**Six days later** and 40 degrees of temperature higher, I’m in Cunningham’s hometown of Arlington, Texas. Specifically, I’m at Bowie High School, where he played for the Volunteers from 2016 to 2018 (before decamping for the prestigious Montverde Academy in Florida, essentially a Hogwarts for athletes). They’re retiring his jersey, making Cunningham the first basketball player in school history to receive that honor. As guests, school faculty, and Cunningham’s loved ones file in for the ceremony, the jersey placard hangs way up in the rafters, hidden by a sheet. People wear Cunningham jerseys of every color, including a few toddlers swaddled in them, roughly eight sizes too big. What appears to be the entire Pistons roster and coaching staff are in attendance as well, a stirring display of team-wide support on their off day. The energy in the room borders on the feeling when a major politician is about to enter. Finally, Cunningham strides in holding hands with his seven-year-old daughter, Riley. Immediately, chants of “M-V-P” break out from the frenzied student section.
Soon, the speeches begin. Dr. Jennifer Collins, the deputy superintendent for Arlington Independent School District, kicks things off by gushing about Cunningham’s being proof that greatness can grow right here in these blue and orange hallways. Doris Morehead Jones—introduced to me as Mama Morehead, the matriarch of South Arlington, and also Cunningham’s favorite teacher—goes next. She airs him out for being late to her English class every single day, but also thanks him for never talking back. She starts tearing up when reminiscing on Cunningham’s journey from boy to man; she laughs when recalling a past bet to buy him lunch for every high school triple-double, despite not knowing what a triple- double was. Now that Cunningham regularly stacks triple-doubles in the NBA, and signed a contract that guarantees him $269 million until 2030, I later ask her if _he_ has ever bought her lunch. Her response tells me that the NBA’s busy schedule hasn’t allowed for that yet, but she sure would like it to. “You know what?” she says, cackling. “Can you write that?”
After Cunningham addresses the crowd, it’s time to finally unveil the No. 2 jersey that will hang in this gym in perpetuity. Riley gets to do the honors, pulling the string that reveals it to everyone. The school band plays the Bowie fight song, its lyrics urging an onward fight for fame and glory. Before leaving, Cunningham takes photos with anyone who asks, including the current members of the boys’ basketball team, who collectively lose their minds. On my way out, I overhear a kid telling his friend that he’s going to the league one day too: “You’ll be at _my_ ceremony.”
**The night after** Cunningham gets immortalized in his hometown, he plays a game against his favorite boyhood team, the Dallas Mavericks. I’m in the Cunningham family suite along with his mother, Carrie, older brother Cannen, Cade’s maternal grandparents, and cousins from both sides of the family. Grandpa cheers every Pistons’ basket, his pumping fist narrowly avoiding discarded Michelob bottles. Riley runs around with Cade’s cousins’ children, one of them occasionally looking up from their play to check on the score and announce it to the others. It’s a funny dynamic, the All-Star who is barely past being a kid himself, now serving as the entertainment for a group of kids that includes his own daughter.