Since it wasn’t the hottest part of the day, T.J. played as much as he was asked. The ankle wasn’t hurting him; if it needed to be a factor somehow, he could wait until the temperature got up to ninety degrees or higher. Tyron was playing extremely well. So well, in fact, that at times he seemed to dominate, at least on the inside. He was also wearing a brand-new pair of shoes, some top-of-the-line Nikes that T.J. didn’t recognize. When there was a break between games, he asked Tyron about the shoes. “Bee Edwards gave them to me,” replied Tyron. He was short of breath, but smiling. “Who’s Bee Edwards, and why did he give you shoes?” T.J. was looking closely. They were the Nike Magic Carpets, with the distinct amber bubble nestled in the crook of the swoosh. “You know how much these shoes cost?” It was too many questions at one time for Tyron, whose confusion was apparent. “Okay,” said T.J. “Who’s Bee Edwards? Tell me that.” “He’s just a guy. I don’t know who he is.”
