Yo, get this, Brad said to his friend with the phone. This is gold. They walked over. Brad kicked the canvas bag. Gloves and hand wraps spilled across the ground. What is this? A homeless gym? Brad said. His friends laughed. The phone was already recording. Byron didn't look up. He put his hand on Caleb's shoulder. Pick up your gloves, son. Hey, I'm talking to you. Brad stepped between them. You got a permit for this? You can't just set up camp in a public park.
Byron looked at Brad with his one good eye, calm and measured. The way a man looks at something he's seen a hundred times before. We're just training, Byron said quietly. Training? Brad grinned at the camera. Training for what? The retirement home Olympics? More laughter followed. Caleb's hands were shaking, not from the cold. Byron picked up the canvas bag, packed the gloves, and took Caleb's hand. Come on, he said. We'll come back tomorrow. They walked away. Brad's laughter followed them all the way to the sidewalk.
Byron came back the next morning. So did Brad. This time, Brad brought a water bottle, not to drink. He waited until Byron was showing Caleb how to pivot on the back foot, then walked up behind him and poured the entire bottle over Byron's head. Water ran down Byron's face, dripped off his chin, and soaked through his collar. His dark glasses fogged up. He stood still. Brad's friend screamed with laughter. Two phones were out. One of them yelled, Baptized him! You're still here? Brad said. I thought I told you to crawl home.
Byron wiped his face with his sleeve, took off his glasses, cleaned them on his shirt, and put them back on. Caleb, he said quietly. Show me that pivot again. Caleb was frozen, eyes wide, lips pressed together so the stutter wouldn't escape. It's okay, Byron said. Show me. Caleb pivoted. His feet were perfect. His hands were trembling. Brad watched them for another 10 minutes, then got bored and left. But he posted the video that night. The caption read: Old blind man gets baptized in the park. It got 14,000 likes by morning and 300 comments, most of them laughing.
He came back Thursday. This time he went straight for the canvas bag and pulled out Byron's gloves. The old ones, cracked leather, laces frayed thin. The ones Byron had owned since 1979. The ones Helen had kept polished on the mantle like a trophy even after he stopped fighting. Brad held them up to the camera. Look at these museum pieces. He tossed one to his friend. They played catch with them across the court while Byron watched. Give those back, Byron said. His voice was even, but his jaw was tight. Or what? Brad dangled the glove over a trash can. You want it? Come get it, old man.
Byron didn't move. Brad dropped the glove in the trash, then the other one. There, Brad said. Now you match the rest of the garbage out here. Byron said nothing. He turned to Caleb. Let's call it a day. That night, Byron fished the gloves out of the trash at 10 p.m. under a street light. He sat on his porch and cleaned them with a damp cloth for an hour. He rubbed the leather the way Helen used to. His hands were steady. His breathing was not. The following Monday, Brad brought spray paint.