It’s never really about basketball.

These boys were neither cute, rambunctious children, nor young men launching themselves into the orbit of their adult lives. Not quite yet: they were “my guys”, a coupla dozen nutbars (he fondly called them) entering grades 8 to 10, students working on their basketball skills in anticipation of a new academic year and school team tryouts. It was August 14. It was our last of 23 training sessions. There were Freezie pops for everybody, and a chocolate bar (or two) for the guys who showed up the most and weren’t afraid to be “try-hards”. (Try-hards. In the joy-killing cynicism of youth basketball “culture”, this is a term of dismissal and a weird sort of shame.) I preached courage all summer. And concentration. And yes, competitiveness, the willingness to rise to the challenges presented by other players, by a keen and pushy coach (me), and by the ever-green imperative to improve on our previous best selves.

So. Good last session. We tried hard. I was glad to be finished. Eleven more days until school begins. But only two boys of that final day’s 20 thanked me for the summer’s (volunteer) work. Empty Freezie pops were left on the gym floor. Ideal outcomes were unachieved. Irritating realities intruded. Mainly, I wanted the gym cleared and the equipment stored and the boys gone. The coach was weary, and fighting off the typical post-feverish-engagement voices: shoot, I thought we’d get more done and wish I’d seen more of *those* two but also there *was* massive improvement, admit it and don’t forget that C is really starting to lead…

The gym was finally quiet when Amalia’s text came. WHAT? That little boy I had loved was suddenly gone? That 20-year-old man I was longing to meet in his adult flowering? Won’t ever happen. That gorgeous family — an Italian sweetheart and his lovely American wife and those three delightful little boys – the one that I loved to meet whenever our ex-pat group in Dalian (China) could get together? It is devastated now.

It’s less than two weeks since we reunited with Piero and Tannaz at a large conference in my home city, a dozen years after leaving Dalian. Our periodic connection during our shared years in China was especially sweet for me; I had been father to a three-boy family, a second try-hard at marriage had brought along a fourth son, so I was helplessly smitten by Jian and his littler brothers. Tannaz and Piero brought us up to speed about their boys, on a convention centre escalator and in between conference sessions. Jian was now 20, a lean and handsome extension of the bright-eyed 6- to 8-year old tornado I had known back then and there. He was now a college kid, spending a few weeks at Green Acre Bahá’í  School, deepening his knowledge and commitment in summer sessions of the Institute for Studies in Global Prosperity. (ISGP is a phenomenally impactful institution, dedicated to training young people to transform their worlds.) I had a hundred questions for him, which would have been summed up in one basic query: Who are you NOW, young fella? 

Amalia’s text was a sudden lament. There had been a drowning. The Piscataqua River, near Green Acre, empties into the Atlantic. A young man, our dear Jian, full of energy, intelligence, deep commitment and enormous potential (and so handsome, and how could he have been otherwise considering the parents who had raised him?), had suddenly leapt from the worldly stage he seemed destined to stride with grace and purpose, with joys and usefulness.

I had been relieved to have the gym to myself for a few minutes before I got on with my day. Now, I wanted to call my players back. I wanted to tell them about Jian Grant Morano, what a sweet small boy he’d been and the grief and loneliness I felt about a young man I would never know. My loss is nothing against the earthquake of a father, a mother, two younger brothers and the tide of people who knew and loved this family. I wanted to warn adolescent boys: nothing is guaranteed, life is sudden, don’t waste a second, all those earnest cautions that I would not have heeded at their age.

Prayer helps. I am led to believe that it can stir distant hearts, even those souls that have passed on. What I know is that it helps me in ways that my oh-so-strained understanding cannot. So does the Old Testament, specifically the blunt comfort of Ecclesiastes 9. The voice in that book, the Teacher, has been telling us for millennia that our limited views of human justice are inadequate for the scope of the life of humanity, and that a Creator infinitely beyond our comprehension should not be judged by our petty standards. Death comes to all:

For I considered all this in my heart, so that I could declare it all: that the righteous and the wise and their works are in the hand of God….All things come alike to all:…(Ecclesiastes 9:1-2)

In Chapter 8, the Teacher had famously advised his hearers that “there is nothing better under the sun than to eat and to drink and to be merry“. Similar encouragement follows later in the ninth chapter, which I was coming to know when I was the age Jian was, back when we were together in Dalian, twelve and more years ago:

Live joyfully with the wife whom you love all the days of your vain life which He has given you under the sun, all your days of vanity; for that is your portion in life, and in the labor which you perform under the sun. Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with your might;…I returned and saw under the sun that—