I Remember LeSean

I remember LeSean on those hot, lazy Dallas Sundays, when the wind disappears altogether, when, in those days, he would lay on the couch watching reruns of “Martin and sipping on his favorite beverage, strawberry lemonade.
    I remember him whenever I drive by a pickup basketball game at City Hall Park. No one on the high school basketball team had the sort of talent possessed by LeSean, a sort of God-given grace of movement that manifested itself in his play, his speed and quickness, and the stark ferocity of his dunks.
    I remember LeSean too on those cool Friday evenings each fall, when, if the wind is just right, the rhythmic chanting of brass and drums issues into my backyard from the high school football field, where LeSean once stymied defenders and mesmerized us all as an All-State running back (and All-Area corner) each weekend.
    I remember LeSean’s preference for menthol cigarettes and his oft-uttered catch phrase, “That’s what’s up.” I remember that time that he was pulled over in Highland Park for no apparent reason; his loud celebration of the O.J. Simpson verdict; his distrust for all things Republican.
   I remember vividly the image of him, dancing garishly under the smoky lights at Club Blue, his pale, white skin and shock of golden-blond hair shining ever-so-noticeably among a sea of revelers.