It's. Nice. Outside.

by Jim Kokoris

  When he was around six, things took a turn for the better when, after years of speech therapy, and years after we had given up hope, he defied all odds and started speaking. Not well and not often, but he eventually managed two- and occasionally three-word sentences, each utterance an achievement. “Leave. Now.” “I. Want. Milk.” Once he could articulate some of his needs, his behavior improved, and the tantrums became less frequent, less pronounced. After years as shut-ins, we could finally take him places: out to eat, shopping, to the pool. At restaurants in particular, he was, for the most part, well behaved, polite to the point of debonair. He would say thank you and please, pretend to study the menu, and hold the door open for other customers. Waitresses, waiters, hostesses, and even cooks took a liking to him, and as a result, we spent an inordinate amount of time and money eating out.

  Other than a terrifying seizure when he was around eight, physically, he emerged fine. Though he was undersized and had teeth that needed but would never see braces, he was healthy and normal in appearance. His cognitive state, however, was a much different story. Doctors used the term developmentally delayed, but we never took to this description, for it conveyed hope, implied a temporary condition. Ethan wasn’t delayed. He was going to be three years old forever. Meanwhile, the rest of us kept getting older.

  His comprehension, we concluded over the years, was a crapshoot. We were never sure what he was understanding. Some abstract things—death, heaven, where the sun goes when it sets, what the moon was—were simply and permanently beyond him. Others—changing weather, time, anger, the concept of family—he seemed to grasp. Every so often, after listening to a conversation, or observing an action or scene, he would surprise us with an appropriate comment or gesture.

  While he had a minimal attention span, adolescence brought some new interests, and additional relief. He began watching basketball on TV, and while he didn’t understand most of what he was seeing—the rules, the score—he understood the overall objective of the game, get the ball in the basket, and as a result enjoyed watching others play.

  Hoops became his thing. Over time, he began to play with me, developing a skill for shooting. His style was unorthodox, he held the ball down low in front of his chest and shot with both hands, but somehow the ball went in. He could shoot for up to an hour, an astounding length of time for him to do any one thing. Afterward he would summarize the game: “How. Many. Me. Make?” (“You made one hundred baskets, Ethan.”) “How. Many. Dad. Make?” (“I made five.”) “Go. Illini!”

  “Yes, go, Illini!”

  Eventually, along with his love of basketball, a basic sense of humor also emerged; he understood and even loved slapstick comedy. Pratfalls and body function references and noises—hence Stinky Bear—were his favorites, so in that one regard, at least, he was a normal male.

  He also loved his family. If we were all together, he would bring us into a circle, make us hold hands, and sing, “Family! Family! Family! U!… S!… Aaaaa!” I have no idea what the origin was, really no clue, but it became a staple of his, and both a source of embarrassment and amusement, depending on the moment or occasion.

  As I drove on, my retrospective inevitably turned into a review of my Overall Plan. Was I doing the right thing? Would he be happy? Exactly how and when was I going to officially fill in Mary? A host of questions, of worries, each one weighing me down.

  Being able to think—this was the downside of Ethan being quiet.

  Somewhere close to Louisville, my thoughts took a turn for the worse. (Note: I don’t know much about depression, I’ve made no effort to research its clinical definition, never been to a therapist, do not take antidepressants, but I suspect that I suffer from a mild form of it from time to time, an Ethan-induced Black Despair. It didn’t stay with me, it was not permanent, but it was there—a hole I occasionally and without warning fell into, impenetrably dark and hopeless. I suddenly felt myself falling into that hole, now falling fast.)

  I switched lanes, opened the window a crack, took deep breaths, and tried to settle myself. Nothing was helping, though, so I slowed then stopped on the shoulder; apparently, I had started to cry.

  I was at the lowest level, the deepest part of the Black Despair, when I heard my phone go off, a faint buzzing, then louder. The outside world, a thin light down the mine shaft. I groped for it on the seat next to me, answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Nichols?”

  I opened my eyes, cleared my throat. I didn’t recognize the voice. “Yeah?”

  “This is Kyle Baker from across the street.”

  “Who?” I stopped with the crying, sniffled some. “Oh, yeah, right. Kyle.”

  “I thought you might be coming today, but I wasn’t sure.”

  I sniffled again, wiped my eyes, checked the rearview mirror, tried to get my bearings: Ethan was sleeping, I was in Kentucky, my name was John Nichols, I was on my way to my daughter’s wedding and things were going to be okay. “Yeah, right, I am. We are. We’re actually about twenty minutes away. I think. We’ll be there soon. I’ll call you when we get there, and maybe we can meet or get an early dinner or something.”

  “I was thinking that maybe we can go to a park, shoot around. It’s supposed to stop raining. I live right near a park. It has a good court.”

  “Hoops. Okay, yeah, hoops, that would be good, great. Yeah, I’ll call when we get closer. Thanks. Thank you. Looking forward to seeing you. Thank you.” I put the phone down, cleared my throat again, and started up the van. Ethan was still sleeping, my name was still John Nichols, and I was on my way to play basketball. Things were going to be okay.

  * * *

  Kyle Baker lived directly across the street from us and used to spend time, quite a bit of time, shooting hoops with Ethan. Their friendship had originally been court mandated. A few years back Kyle had been arrested for plowing into a parked and, fortunately, empty car in downtown Wilton. While drinking was suspected, no official charges were ever filed against him. The local Chicago media had a field day, however; Kyle was Illinois’s “Mr. Basketball”—the state’s best basketball player. A hailstorm of negative press ensued. Consequently, the Wilton police were forced to come up with some form of punishment to quell the mounting controversy. While I was never privy to all the backroom machinations, the court decided that one of his many penances would be community service, and that one of those many services would be to spend time, four hours a week for six months, teaching a special-needs boy from Wilton, Ethan Nichols, how to play basketball.

  After some discussion, Mary and I agreed to this. We were going through our divorce at that time, and both of the girls were out of the house, so any help we could get with Ethan, we took. Besides, we knew Kyle. He had come over a few times before the accident to play with Ethan in the driveway, and we felt he was basically a good kid.

  To our delight, the arrangement worked. Ethan lived for his visits with Kyle (which Mary and I were required to dutifully report to the police) and loved playing basketball with him. Long after his probation had ended, Kyle continued to come around and play with Ethan, teaching him how to shoot, how to dribble. During his senior year, Ethan and I went to all of Kyle’s games, sitting right behind the bench, staying as long as Ethan lasted.

  I hadn’t seen much of Kyle since he left for the University of Louisville and, when we met up with him that night at a park somewhere just off campus, I was surprised to see him sporting a buzz cut. His floppy hair had been a trademark.

  “Hey, Mr. Nichols. Hey, Ethan!” he yelled as we approached. The park’s basketball court was well lit and still glistening from the rain.

  I hadn’t told Ethan we were meeting Kyle—the anticipation would have been too great—so when he saw his old friend, he went predictably crazy.

  “Kyle! Kyle! Kyle!” he screamed. He dropped my hand and ran, stiff-legged, over to him.

  The two met in an awkward embrace under the basket, Kyle patting him on the back and smiling, a little embarrassed.<
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  “Hey, buddy. Want to shoot some hoops?”

  “How. Many. Me. Make?”

  “You’re going to make fifty baskets,” Kyle said.

  “How. Many. You. Make?”

  “I’m going to make ten.” Kyle looked over at me. “Is it okay?”

  “Yes, of course.” I remembered to reach out and shake his hand. “What’s with the hair?”

  He shrugged. “Was getting in the way.”

  “I never knew you had freckles. When did that start? I guess we could never see your face.”

  He shrugged again, smiled. He was a classic-looking all-American kid, right off the streets of Mayberry: blue eyes, blond hair, a major “aw-shucks” dimple-smile thing going. His appearance was deceiving, though; on the court, dude was stone-cold.

  “How’s school going?”

  “Okay.”

  “How’s the team looking?”

  “We’ll be pretty good. Tyrell is coming back, which kind of surprised everyone, and just about everyone else is too. We lost Tommy, though.”

  “Herr? The big guy? Did he get drafted? I don’t remember.”

  Kyle shook his head. “He just signed on with a team in Croatia.”

  “Croatia? I thought he went late second round.”

  “He’ll be okay, he’s still making a lot of money. “

  “Kid could jump. And he was great with those outlet passes. Kevin Love good.” I forgot how much I liked talking basketball with Kyle. Made me feel young. “Well, we watch your games when we can. That Kansas game was tough. Ethan and I watched that one at Rafferty’s. Remember, Ethan? They let us sit at the bar?”

  Ethan had lost interest in our conversation and was picking at his fingernails.

  “You played well in that game.”

  “I missed that free throw.”

  “You made the second one. Tied it.”

  Kyle looked off to the side, across the park. I silently cursed myself for having brought that game up: Louisville had lost in overtime. “We’ll be okay this year,” he said.

  “Well, even though you should have gone to Illinois, we’re all proud of you. You’re the most famous person to come out of Wilton.”

  “I don’t know. I think Mindy is probably the most famous person to come out of Wilton. She’s really funny. That diaper thing.” He turned to Ethan. “But you’re pretty famous too,” he said. “Ready to shoot some hoops? Make it rain?”

  Ethan looked up from his fingers. “Rain!”

  “Do you want to play?” he asked me.

  “What? Oh God, no. I’ll sit down. You guys go ahead.”

  “You sure? I remember you being a shooter, Mr. Nichols.”

  I appreciated the compliment more than I should have, but resisted the opportunity to embarrass myself. “No, thanks. I’m beat.”

  “Some other guys might come too,” Kyle said.

  “More reason for me to sit.”

  I wearily made my over to a nearby bench and collapsed with a thud, exhausted. I couldn’t believe how long the day had been; the pool in Indianapolis was an absolute lifetime ago. I sighed and stretched out my legs. I would have to do it all over again tomorrow.

  “Hoops!” Ethan yelled.

  “Hoops,” I said, but not quite as enthusiastically.

  “Illini!”

  “No, we’re not playing that tonight.”

  “What’s he want to do?” Kyle asked.

  “Nothing, this thing we do, this game. He’ll be fine. You can just shoot with him.”

  I watched Ethan take up a position just inside the free-throw line. Once situated, he immediately began making shots: one became two, two became three, three became four, the ball flying in a high, looping arc.

  “Man, I forgot how good he was at this,” Kyle said, smiling. “He could teach me.”

  Ethan kept this up for a while, showing off, I suspect, while Kyle and I looked on. Finally, after a few misses, he bounced the ball to Kyle and took a seat on the ground, halfway between my bench and the basket.

  “Hoops!” he commanded.

  “Okay, buddy,” Kyle said. “Guess it’s my turn.”

  Sitting there in the warm Kentucky night while Kyle shot, watching the ball sail smooth and pure against the darkening sky, I felt equilibrium returning. Each time Kyle made a basket and each time Ethan cheered, my head began to clear and my spirits rose. I sat back. I had made it this far.

  As Kyle shot, I said a silent prayer of thanks. Like some kind of angel, he had descended, picked me up off the ground, and dusted me off. This was, fortunately, not an uncommon occurrence. Over the years, numerous times, too many times to count, just as I was about to reach my breaking point, just when I thought I couldn’t take another minute, another second, out of nowhere—at the grocery store, at the park, at restaurants—angels, Ethan’s angels, would appear and save us: strangers in stores would stop to talk to Ethan; neighbors took him for a walks. Once a truck driver in a parking lot, someone I had never seen before, or ever again, gave Ethan his baseball cap. Another time, while Ethan was in the midst of a meltdown in a parking lot, a policeman distracted him by letting him sit in a squad car. These acts, simple and impulsive, kept me going, reaffirmed my belief in God, in a universe that could, at least at times, mean well. I stretched out my legs farther, exhaled. We had a long way to go; I hoped there were a lot of angels still out there.

  About a half hour later three other players arrived, emerging one by one from the shadows that ringed the lighted court. Two of them, giants, wore easy smiles, but the third and shortest, was expressionless. I immediately recognized him as Tyrell Dee. Big. Time. Player. I sat up.

  “Ethan, move over here,” I said. “Get closer.”

  “He’s okay!” Kyle yelled.

  The two Bigs gave Ethan hesitant smiles then nodded hello in my direction before taking their first shots. Tyrell took no interest, however. He stood sullenly near the basket, head down, texting with one hand. All the boys were wearing oversize shorts that hung low, but Tyrell’s shorts were outrageous, a comedy, hovering just inches above his ankles. He wasn’t as tall as Kyle—I put him at six-two—but in his sleeveless white T-shirt, I could see the coiled power in his arms and chest. The kid was ripped.

  I was apprehensive at first and a little embarrassed; I hoped Kyle hadn’t asked his teammates to come on our behalf. But after a few minutes I began to relax and enjoy the show. Other than Tyrell Dee, the players clearly didn’t mind being there.

  Ethan scooted over by me, and we both watched on in silence, bordering on awe as the players shot away.

  “Dunk!” Ethan yelled.

  “Ethan, shhh!” I said.

  Kyle heard Ethan and obliged, dunking the ball with both hands, his mouth wide open with effort. This was followed immediately by another slam, by one of the Bigs. Within seconds a full-fledged dunking contest was under way, the iron backboard shaking as if it were in a hurricane. I sat speechless, not sure, once again, if the players were putting on a show just for Ethan, or if this was some off-season nightly ritual. Regardless, Ethan was more than appreciative, answering each dunk with applause and an exclamation. “Dunk!” he cried.

  Soon a small but growing crowd of people, mostly students, began to form on corners of the court: We were in Louisville and this was the UofL basketball team after all. I suspected they drew a crowd wherever they went.

  Tyrell Dee remained off to the side, absorbed with his phone, but Kyle and the two Bigs continued to bang away while people took pictures and ooohed and ahhed. After one particularly loud, rim-rattling dunk, Ethan jumped up and screamed at the absolute top of his lungs, “Wow! Wow! Wow!”

  This last exclamation caught Tyrell’s attention. He finally looked up from his phone and took Ethan in, his face still blank.

  “Give me the ball, man,” he said to Kyle. He dropped his phone on the grass by the side of the court, hitched up his shorts, and bounced the ball a couple of times, before taking full flight. Whirling a semicircle in t
he air, he slammed it down spectacularly with one hand. Then he pointed at Ethan.

  “Wow!” Ethan quietly said. He was stunned and maybe a little scared by the spectacle.

  “Wow,” I agreed.

  Tyrell Dee walked over to Ethan and slapped him five. “See, that’s how it done,” he said. “Don’t pay no attention to these others, don’t be wowing them. They all be playin’ in Croatia next year, man. Their mommas gonna have to get some kind of super international dish, see their games two in the morning. They say, ‘Oh, look, there’s DeMarcus! He just scored for Team Croatia, I so proud!”

  He said this last sentence in a falsetto voice, and even though DeMarcus was a seven-foot-tall, four-hundred-pound beast, I couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Yeah, where you be playing next year, TD?” Kyle asked

  Tyrell sauntered back onto the court. “You know where I be, Sweet LA. Who you think I just be talking to? Kobe, just beggin’ my ass to come out there, resurrect the situation.”

  “You be playin’ for DC,” DeMarcus said.

  “Ain’t playing for no DC. I ain’t no Wizard, man, tell you that right now. LA gonna trade for me. Hey, yo, watch this, man!” He pointed to Ethan, then threw a ball against the backboard, caught the rebound in midair with one hand, and slammed it home. More ooohs and aaahs from the crowd, more phone cameras flashing.

  “Wow!” Ethan yelled.

  “Wow is right. I am wow.” Tyrell walked back over to us. He wasn’t even breathing hard. “Yo, Baker, what’s his name, man?”

  “Ethan,” Kyle said.

  “Ethan, you know talent. What you hangin’ out with Baker for? He probably be playin’ in Iceland next year. Or be a hockey player. Go play for the Canucks somewhere, man. Be a Ca-nuck.” Again he slapped a beaming Ethan five and looked at me.

  “All right I give him a ball?”

  I was speechless over the offer. “Yes. But you don’t have to.”

  “’S all right. Gotta support my fan base. DeMarcus, give me a ball. Over here, man, come on. Give me a good one. That one right there. No, that one, yeah. The one in your hands, man. You holdin’ it. Come on. Over here.”