I adopted my best friend’s son after he abandoned him — years later, the boy invited him to a championship game and gave a speech that made me break down.

Basketball started when he was eleven.

I am not a basketball person. I played some in high school badly. But he got tall at thirteen and he got serious at fourteen and by fifteen there were men in polo shirts at our games.

Senior year he was six foot five, a guard, and he was the second-ranked player in the state.

The rankings came out on the first of December.

And Grady Wolcott sent Amari a message on Instagram on the thirteenth of December.

Twelve days.

Fourteen years of silence, and then twelve days after a website put my son’s name on a list.

I did not know about any of this. Not the first message, not the forty that came after.

Amari kept every one of them and did not answer a single one until February.

The messages said things like: You have my blood in you. And: I’ve been trying to find a way back to you for years. And: That man is not your father. I know he’s told you a story about me.

And: Whatever he’s given you, I can give you a hundred times more.

The night before the state championship, the thirteenth of March, Amari came into my room at about eleven o’clock and sat down on the end of my bed the way he has since he was small.