Later that winter, he got bumped up to the A team, and in the other league they made him point guard. I can’t claim any credit. It was his work, not mine. My wife got him an indoor hoop for his birthday and a “silent” basketball made of foam rubber. Night after night he and his brother would shoot hoops in the loft that serves as their playroom. Seated on the couch below, my wife and I would listen to them talk trash above, both boys lost in a fantasy, each taking turns pretending to be their favorite players: Brunson, Hart, Bridges, KAT, Anunoby. My eldest has handles, as he calls them, and the youngest flashes three fingers in front of his face — just like Brunson — anytime he hits a shot (this usually involves a disgusting amount of traveling that gets him directly below the basket). This past April, during their school break, we went to Boston for a few days. We hit Fenway, the New England Aquarium, Faneuil Hall, the Museum of Science and, of course, the TD Garden to catch a Celtics game. I took photos of the boys, made them smile in front of the court. I thought of my father. I heard him say in my ear, “That’s the Boston Garden, vhere the Celtics play.” I was startled by the memory. The boys, however, were thoroughly unimpressed by it all, the youngest even booed, and despite my offer to buy them each a Tatum jersey (the one Celtics player they’ll cop to liking), they both refused.