn. Myron kissed his cheek too, always, because that was what they did.

They were so glad to see him, and yes, at his age, he should be over that, but he wasn’t and so what? Six years ago, when his father had finally retired from the warehouse in Newark and his parents decided to migrate south to Boca Raton, Myron had bought his childhood home. Yes, those in the psychiatric profession would scratch their chins and mutter something about arrested development or uncut umbilical cords, but Myron found the move to be a practical one. His parents came up a lot. They’d need a place to stay. It was a good investment—Myron owned no real estate. He could come here when he wanted to escape the city, and he could stay at the Dakota when he didn’t.