Just off 149th Street is a little park overlooking the river. At the far end of the park, some of my relatives are playing basketball. It is a cold day in early winter, so everyone is bundled up in heavy coats and scarves and hefty mittens, but that is not the only thing that makes the game difficult. My relatives are all elderly to say the least. My father is 83, his step-brother is 79, and my Uncle Max from my mother’s side is 84. Max’s wife, Elaine, is the youngest of the four at 73, and she seems the most enthusiastic. “Let’s go, go, go,” she chants, and gray puffs of air plume from her mouth and dissipate in the wind. Elaine bounces the ball like a girl, shoving it two-handed into the pavement and catching it and then bouncing it again. “Go, go, go,” she repeats, her eyes steadfastly on the ball, and then she takes three small hops, and then she bounces the ball again.

“For Christ’s sake, Elaine,” shouts my dad’s step-brother, Harvey. “Can’t you see I’m open? If you’re going to hog the ball all day, we’ll never get anywhere.”

“Right,” Elaine says. “Sorry.” And she slams a two-handed pass, which bounces off Harvey’s kneecap. Harvey crumples to the pavement, and the ball takes off, bouncing and hopping and then rolling towards the river. “For Christ’s sake,” Harvey says. My dad takes off after the ball. He trots after it with quick little steps, but the ball is going faster. “Catch it, Don, catch it,” Elaine urges him. The ball disappears down the little hill which leads into the river. My dad disappears after it.