The thing about Slim was, he had no shot.  Not that it mattered, really.  Slim was such a good ballplayer, he almost didn’t need one.  He could dribble through rush hour traffic with his eyes closed, and thread the needle with a pass while he was counting change.  And talk.  Slim could talk.  Slim could’ve shown up at courtside in a wheelchair and talked his way into a game, I’m sure of it.  He had this way of putting you at ease, a patter that snuck up on you and drew you in.  When Slim was talking to you, you felt special.  Like you were part of a private conspiracy that only you and him knew about.  The two of you against the world.

How else could you explain him hanging around at all?  Varmont was an exclusive private school on the Upper East Side, all limestone and green ivy.  Which just about says it all about the place: white and rich.  And even though the playground we used was a public facility, Varmont had exclusive access to it during school hours by special arrangement with the City.  So if anyone had complained about Slim, he would’ve been gone.  If it seems farfetched that someone might have complained, consider this: until Slim started coming by, I was the closest thing to a streetkid they had there.

I was a scholarship baby from Brooklyn, easily the toughest kid in the school. . .