James - 8/6/1994 10:13 a.m.

“Can Jimmy come out and play?”

As soon as Jimmy heard the words, his heart sank. He slowly looked up at his father.

He had tried to beat him to the door, but James Senior was closer when the bell rang. Jimmy could have warned Bobby—somehow—but now it was too late.

He stood just behind him and held his breath.

“I’m terribly sorry,” James Senior said, “but you must have the wrong house. There is no ‘Jimmy’ here.”

He looked down at his son as he said it. He reached behind him and pulled Jimmy squarely in front of him, resting both hands on his shoulders.

“I think, perhaps, you’re looking for James Junior. Let me introduce you. Bobby, this is James. James, is there something you’d like to say to your friend?”

Jimmy lowered his eyes to his feet and said nothing.

“Do you want to tell your friend about our discussion?”

It hadn’t been a discussion. There was no back and forth.

His father’s grip tightened on his shoulders.

“My name is James.” He couldn’t meet Bobby’s eyes.

“And why?” James Senior prompted.

“Jimmy is a nickname for little boys who grow up and never...do anything with their lives.”

“James is starting middle school soon,” his father said. “Jimmy is a name from which nobody expects much. James is a name people can respect. Isn’t that right, James?”

Jimmy nodded, still not looking at Bobby.

“Speak up, son.”

“Yes, sir,” James said.