They won by six.
Then they did the trophies, which takes forever, and then Coach Yarber handed Amari the MVP trophy and a microphone.
Four thousand people in a coliseum. Half of them on their feet. A local station with a camera on the baseline.
And my son said:
“Tonight, sitting in this gym, is my real father.”
The place went quiet.
I was standing at the end of the bench with both hands on the railing and I remember the metal being cold.
Two seats down from where I’d been sitting, Grady Wolcott’s smile went about twice as wide, and he stood up.
He actually stood up.
“We haven’t spoken in fourteen years,” Amari said. “He says he wants to rebuild our relationship. That’s why I invited him here tonight.”
Grady raised a hand to the crowd.
“So listen carefully,” Amari said.
And then he said this. I have it word for word because it was recorded from four different angles and because I have watched it more times than is healthy.
He said:
“His name is Grady Wolcott. He’s in the second row, in the navy suit. He left me on the twentieth of March, 2012, when I was four years old, eight hours after my mom died. He left a note on the counter. Four words.”
