A Father First: How My Life Became Bigger Than Basketball Read Online Free PDF Page B

figure. She was probably closer to a mentor, teaching me fundamental lessons for life—that later would carry over to basketball. Grandma taught me the importance of family, of loyalty, of looking out for loved ones. She tried to teach me patience and forgiveness, too.
    “When somebody do you wrong or do somebody wrong that you love,” Grandma would say, “gettin’ back at them ain’t the way.”
    At five years old, I’d heard all that “two wrongs don’t make a right” stuff. But, frankly, I already knew that if you didn’t stand up and answer someone who disrespected you or somebody in your family—that would be seen as weak. You had to fight back.
    You can ask Tragil about that. Not long after I started kindergarten, she began telling me about a bully from her school who’d been teasing her, taking her book bag, messing up the stuff inside, and throwing everything on the ground, and scaring her. Finally, when he did it in front of me after she stopped by to walk me home from school one day, I went ballistic and let him have it. Me, a skinny little five-year-old boy, hauls off and punches this sixth-grade badass in the nose?! Naturally, he turned around and punched me twice as hard in my nose, at which point Tragil stopped being afraid of the bully and chased him down the street to get vengeance, but he outran her. The fight would have been broken up by older kids. They may have whispered something later about who some of our family members were. Whatever was said, after that the bully backed down completely.
    Grandma’s point was to let it go. “Can’t fight water under the bridge.” She emphasized that forgiveness wasn’t about weakness. “You gotta move on, learn to forgive,” she explained. “But you never forget.” That was my grandmother’s belief and she repeated it: “Forgive but don’t forget.” Then, looking at me straight in my eyes, she asked, “Understand?”
    I nodded but it took me years to really understand. Still, in the meantime, she had started to teach me what it meant to be tough in a different way.
    Willie Mae Morris was so tough. She could walk down the streets, through the most dangerous parts of the neighborhood, and nobody would mess with her no matter what was going on. There was this aura of pride and dignity that everyone admired, which came along with the fact that she was obviously a godly woman. Grandma commanded a presence and a toughness.
    Nothing intimidated Grandma, not even the police. And nothing scared me more than the police. So whenever they came around, I hid right there on the porch behind Grandma and no harm would ever come to me—because I think the police had a respect for Willie Mae Morris, too. She was like the patron saint of the neighborhood and as long as she was sitting there on the stoop or down in the grass in front of the building, they almost never tried to come in on a bust.
    Of course, almost is not never. After that first raid, there would be others. I was terrified that the next time they would take Mom away and not let her come home.
    The cure for the fear, as far as I could tell from Grandma, was to be on my toes, to use my senses, paying attention to sights, sounds, and smells, learning to read people—anticipating their next moves by little clues. By being watchful, my fear wouldn’t overpower me so much and I could enjoy the entertainment value of all these interesting characters who all passed by 5901 Prairie Avenue.
    Grandma loved to have me watch with her, too. And her laugh was contagious and unforgettable. Her laugh would ring in my head forever—the music of someone holding on to joy as hard as she held on to faith.
    Whenever something positive happened, Grandma would remind me of it often, teaching me to value happier memories. We talked so much about the day I graduated from kindergarten at the Cockrell Child Parent Center that it stands out as a highlight of childhood. The school was for pre-K and kindergarten, before