He wanted to know what it was like to be the man whose son may very well fulfill the dream he never quite could.
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The sunlight had to sift through the summer morning haze and slip in the gym’s side entrance before it could spill onto the wood court, which was empty save for a scrawny boy, no older than 12, maybe 13, dribbling toward the hoop, per the instructions of the steely middle-aged man keeping watch a few feet away. No, like this, the man, who I presumed to be the boy’s father, gestured impatiently. He was wearing a light blue button down shirt tucked into crisp black pants, and his hair shone with product.

It was about an hour before the start of the Justin Tatum Basketball Camp at Christian Brothers College High School in Saint Louis, Missouri, and before long a few more campers of elementary and middle school age took the court. The slick father in the fine clothes began dominating the hoop closest to me: he picked up a ball and dribbled it hard between his legs a few times. He maintained a blank expression, much like a camper masking his eagerness and insecurity with indifference and effortlessness. As he jogged into a layup, he short-armed his shot so his dress shirt would stay tucked in his pants.

More kids entered the gym accompanied by what appeared to be anxious mothers, dressed either in pantsuits or yoga tights. A ball rolled over to the slick father. He picked it up and whipped a behind-the-back-pass to a younger camper. A few minutes later, a ball bounced in my direction along the baseline under the hoop. I scooped the ball up, pounded it twice into the wood court, eager to play, and flicked it underhand—a bit too hard I immediately realized—to a camper, who stumbled back a half-step as he caught it.

Perhaps the only person in the increasingly loud and crowded gym not antsy to pick up a ball, dribble it a few times or take a shot, just one, just to see if he still had it, was the camp’s director, Justin Tatum. Instead, broad, 6-foot-7-inch Tatum hunched over a folding table near the double doors leading into the gym, verifying camper registration forms and shaking hands with parents. When he stood, which he did slowly while bracing one hand on the table and another on one of his surgically-repaired knees, he towered over everyone in the gym.

Tatum is a prominent figure in Saint Louis basketball circles. He is currently the head coach of Christian Brothers College High School (CBC), a private school nestled in the outskirts of the city and surrounded by neighborhoods with manicured green lawns, built-in sprinkler systems and red brick houses with white painted trim. In 2014, his first season as CBC head boy’s basketball coach, Tatum led his team to the state championship. It was CBC’s first championship since 1997, when Tatum had played for the school as an explosive force under the basket. Back then, Tatum told me, his motto was “dunk everything.”

Before I ever learned about Justin Tatum, I heard about his 17-year-old son, Jayson, who plays for crosstown rival Chaminade College Preparatory School and is the No. 2 ranked rising high school senior in the nation, according to ESPN. Jayson is 6-feet-8 inches tall and weighs 190 pounds. He shoots and handles the ball with ease, which is rare for a player so young and so tall. He has scholarship offers from some of the top college basketball programs in the country, including Kentucky, Kansas, North Carolina and Duke.

For about an hour I watched YouTube clips of Jayson dominating summer tournaments across the country, leading fast breaks with his deer-like strides and finishing at the hoop with his spidery limbs. When I was Jayson’s age, I spent my summers and weekends playing in camps and tournaments, drawn to the game because of the possibilities it presented for me to be someone other than who I was on a daily basis—confident rather than cowardly, smooth rather than awkward. But these transformative experiences were scarce and fleeting, and the game never came easy to me, the way it seems easy for Jayson in his highlights.

I think that’s why I soon found myself drawn to the story of his father, whose name I’d come across scouring the internet for scouting reports on Jayson. When Justin Tatum was in high school, he seemed fated to play in the NBA, only to have that destiny derailed in college. Part of me identified with Tatum. While I was never remotely close to the player Tatum was, I managed to channel my childhood love of the game into an unremarkable Division III basketball career, where I had hopes of becoming a productive and necessary member of my team. I never managed to overcome my inconsistency on the court, and my four years of largely riding the bench continue to haunt me whenever I play or watch basketball. I could only imagine what it must have been like to be on the cusp of the NBA and then see the opportunity gradually slip away.

I reached out to Tatum on a few occasions over the summer. At first he was elusive. When he finally returned one of my calls, he confessed he hadn’t responded because he thought my inquiries were part of a scam. But when he heard my voice and learned that my curiosity was real, he agreed to meet.

I wanted to know what it was like to be the man whose son may very well fulfill the dream he never quite could. And I wanted to know how Tatum coped with his failure, if only so that I could learn something about how to cope with my own.


Though Saint Louis is rarely mentioned alongside other basketball meccas like New York or Oakland or Seattle, it has produced its share of NBA-caliber players, from JoJo White, a two-time champion with the Boston Celtics, to current NBA veterans like Bradley Beal (Washington Wizards), David Lee (Golden State Warriors) and Ben McLemore (Sacramento Kings). If there was a peak for Saint Louis talent, it was arguably in the mid-’90s, when Tatum and his best friend and teammate Larry Hughes—possibly the best player to ever come out of Saint Louis—were coming up through school.

Growing up, Tatum lived with his mother and sister, first in North Saint Louis and then in Jennings, in Saint Louis County. He started playing basketball in middle school. Like his son, he traveled the country for tournaments, hoping to gain exposure and attract scholarship offers from Division I head coaches.

In the summer of 1996, after his junior year of high school, Tatum’s summer team won the AAU National Championship, while playing against future NBA players like Elton Brand (Atlanta Hawks) and Ron Artest (formerly of the Los Angeles Lakers, and many others). In the process, Tatum received more than 3,000 letters of recruitment from college programs seeking his raw athleticism and relentless play, according to the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. That summer and the ensuing school year, the sports pages of the Post-Dispatch were littered with headlines revering Tatum and his fellow classmates: “Maturity vs. millions; Area prep stars focus on college, acknowledge lure of NBA Money,” “With six area prep players headed to major college programs, St. Louis is a hoops hotbed. Group puts city on recruiters’ map, sticks around to enjoy the fun.”

Before his senior season at CBC, Tatum committed to Saint Louis University (SLU), spurning offers from basketball powers with celebrated head coaches like Eddie Sutton at Oklahoma State and Bob Huggins at Cincinnati. Tatum’s highly touted teammate Larry Hughes followed his lead shortly thereafter. Together they were supposed to lead SLU on a deep run into the NCAA Tournament and punch their tickets to the NBA.

Tatum and Hughes would go on to win a state championship, and at the end of the season were named to Saint Louis’s All-Metro team, one that the Post-Dispatch proposed “may be the best Saint Louis has produced.” But before Tatum could start his freshman year at SLU, he was ruled ineligible to play basketball by the NCAA. After failing to achieve a passing score on the ACT in high school, Tatum was diagnosed with testing anxiety. He later took the test un-timed and passed, but the NCAA would not accept the scores. And though the case went to court, Tatum lost: he was not allowed to practice with the team and ultimately had to sit out from playing basketball three full semesters. While Tatum was away from the team, Hughes fulfilled the goals that he and his best friend should have accomplished together, leading SLU to the second round of the NCAA tournament and being selected with the 8th overall pick in the NBA draft that June.

“I felt I lost a lot within that year-and-a-half because coming out of high school I was in nice shape, ready to go,” Tatum told me in his deep, gravelly voice, shortly after his camp began and he’d lumbered off to the side where I was standing. “That next year, I gained extra weight and wasn’t as into it as I would have been.”

Tatum once told the Post-Dispatch of his year off, “When basketball wasn't in my life, it was like my best friend had left and I didn't know when he would come back.”

When finally reinstated, Tatum saw himself bounced in and out of SLU’s starting lineup. Dating back to high school, he clashed with coaches, which led to him being kicked out of practice and suspended from games. In college he continued to challenge authority. “Sometimes it was me being inconsistent in practice as well, me sitting out a year and a half, me still having a vendetta over the NCAA… And then I was inconsistent with coaches as well, so I mean I wasn’t always the most well-coached player,” Tatum freely admitted, as though he’d had this conversation in his head so many times before that the responses no longer registered an emotional toll.

Tatum compiled a solid, but not stellar career at SLU, earning a spot on the conference’s All-Defensive First Team and making one trip to the NCAA Tournament. After his fourth year, he tore the patellar tendon in his knee. Tatum finished his collegiate career unceremoniously, playing a semester at McKendree University in Lebanon, Illinois. He regained enough strength in his knee to play professionally in the Netherlands for two-and-a-half years, but by then he was in his mid-20s, and having undergone several knee surgeries, his shot at the NBA was long gone.

That first morning of his camp, Tatum answered all of my questions about his playing career dutifully, but not enthusiastically. He spent most of the time sitting hunched forward in his chair, speaking in a near-monotone. He smiled occasionally, I think to be polite, but I suspected he was secretly counting the minutes until the interview would be over.

Tatum agreed to meet with me again on the second day of camp. Before we parted I asked if he had any old game tape lying around that I could watch to get a sense of how he once played. He said he’d look for it. Then I asked if we could shoot a few hoops together one day after camp. He agreed to this request as well, but he didn’t sound too keen to get on the court.


I arrived at CBC the following day around 10:00 a.m., where Tatum was standing in the middle of the court.

“Get in line! Get in line!” he bellowed, directing the campers to four lines under different hoops in the gym. Each camper was then supposed to dribble to the opposite hoop and shoot a layup while jumping off two feet (to generate more power and control as they went up to the basket).

“Do you jump off one foot?” Tatum asked the campers.

“No,” they replied in unison.

“Do you jump off one foot?” he repeated.

“Nooooo,” they responded in a louder chorus.

The pre-adolescent campers began the drill, dribbling balls as big as their torsos, scrambling in and out of line and just barely avoiding collisions with each other.

“Let’s go, let’s go,” Tatum urged, demanding order among chaos like a drill sergeant commanding fresh recruits. He pulled aside a few kids who failed to grasp the drill’s nuances.

“Did I say one or two feet?” Tatum asked rhetorically. “I know I said two feet. I know I said it.”

Tatum is an intimidating coach. He spoke to these elementary school children with the forcefulness I imagined he used on his varsity players. He once recalled a time when he singled out his star player from a previous season, Jordan Barnett, who now plays for the University of Texas. Early in the season, Tatum’s team was playing against a prep school whose older, stronger players were bullying Barnett. Barnett apparently didn’t shoot once in the first half. The next practice, when the team had film session, Tatum directed all of his ire toward his star.

“For two hours I didn’t talk about another kid but him,” Tatum told me. “And the players were like, ‘Coach, are we going to practice?’ and I was like, ‘No, I’m going to finish up on Barnett because I never want to see a kid do this again with this much potential.” The tactic must have worked. In the state championship Barnett scored 43 points and grabbed 20 rebounds. Tatum is unapologetic about his coaching style and he doesn’t seem to worry if parents or onlookers think he is abrasive or too hard on his players. I don’t know how I would have fared under his tutelage. He told me that what drove him as a player was the threat of being embarrassed. What motivated Tatum debilitated me. Still, while we spoke I felt this urge to impress him. I wanted him to think highly of me, perhaps because he seemed so sparing with his approval of his players that to receive any crumb of praise was something to be savored.

Not long after returning from playing overseas, Tatum accepted his first full-time coaching job at Soldan International Studies High School, a magnet school in a low-income neighborhood of Saint Louis. Tatum took over a program in shambles and a team of players who had been abandoned. “They didn’t have anybody to care for them or . . . anything,” Tatum said. Tatum’s sister, Kristen, told me that when her brother first started coaching “he had a short temper,” and yet, “even when it seemed like he did have a temper as a coach, people naturally . . . just love him and just gravitate towards him.” Kristen noted how there was something almost paradoxical about the admiration Tatum garners from players and parents. When his players got in trouble in school, teachers and administrators wouldn’t call their parents, they’d call Tatum.

Kristen once hired a former player of Tatum’s. She asked him to explain her brother’s draw. “At the end of the day, you know, Justin was like a father figure for me that I didn’t have,” the former player told Kristen. “I know he loved me and I know that . . . he wanted the best for me.”


Tatum delegated responsibility for the next drill to one of his counselors and then greeted me on the sideline. We sat in folding chairs at mid-court so that he could oversee the camp as we spoke. Not once during breaks between drills had Tatum taken a shot or playfully dribbled a ball, and when I again broached the idea of our playing together, he offered a vague assurance that we would, but was reluctant to commit to a specific day or time.

Hoping to pique Tatum’s interest, I tried changing the subject to his coaching, and we batted around the typical questions of a player-turned-coach: How does your playing career influence your coaching philosophy? (“First of all, the kids respect what I’ve done as a player, and I can never take that away.”); How do you adjust your coaching style to meet the needs of different players? (“I know who I can push and whose skin I can get under and I know how they’ll respond.”). I’d underestimated just how much Tatum must have been asked questions about his playing and coaching in the past, and I’d incorrectly assumed that because I found these aspects of his life to be interesting, he would, too.

Finally, I asked him what he wanted to talk about. He told me no one had ever asked him what it was like to grow up without a father. This was a piece of his background I’d tried to tread over lightly in our initial meeting, in part to respect his privacy, and in part because, selfishly, I wanted to avoid being sentimental and cliché: the story of a young black man raised in a single-parent household is an all-too-familiar one in the world of sports. But now we were in it, so how was it?

“It was okay,” Tatum said, speaking more softly now. He leaned forward, as though he was trying to duck below the shallow back of his chair and out of sight. “My mom did exceptionally well, she did everything right . . . she kept me active . . . she could have never put me in anything and I don’t know how I would have turned out.”

Kristen told me that, growing up, her brother “used to get in trouble all of the time, test the waters.” Tatum confirms this. He stole his mom’s car (and in doing so taught himself how to drive), and he threw parties at his mom’s house when she was out of town. His desire for guidance and attention exposed itself in displays of obnoxious behavior on the court as well.

“Originally, when we first watched him, we weren’t a big fan of his,” former CBC head coach and SLU assistant Derek Thomas, who had first seen Tatum play as an eighth grader, told me over the phone, “because he was kind of brash and cocky.” But Thomas noted that eventually he and his staff “enjoyed working with” Tatum, and Tatum cited Thomas as a primary reason for why he committed to SLU. “He looked after me like I was one of his own,” Tatum told the Post-Dispatch at the time of his commitment.

For his freshman year of high school Tatum attended basketball powerhouse Cardinal Ritter College Prep High School, but he struggled to stay focused on both school and basketball. Cardinal Ritter was co-ed, and Tatum’s mother, Rosemary Johnson, a former Master Sergeant in the U.S. Army and high school principal with a frank, unguarded demeanor, told me that the challenge of “balanc[ing] books and girls, that was a little too much for him.” Tatum’s grades became so poor that he was suspended from the basketball team for the second half of his freshmen year. At the time, he was called into his coach’s office and his coach, Tatum recalls, gave him a “quick punch to the chest” to express his disgust.

“That was the first time that a male figure had ever put his hands on me . . . I felt his frustration through the punishment,” Tatum said. “I felt the frustration through me of what I needed to do better and that’s when it kind of clicked that if a guy is willing to go overboard and do this for you, you’ve got to go overboard and do some stuff for yourself.”

The defining moment in Tatum’ fatherless upbringing didn’t come until he became a father himself. Jayson was born when Tatum was 19 and still a student at SLU. From the moment Jayson began to walk, Tatum gave him a ball and brought him to every SLU game so Jayson could be exposed to as much basketball as possible.

“With Jayson . . . all I knew was basketball,” Tatum told me. “I didn’t know how to be a dad.”

Tatum had his son working out in the gym long before he hit puberty. This training was a response to the basketball development Tatum had lacked growing up, and perhaps what he’d envisioned his father might have done had he stuck around: Tatum didn’t start playing basketball until he was in middle school, and by the time he reached college he realized his shooting and ball handling skills were significantly underdeveloped for a player with NBA aspirations. He’d tried to refine these skills in college, but he said, “It was too late for that. So I was like, well, I’m going to teach my son how to handle the ball.”

“He wanted him to do the things he didn’t do,” Tatum’s mother, Rosemary, told me. “I used to tell him, ‘You’re too hard on him. You need to ease up, ease up.’ . . . He was very, very hard on Jayson, but it seems like it’s paid off a lot.” Tatum conceded that there were times when he lost perspective.

“Our relationship has always been great, but once he started playing at a competitive level I was extremely tough on him because I wanted him—like I said I was still a player/coach, I didn’t know—I wanted him to have a mentality that I had,” Tatum said. “It didn’t trigger in my mind that this kid’s only 5 or 6, he can’t get it when it was something I had at 14, 15. So it took me a while to understand that.”

As Tatum described his early relationship with his son, scenes of Spike Lee’s He Got Game came to my mind—Denzel Washington pushing his son through early morning workouts and pleading with him to fulfill his potential. Me, you and Michael Jordan, that’s the only people up! Washington preaches during a training montage in the film. Everybody in the world is asleep! What do you think Jordan is doing right now? He’s working out! He’s lifting weights right now!

Now Tatum takes pride in his son being everything as a player that he was not.

“I learned little bits of things from each one of [my past coaches] because I know I did things that they didn’t like, I said things . . . I wasn’t a perfect player,” Tatum said. “I’m actually helping my son be that role model of, like, the perfect type of player that a coach would like.” When college recruiters come looking for this perfect player, Tatum is protective of his son. He’s on the lookout for coaches who are overly adulatory or sound like they want to use his son to advance their own career. “Do you have my son’s best interests [in mind], or is this all you want him to do?” Tatum asks coaches. “Do you want to get a chance to know who he is or the things that he likes to do outside of basketball or is this all you care about? . . . Or what if he’s homesick at 11 p.m. and just wants to talk to a coach about something or his girlfriend broke up with him and I’m asleep and he wants to talk? I need to know that he’s well-off there.”

It was becoming clear that despite wanting to talk about his upbringing, Tatum was unable to elaborate on exactly what it was like to grow up without a father. He could only describe what was absent at that time in his life by explaining what he wants to give his son. “Being in his life and talking to him every day,” Tatum told me. “I said, ‘There’s not going to be a day that I don’t talk to you or send you a text or let you know that I’m always here. We’re going to just do things.’ I’ve never had that.”


I didn’t get to meet Jayson because he had been traveling all summer for AAU tournaments and had just flown to Dubai to play for the U.S. national team in the U17 World Championships. But Tatum told me I could see his son the following week in New York. Jayson would be getting on yet another plane to showcase his skills, this time for the Under Armour Elite 24, an all-star game featuring twenty-four of the nation’s best high school players.

A week passed. The game was held in Brooklyn Bridge Park. Under Armour had erected a gleaming outdoor court on Pier 2, which offered a majestic view of downtown Manhattan across the East River. In the distance I could see the Statue of Liberty.

Admission was free. I’d brought along my fourteen-year-old cousin because he, too, was a basketball junkie and I’d told him there was a pretty good chance some of the kids we were going to see would end up playing in the NBA. We picked up two promotional packets and then found a seat in one of the nearly full bleachers along the baseline. The VIP’s—mostly former college greats and corporate types with connections to Under Armour—milled around in a roped-off section on a red carpet along the water, or sat in folding chairs near the court where a waitress wearing black tights and boots would bring them hot dogs and nachos on a shiny tray.

My cousin thumbed through the media guide.

“He’s a year older than me!” my cousin gasped, pointing at a photo and looking back at me, his mouth agape.

Jay-Z and Notorious B.I.G spewed out of the speakers, and a large crane with a mounted camera stretched high above the court to capture the game for ESPN. The players emerged wearing camouflage uniforms and brand new shoes provided by Under Armour.

Jayson’s team warmed-up at the hoop closest to us, and I got my first good look at him as a player. During warm-ups, many of the players seemed intent on showing off, bouncing the ball to themselves high in the air and throwing down dunks between their legs and off the backboard. But Jayson, adopting a workmanlike approach, preferred to practice his three-point shot, releasing the ball in a smooth, effortless motion high above his head.

Jayson appeared timid when the game began. He turned the ball over amid pressure, which led to a steal and an alley-oop off the backboard for the other team. Eventually, he established a rhythm, hitting a baseline fadeaway jumper that seemed to settle his nerves. In one sequence he knocked down a soft jumper, stole the ball, then assisted another teammate for a basket on a long outlet pass down the court. Jayson played the game like someone who had been coached his whole life.

As I watched all of the players, I envied their overwhelming athleticism and how easily they moved. Their explosive, contorted drives to the hoop made me wince as I thought about my tight hamstrings and back. And maybe I was projecting, but based on the intent look of the older fans sitting nearby, I got the sense that most of us in attendance were watching the game with some level of yearning, wondering what we might do if we had those gifts.

Earlier that day I’d stretched in the hallway outside my apartment, trying to loosen up my hip flexors and hamstrings so I could play basketball with my cousin in the afternoon. I picked him up from the train, and we went to the Nike store in Midtown where he excitedly bought a new pair of basketball shoes. As we walked, my cousin, who was about to start his freshman year of high school, told me about his upcoming tryouts for the basketball team. He asked me questions about my own high school career, as if using my development as a barometer for himself.

“When did you first dunk?” he asked.

“The summer after 8th grade,” I told him.

“Oh,” he sighed.

When we arrived at the gym, I immediately became more concerned about myself than him. I laced up my shoes quickly and began warming up, making sure my jumper felt smooth and my body was loose, while my cousin put on his new shoes alone along the baseline. After taking a few practice shots together, we joined a pickup game with some graduate students.

We spent the afternoon running the floor in sloppy pickup games. In our last game of the day the opposing team began to pull ahead. Rather than feed the ball to my cousin to build up his confidence, I cared only about winning. And I concluded, arrogantly, that our best chance to win was for me to try to score all of our points. In the midst of my hero-act, I dribbled down the court, split two defenders and took off with the ball just inside the free throw line. While in the air I double-clutched as my body bumped into a defender who had jumped with me, and then, still hanging, I extended the ball back up above my head as my defender fell to the ground. When I released the ball, it bounced softly off the glass and into the hoop. I heard a gasp from the other players on the court and a loud, “OHHHH!” from my cousin.

After the game, which we lost, my cousin and I hopped the train down to Brooklyn. We talked, but my mind was elsewhere; I spent most of the ride thinking about that final move and the sound of that gasp. I’ve still got it, I thought.


Tatum never once expressed to me this same longing to prove himself on the court. He never gave me his old game tapes and, despite my requests to play together, he never followed through.

“I’m done, I’m fine with that,” Tatum once told me of the “what-if’s” that used to linger in his mind. “I’m just like, now I need to wonder what if I need to help one of these kids . . . Like I said, I’m at a peaceful place right now.” Perhaps Tatum feels a responsibility to his son and his players to get over himself. Or maybe he avoids playing the game to keep his mind from wandering back into that “what-if” territory. It only takes one good game, one silky jump shot.

During his time away from the basketball team at SLU, Tatum played pick-up games at a local park alongside washed-up high school and college players who had missed their shot at playing in the NBA and overseas.

“I thought about that whenever I was there,” Tatum told the Post-Dispatch shortly after he was reinstated to SLU in January of his sophomore year. “I could have given up. I could have been one of them. I told myself that I was not going to be in the gym every Tuesday and Thursday, paying to play basketball there instead of getting paid to play.”

At times I wondered if, earlier in his life, Tatum’s investment in his son’s career may have stemmed from his own desire to relive his life goals.

But now I didn’t get that sense. “He’s very gifted man, very gifted,” Tatum once said of his son; he offered the compliment free of the qualifiers or pauses signifying the pain such an admission might arouse in someone bitter of his own past. Kristen told me, “He actually enjoys watching his son play.”

The more I thought about Tatum, the more ashamed I felt about that day playing with my cousin. While the relationship between fathers and sons is undoubtedly different than between cousins, I couldn’t help but draw comparisons. My cousin and I have long bonded over our shared love of the game and, like Tatum, I have an opportunity to influence him because I played. That day my cousin was looking for me to be unconditionally invested in his success, much as my parents, who never played basketball, were with me. But in that moment I was too caught up in myself. While Tatum is now able to spend eight hours inside a gym and not take a single shot, every time I walk into a gym I still have something to prove.

I’d gone looking for a story about someone like me, a man haunted by his failure. Instead, I came across one who was moving past it.

Near the end of the game, I caught sight of Tatum on the opposite end of the court. He appeared controlled and content, supporting his son without bearing down on him. Tatum didn’t react strongly—either negatively or positively—to his son’s play; when Jayson turned the ball over I didn’t see Tatum stomp the ground, and later, when Jayson dunked, I didn’t see an overjoyed Tatum throw his popcorn in the air. If all goes according to plan, Jayson will continue to play in front of crowds like this one, guarded by VIP sections and flashing bulbs, at once visible and untouchable to the world.

My cousin, though, noticed something that I had missed. Tatum was pacing, first peeking over the sea of promoters and business types from behind the team bench, and then finding a spot along the far baseline to sit briefly in front of the deep row of fans. My cousin said he could tell Tatum “really wanted to see his son play” because it looked like he was constantly trying to find a “better view of the game.” I wrote this in my notebook.

“No,” my cousin corrected, “write that he’s trying to find the best view.”

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