Free A Father First: How My Life Became Bigger Than Basketball by Dwyane Wade Page A

picked up the little rubber ball and started to hit it as hard as I could against the building.
    Just then, Tragil came running, out of breath. She knew what had happened. After she told me to go back inside, she’d seen the police creeping up to the house from their stakeout. But it was too late for her to come and get me.
    “I’m sorry,” my sister said, breaking down. “I’m so sorry.”
    Of course, there was nothing for Tragil to be sorry about. And I told her so.
    In hindsight, I was probably still in shock, not to mention frantic about when Mom would come home. Fortunately, she was not forced to stay overnight, returning to the house even before the sun went down, to my great relief.
    Out on the stoop with Grandma, I saw Mom walking up to the house, looking like she’d just been on an errand or something. Before she could get halfway up the walk, I was at her side, bouncing up and down, so happy to have her home.
    That night I slept soundly. I woke up early the next day, excited that we were all going to church. Halfway down the block, at 5921½ Prairie, the Revelation Missionary Baptist Church, presided over by Pastor Mary L. Box, occupied half a storefront and may have sat thirty-five people at the most. Mom didn’t go regularly but had said she was thinking about it. That was her—not one to build up anyone’s hopes in case she didn’t show. We knew she was going to try. There had been times when Tragil and I would be up front, singing with the choir, getting ready to do our solos, and we’d see Mom come in quietly in the back just to hear us. Other times, she’d bring some friends with her that we didn’t know, some of the group kind of smelling like stale wine and cigarette smoke.
    If anyone had the nerve to stare or, worse, make a comment, Tragil and I would glare right at that person. That was our mom and she was there, same as the rest of them, to find a space of peace, of love, and of forgiveness.
    No, I didn’t have those thoughts at seven going on eight years old. Actually, I went to church most of the time because that was the law according to Grandma. Pastor Box, a darker, older lady pastor, seemed to understand that as the only boy in the congregation, it wasn’t easy for me to be asked to sit quietly and patiently for all the hours of the long—and I mean loooonnngg —services. Grandma didn’t just try to keep us in church on Sunday: there was also Wednesdays and Fridays and special holidays when we were expected to go.
    Pastor Box, before and after the service, would always check up to see how I was doing. I rarely said much other than that my report card was good and maybe my daddy had taken us out for ice cream as a reward. During the service, the pastor would praise my hard work in school, calling me the church family’s little superstar. She’d say, “I have a feeling this boy is going to be something special.” I didn’t know what that meant really, except that it felt good.
    Most of what was said and talked about in church went right over my head. Later, I would find lessons kind of sneaking up on me, almost like the punch line of a joke that takes you years before you can laugh and think— oh, now I get it.
    Take the solos that Tragil and I used to sing in what I considered to be our song—for good reason. It was a spiritual called “Wade in the Water.” The chorus was a sort of a riddle that told the children to wade in the water and that God was going to trouble the water. Why? The verses talked about Moses leading the Israelites through the water, helping to get them through. I knew there was a message in there somewhere. Was it that anything that you wanted to do bad enough would make you face your fear? Maybe. As an adult, I learned that Harriet Tubman sang this song as a sort of map for runaway slaves to escape their masters and the dogs chasing them.
    One Sunday morning Mom came in to hear us sing and sat in the back alone. I wasn’t thinking about the meaning of