In the 1970's, you could count the black families in my town on one hand. One such family lived in our development, and one of the sons, Fred, and his white friend, Mike, would often use the basketball hoop in my driveway.
One day while my wife, Linda, was hanging wash outdoors, Fred and Mike showed up. My very young son, Marc, not familiar with those of African descent, yelled out, "Hey mom, guess who's here. Mike and the shiny kid."
Linda, hoping this embarassment would end quickly, ignored Marc's heralding-of-the-arrival of the young duo. Marc, not to be deterred, yelled out once again, "Mom, look who it is. Mike and the shiny kid".
Whether there was a third outcry from our offspring, we can't recall. But Fred and Mike stettled in for basketball competition - the clothes got hung out to dry - and the world went on.
Fred and I became good friends. I once took Fred, Mike and a friend to a Celtics-Knicks game at the Old Boston Garden. It turned out that the friend was a Knicks fan that cheered Boston's opponent-of-the-evening all game long. It was my turn to be embarassed.
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