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“Allen and Allen?”
“Close,” Mom said.
Dad took the phone. “Allen Squared,” he said. “Kind of hip, right?”
“Kind of,” Myron said.
Dad made a face and handed the phone back to Mom—or maybe she just grabbed it back. The video’s constant jerking was making Myron dizzy.
“So anyway,” Mom said, “Dad’s new friend Allen Castner is a huge basketball fan. Truth?” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, which in Mom’s case meant they’d hear her in Fort Lauderdale. “I think this other Allen made friends with your dad because of you. Anyway, your father was being all modest, but the reason I’m calling is Allen really wanted to meet you.”
“Allen the friend,” Dad said with a chuckle. “Not Allen the father.”
“Good one, Al,” Mom said in a voice dripping with sarcasm—something else Myron had inherited from her. “Anyway, here he is.”
She turned the phone’s camera now, so Myron could see his father crowding into the screen with a bald guy who looked to be in his late seventies–early eighties. Both Allens wore big smiles and, like Mom, all-encompassing sunglasses. Big sunglasses seemed to be haute couture amongst the Florida retirees.
Allen Castner said, “So nice to meet you, Myron. I’m a big fan.”
“Nice to meet you too, Mr. Castner.”
“Mr. Castner,” he repeated. “What am I, your father?”
Everyone laughed at that. Myron didn’t get it. Who calls their father Mister?
“Call me Allen. Look, Myron, I don’t want to keep you. You wouldn’t guess it looking at me now, but I was a big player back in the day. I even did some scouting for the Celtics. I was friends with Clip Arnstein.”
Clip Arnstein was the famed basketball general manager who drafted Myron in the first round—one of the few major mistakes in Clip’s long and stellar career.
“Anyway,” Allen Castner continued, “I know it was a long time ago, but you were a great player. I saw every game when you were at Duke. I know your career was cut short, but since when is time the deciding factor in how brightly someone shines? You were a joy to watch. So thank you for that.”
Everyone went silent. Even Myron’s parents. Dad’s eyes started to well up. A song by the Moody Blues played over the pool speaker. Myron could make out the lyrics “Just what I’m going through, they can’t understand.” There were the happy squeals of kids at a pool, someone’s grandchildren probably.
“That’s very kind of you to say, Mr.—”
“Uh-uh.”
“—Allen,” Myron said, correcting himself. Then: “Listen, I have to take this other call.”
“Go, go,” Allen Castner said. “I’ve taken up too much of your time. But really, such an honor to meet you. Here, Ellen, say goodbye to your son.”
He handed the phone back to Mom. She pointed the camera right into the sunlight. “You know I’m having lunch with Hester this week.”
“She told me,” Myron said. “Have a blast.”
“Blast. What, you worried Hester and I are going to find some young guys and run off?”
From off-screen, Myron heard his dad shout, “I wish.”
“Very funny.”
“I’m kidding,” Dad said. “If your mother ran off, I wouldn’t know what I would do… first.”
The two Allens yucked it up at that one.
“It’s like Rodney Dangerfield is still alive. See what I live with, Myron?”
“I got to go, Mom.”
