The court was part of a larger, mostly cement park featuring swings, monkey bars, and sandboxes for the younger children, as well as benches for the doting mothers. Jack loved to play B-ball. He’d played at Amherst, which had never had a very competitive team. Years later, when he’d first moved to New York City, he’d ventured one day onto the court merely to shoot baskets by himself as a diversion, but by chance the locals had had only nine players. So they’d lowered their standards and asked Jack to play. He’d been immediately hooked by the lively and often rough urban games. Now, weather permitting, it was almost a nightly ritual.

For almost a year, Jack had been the only Caucasian player among the horde of local and considerably younger African-American players. But over the next few years two other white players had ventured into the fray, as well as a number of African-Americans closer to Jack’s age of forty-four.

As a regular and a fanatic, Jack financed new backboards, new outdoor balls, and mercury vapor lighting. He accomplished this combination philanthropic and self-serving gesture through negotiations with the local community leadership. The final deal stipulated that Jack had to pay to refurbish the other park amenities as well. Jack had not minded in the slightest and considered it a small price to pay to be welcomed into the neighborhood.

Jack pedaled his bike up to the massive chain-link fence that separated the B-ball court from the sidewalk. Without taking his feet from his toe clips, he grabbed onto the fence to support himself. As he’d expected, there was a game in progress, with the players sweeping up and down the court.

“Hey, Doc!” a voice called out. “Doc” was Jack’s neighborhood sobriquet. “Where you been? Get your ass out here. You going to run or what?”

Jack glanced to the sidelines to see the heavily muscled Warren Wilson dribbling a ball in and out between his legs. His shaved head gleamed in the glare of the overhead lights.

He was standing with a pack of other fellows waiting to get into the game.

“I don’t have time,” Jack called back.

Warren detached himself from the others and started toward Jack. He was joined by Flash, one of the taller players whose level of ability was about on a par with Jack’s. Warren was a quantum leap above both of them.

Jack nodded a greeting to Flash, who returned the gesture. Since their B-ball talent was roughly equivalent, they frequently covered each other when they were on opposing teams. Flash had the irritating knack of scoring on Jack when games were close, often winning the game. The situation had spawned a friendly rivalry.