Boot(s)

8-Boots

Corporal Jackson

A few years later a group of us were gathered around a small shitty TV set—like the one your mom shoved into the corner of the kitchen in the early 90s for the sole purpose of watching HGTV or Rachel Ray—when someone changed the channel to ESPN. I hadn't been able to see Bobby play in a while. We were in a dead zone. The base I was stationed at was off the coast of the U.S. and the amenities were slim, even for me, a newly-certified corporal who was in charge of bossing around privates for the very first time.

So I was shocked, to say the least, when his face popped up on the 16-inch screen wearing not a Knicks jersey, but an Atlanta Hawks one. I was shocked because, to put it very, very lightly, the Hawks had a reputation of absolutely sucking. And this had to be Bobby's fourth year in the NBA—he had already won Rookie of the Year, along with a handful of other important awards and partnerships and recognitions. He had his own line of shoes with Nike, I heard. He had nowhere to go but up. I loved my home state, but they couldn't put a good team together even if the team showed up knocking on coach's door. Bo playing for the Hawks had to be the best god damned thing that ever happened to them.

I pushed a few uniforms out of the way to get closer to the TV. My pal Jack was dead center, his eyes trained on the screen. He heard the sound of me barking orders to move and turned towards the sound. "Hey," he glanced back at the TV. "Isn't that Bobby? He's playing for the Hawks?"

I shushed him. Bo was sitting on a panel getting interviewed along with a few other NBA guys. None of them were wearing Hawks jerseys. These guys were high profile: Lakers, Warriors, Celtics. Somewhere in that press conference, a reporter was asking Bobby why he chose to work with a specific charity, one she called Hope for Heroes. My shriveled heart wanted to jump out of its place in my chest. Hope for Heroes was a charity for servicemen.

Apparently, cameramen loved Bobby. The shot zoomed in closer to his face, picking up his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed, his nodding as he listened to the reporter's question. Even on this janky TV, you could see his freckles.

"Well I'm glad you asked, Jeannie. I think for myself, Hope for Heroes is a charity that focuses on a group that often gets marginalized and overlooked, even in charitable circles. The people who give everything to protect our country and our children deserve to be looked after properly when they come home. That's why I've partnered with Hope for Heroes and the VA. You know, my best friend—" he paused. The entire world got caught in my throat. Me me me he's talking about me. "My best friend, her husband is in the Navy, and I've seen first-hand how hard it can be for her family..."

His stupidly perfect southern drawl droned on, saying all terrific, commendable things I'm sure, but I couldn't hear it. I was caught up only in his neglect of mentioning his best friend Boots, a man, who was serving in the armed forces himself.

I took a deep breath. Then I let it all roll of my shoulders. It had been eight years now. I wasn't his best friend. Not for a long, long time.

But it hurt. Every damn day.