His Last Name

“Guard your man! Guard your man, Kadir! Come on, guard your man!” I shouted from my seat to my six-foot-four-inch son who was running down the court at the packed and noisy Liacouras Center. He was a sophomore shooting guard for Temple University’s basketball team.

“Don’t make the boy nervous, Monique.”

“Be quiet, Carl. He needs to be pushed. These are the last few games before the draft. June is only three months away.”

Kadir’s teammate made the shot, taking their lead from three points to five, and then the time ran out for UCF. The Temple Owls won eighty-three to seventy-eight.

My son, Kadir, started to play basketball when my boyfriend, Carl, placed the ball in his hands. He was only two years old, but he never put the ball down. Some kids had blankies, but Ka-Ka had his ball. He slept with the ball and started dribbling it when he woke up every morning. He would say, “Ma ball. Ma ball.” It went everywhere with him. In the tub, at the playground—he even tried to take it to day care.

I knew he loved basketball, but I realized he was good when he was about ten and teenage boys would knock on the door to play with him. By sixth grade, there was always a league, tournament, or summer camp. If he missed a game, his coaches would call and offer to pick him up because they needed him in order to win.

Five summers ago, Kadir grew from five foot seven to six foot four in three months and schools began to call. Prep schools and colleges started ringing my phone at work, at my house, and even on my cell phone. How they got my numbers, I’ll never know. I let Carl talk to most of them; I didn’t know much about the schools. I just wanted Ka-Ka to have the best opportunities possible.

It was important for Kadir to go to college and become someone because I missed my chance. I wanted to go to college, but I had Kadir at seventeen and had little support. His father was killed before he was born, and my parents made it known that they would not be my babysitters.

My mother, Dottie, told everyone in our family that nobody was to help me since I had embarrassed the family by getting pregnant. There was no baby shower or happiness at the hospital. There was only one thing that I remember my mother saying when Kadir was born: “You better be glad I’m not making you give this baby up for adoption.”

My mother was upset about my pregnancy, but she never told me how to use a condom or what birth control was. Her only rule was no sex before marriage, because if you have sex, you will get pregnant and your life will be over.

That summer, it was just me and Ka-Ka. I took him everywhere with me. My mother was so mean to me and even refused to pay my tuition at school. She said, “Teen moms don’t go to Catholic school.” According to her, I wasn’t going to amount to anything anyway.

For eleventh grade, I attended Simon Gratz High School instead. It was down the street from my home in North Philly. Gratz was so different from the all-girls Catholic school that I had attended for so long. The biggest difference was that they had day care at the school. There were a bunch of other teen moms just like me, and some even had two babies. It wasn’t a big deal. No one judged me and everyone was supportive. Kadir was safe while I went to class, and I was able to visit him during my lunch period.

That’s where I met my best friend, Celestine, whom everyone called CeCe. She also had a son, who was three months older than Kadir. We liked the same things and bought a lot of the same clothes for ourselves and our boys.

We took our sons to the park, and I spent a lot of time at her house. Her mom was the complete opposite of mine. Ms. Laura would watch the boys for us while we went to the movies or any parties.

CeCe had two younger sisters and one older brother, Carl. In CeCe, I found my sister, and in Carl, I found unconditional love. From the very beginning, Carl accepted Kadir as if he were his own son.

We were committed to each other for more than eighteen years. He was a good guy, but not perfect. Carl and I never had any children together, and sometimes I felt we acted more like siblings than an actual couple. We loved each other, but we weren’t “in love” anymore. I never would have left him, though. I didn’t know what I would have done without him. Besides, I couldn’t afford to leave him even if I wanted to. I worked a part-time job to make sure I was there for all of Kadir’s games.

After Kadir’s win, I met him and the rest of the team at Maxi’s, the pizza shop on campus. It was a tradition after each home game to go there. All of the cheerleaders and coaches were sitting at the tables in the front of the restaurant.

Once he saw me, the head coach stopped mid-sentence to greet me. “Hey, coach! Good game!” I responded.

“Thanks! Enjoying the last days while we still have Kadir. After this, he’s off to the big leagues . . .”

“Yes, absolutely! Praying and crossing my fingers,” I said proudly.

I looked around the back of the restaurant for my son, when a young man approached me and said, “Who you looking for?”

“Kadir.”

“Forget Kadir. You can have me, beautiful. I’m B, Allen Richardson’s cousin.”

“Really? Well, I’m Kadir’s . . .” Before I could get “Mom” out, Kadir came over and interrupted the barely legal boy’s game.

“Bryan. B, that’s my mom, man!”

“Oh, for real? My bad. She look good, though. I might have to be your step-pop.”

“What you say?” Kadir looked like he was ready to punch the boy in his throat.

“I was joking.”

“Yo, I’m not, man. Say something else about my mom.”

“I was giving your mom a compliment. We good, Kadir. Relax.” The young guy playfully smacked Kadir’s arm and walked away.

“Mom, what I tell you about dressing like that?” Kadir said as he looked over at my outfit. I was wearing a black sheer shirt and tight jeans. He steered me to the table past his other teammates.

We sat down at the table and I picked up a menu. Carl joined us. Carl was two years older than me, but looked his age. He was still handsome, but he had picked up a few pounds over the years. His fuller light brown face was complemented by his trimmed beard and brown eyes. His five feet ten inches almost seemed short now next to Kadir’s six-four. He gave Kadir a fist bump.

“Son, I saw you make that three in the fourth. You have to keep that up. All eyes are on you.”

“No. Right now, all eyes are on Mom. Dad, tell her to stop dressing like that. She’s not going to the club.”

“What I’m wearing is fine,” I protested.

“No, those pants are too tight, and your shirt is see-through. You are showing too much. And you’re wearing high heels. Most moms wear sneakers and sweatshirts to the games.”

“Most moms don’t look like me.”

“But, Mom, you are thirty-eight.”

“And I still look like I did when I was twenty-five.” Kadir hated when anyone except for his dad paid attention to me. I couldn’t help it, my wheat-toast-brown skin didn’t have any blemishes nor were there bags under my eyes. I usually wore my hair in a weave with a part in the middle; even when I tried a different style I still looked young. I didn’t necessarily eat well, but I had a toned body and I didn’t mind showing it off. Kadir would have to get over the way I looked and dressed.

“Whose father are you, Kadir? Don’t worry about what I have on. You should be more focused on your game. I saw that pass you threw away.”

“I know. I didn’t see it coming.”

“Exactly. When you go to the pros, there is no missing passes.”

“I know, Ma.”

“I’m not getting on you. I know you are great, Kadir. But you have to make sure you’re always ready.”

“I’ll be ready.”

“Enough. Tonight, let’s relax, eat, and count our blessings,” Carl demanded. “Say your prayers, Kadir, and leave your mother alone. Mo, start dressing your age.”

“Amen to that,” Kadir said as we laughed and talked about the future.

There were so many sacrifices over the years that we all had made. Carl worked two jobs, and I made the money stretch. We scraped, saved, and did whatever we had to do so that I could be there to cheer Kadir on at every home game as well as some away games. I was the coach’s extra set of eyes, the baker, the therapist, and the surrogate mom for kids whose parents never made it to any of the games.

Now, everything we worked so hard for was about to happen. Kadir just entered the NBA draft, and when he walks across that stage and the commissioner shakes my baby’s hand, I’m going to be right there.