I wasn’t planning to stop. I was halfway through a long ride—the kind you take when you’re trying to outrun something heavy in your own head—when I caught sight of a little boy on the sidewalk. He was shooting a beat-up basketball into a rusted trash can, tears streaking down his face like his whole world had fallen apart.
That’s what made me pull my Harley over.
He couldn’t have been more than seven. Skinny kid, drowning in a Lakers jersey that could’ve doubled as a blanket. No shoes. Just socks on cold concrete. But he kept shooting that ball with a determination that didn’t belong on a child’s face.
“Hey, buddy,” I called out. “You doing alright?”
He turned. Most kids take one look at a big biker and run. Instead, this child walked straight up to me like he’d been waiting for someone—anyone—to notice him.
“My daddy said he’d buy me a real basketball hoop if I made a hundred shots in a row,” he said, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “I finally did it yesterday.”
“That’s pretty impressive,” I told him. “So why the tears?”
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