Washington D.C. | 2008
Mark's POV
For 24 years, I have put in the work, trying to elevate my family from the lower-income household I grew up in. My father is a good man, a strong man, yet the world wasn't kind to him. All his schemes and business plans always seemed to end with him falling into greater and greater debt. His friends mocked him, and our relatives were of little help either. The constant scorn and lack of amenities as I grew up, the single child of a family of three, was a knife that kept twisting inside me. I knew then that I would not let it continue. If I had a family, they would not suffer as I had. For a young 15-year-old with no money for business and even less for premier universities, my only way out was through grit, merit, and relentlessness.
The Air Force ended up being the home I always lacked: strict, disciplined, and structured. Things were easy there; you do as you're told, and you get what you're owed. I stuck to it and was rewarded for my patience. Slowly but steadily, I climbed the ranks, found the love of my life, and was blessed with the jewels of my eyes: my son and my daughter. I didn't want them to struggle as I did, and that is exactly what I achieved. Erin and Bradley will not scrape off the bottom; they will fly, and I will always be there to help them.
"Mark, honey, we are all packed and ready. Is the car at the front yet?" I heard Maggie's voice from upstairs, pulling me from my thoughts.
"Yeah, I called for it. Let's head out," I replied.
As I stepped out of the front door, I took one last look at the old townhouse that had been my family's home for the past seven years. It was a modest, two-story brick building, one of a dozen identical faces in a neat row, distinguished only by the slightly-too-big basketball hoop Bradley had insisted on installing over the garage. With its white trim and small, perfectly manicured lawn, it was the picture of respectable government housing. It was solid and it was safe, but it was never truly ours. It was a pleasant stop, but now it was time to move on.
Maggie came out of the house, carrying a bag in one hand with Erin holding her other.
"Where's Brad?" I asked.
"Where do you think?" she said, tilting her head towards the side with a hint of a smile.
I smiled back as I turned around and headed for the nearby court to find my son. It was a small court, nested between a collection of townhouses and used mostly by other army men or their families to relax or play some pickup basketball. To Brad though, it was his holy ground—the place you would find him any hour of the day he was free. As I walked towards it, I reminisced about all the times Bradley and I had played our one-on-one games there, how he learned to perform layups and even tried a hand at dunking a few times despite his height. In all the time I spent with my son after my injury, there was one key aspect that always stood out.
Bradley was different.
He was so very different from the snot-nosed brat I had been. When I was eleven, my entire day was either spent in school or playing around with the kids from my block in the tire yard, the playground, or even by the old construction site. It was bliss, a time before I woke up to the realities of the world. My son, on the other hand, has always been unlike children his age. He doesn't cry for toys, create a mess with his food, cry from playground injuries, or complain about things. For a time, I thought he got that from Maggie and me being so disciplined. Maggie, however, disabused me of that notion. She told me how calm and collected he always seemed to be. In class, at home, Bradley did all his chores and his homework without any bellyaching. He also took time to play with Erin and care for her when Maggie and I weren't around.
He was the third adult of the family, and I myself did not see any problems with that. I mean, who doesn't want a kid that is responsible and diligent? I was wrong. I realized it the day I returned from my tour of Iraq. The way he looked at me, aghast, as if he had seen a ghost. He was scared. That's when I realized that my son, for all his maturity, was but a child of six who was afraid his father would die.
The following months, as I rested at home, I observed him, and Maggie was right. Bradley was unlike any other child, but he was also so much like a child. He cared deeply, and his caring nature made him vulnerable. While he maintained his daily routine, I began to notice how little he mingled with friends and other social relationships outside of his family. He wouldn't go out to play or participate in activities after school, just read books and tell stories to Erin as if they were the most fantastical things.
This was not the life a child should live, so I took him to play that first game of pickup basketball. That was the first time my son and I really connected. He shared his fears with me, and while I was disappointed that he did not wish to follow in my footsteps, I still encouraged him to find his own sky to fly in. Never in a million years would I or Bradley have imagined how much he would come to love basketball. He grew to like it, then to love it, and now it was his obsession.
The court was his gym, his second home, his temple—and basketball was his creed. For the past five years, he has participated in every junior basketball competition as a point guard for his school. Some they won, some they lost, but out of it all, Bradley always seemed to improve. He continued to hone himself. When he turned eight, he told me he wished to go pro. For a child, that was a distant dream and may just have been the fancy of the moment, but I saw it in his eyes. He wanted this. He demanded it from the world. I couldn't say no to such determination.
As I rounded the corner, I saw him standing at the three-point line, aligning his shots. I stopped and watched from a distance. The first one went up—clank. It bounced hard off the back of the rim. He took a breath, reset his feet, and put up a second. The ball circled the rim tantalizingly before slipping out. He let out a quiet sigh of frustration. He took one more deep breath, dribbled twice, and shot again.
Swish.
He immediately grabbed the ball, went back to the same spot, and fired again without hesitation.
Swish.
He did it one more time, his form a perfect, fluid motion.
Swish.
A slow clap broke the silence. I walked out from behind the trees. "That's my boy. Form was perfect on those last three."
Bradley turned, a small, proud smile touching his lips. He wasn't surprised to see me. "Took a second to get the range," he said, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm.
"Doesn't matter how you start, it matters how you finish," I said, walking onto the court. "Three in a row from what's nearly NBA range? The scouts aren't going to know what hit 'em."
He bounced the ball once, the sound echoing in the quiet afternoon.
"Long way to go, Dad. Long way to go.", though a hint of smile tugged at his face.
"Come on," I said, my tone shifting. I nodded back towards our house. "Your mom's got the car waiting. It's time to head out."
Bradley nodded, tucked the basketball under his arm, and jogged over. We walked back together, leaving the court—his temple—behind for the last time.
…
Los Angeles | 2008
Mark's POV
The car slowly moved into the neighbourhood we had chosen as our home—not a U.S. government one, but a permanent residence. Maggie had made her expectations known to me as soon as the news of my promotion had come in. She wanted us to get a home, a place of our own. She didn't want to pack up her life and move halfway across the country only to move again when the time came for a transfer. She was right, too. Our kids needed stability, the kind we had in Washington. We were growing older as well; we needed a permanent base. So, when she came for her interview with Sterling, Price, and Associates, I tagged along to look for a good house to purchase.
After looking for three days and changing our realtor twice, we finally found a beautiful two-story mansion with five bedrooms, five bathrooms, a large open kitchen, a pool, and a garden. Mr. Dunphy was a very gracious host, and Maggie liked him. Though we couldn't find a house with a basketball court, the realtor assured us that he could have the large storeroom converted through a contractor contact of his.
The house would have cost us quite a lot were it not for the housing bubble bursting, it ended up being 2.7 million dollars for the whole thing including the construction and remodelling. As we pulled into the driveway, I felt a sense of finality I hadn't felt before. The house had a commanding presence from the street. Like the home across the street, it shared a modern, two-story L.A. aesthetic with clean lines and large glass windows. However, where the house across us was relaxed and stylish, ours had a distinct sense of order—a military outlook. The landscaping was immaculate, with hedges trimmed at sharp, precise angles. The exterior was a tasteful mix of slate-grey stone and dark wood against stark white stucco, giving it a classic, formidable look. An American flag flew proudly from a pole near the front entrance.
Inside, the classic-modern blend continued. The large, open-plan kitchen and living area flowed seamlessly, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the crystal-blue pool and the lush, private garden. The aesthetic was functional yet beautiful, with polished concrete floors layered with wood and marble flooring, high ceilings, and minimal ornamentation. It was a house built with purpose and strength, a fortress for my family.
As for the basketball court, Phil Dunphy had already sketched out his vision for converting the massive, detached storeroom at the back of the property. He envisioned a polished, hardwood maple floor with professional-grade, indirect lighting, turning a forgotten space into Bradley's personal temple. I saw no problem in getting it done this way.
As the car came to a stop, a beat of silent awe filled the cabin before Erin broke the spell.
"We're here! Is that really it? It's huge!" she yelled, already unbuckling her seatbelt.
Before I could even put the car in park, the back doors flew open. Erin was a blur of motion, sprinting across the perfectly manicured lawn. "Race you to the pool, Brad!"
Bradley, however, didn't follow. He got out of the car with a quiet intensity, his eyes scanning every angle of the house, a slow, disbelieving smile spreading across his face.
Maggie stepped out and came to my side, her hand finding mine. "Oh, Mark," she breathed, her eyes shining. "It looks so much better now. It's a home. A real one."
"CANNONBALL!" Erin shrieked from the backyard, though we knew she was just pretending.
Maggie laughed. "I'd better go supervise." She squeezed my hand and headed off after our daughter, already pointing out spots in the garden for her rose bushes.
I watched them go, a profound sense of peace settling over me. This was it. This was the fortress I'd always wanted to build for them. I turned to Bradley, who was still standing by the car, but his gaze wasn't on the house or the pool. It was fixed on the massive, detached storeroom at the back of the property.
Without a word, he started walking towards it, his steps measured. I followed him.
The door creaked open into a cavernous, empty space. The air was cool and smelled of dust and concrete. The floor was bare cement, the walls were unfinished drywall, and a single window high above cast a long rectangle of sunlight across the floor. To anyone else, it was a forgotten shed. But Bradley stopped in the very center of the sunbeam, his head tilted back as he took in the high, vaulted ceiling.
"Wow," he whispered, the sound swallowed by the emptiness. He took a few steps, his sneakers scuffing on the rough floor, and mimed a jump shot.
"It's just a storeroom for now," I said from the doorway.
He turned to me, his eyes alight with a fire I knew so well. "No, it's not, Dad. It's perfect." He gestured with his hands, mapping out the air. "The floor will be here... hoops at both ends... There's enough room to practice free throws, run drills…" He was seeing a future that wasn't there yet, a vision as clear as day.
"Mr. Dunphy's contractor starts on Monday," I told him. "Said the hardwood floor goes in first."
Bradley looked from the empty space back to me, and the usual wall of mature composure he held around himself completely vanished. For a moment, he was just a kid who'd been given the greatest gift in the world.
"Thank you," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Seriously, Dad. Thank you."
Before I could reply, Maggie's voice called out from the patio. "Come on, you two! Stop planning your NBA takeover and help us pick out rooms! Erin's already claimed the one with the balcony!"
Bradley grinned, a real, unguarded grin. "She can have it." He looked around the dusty storeroom one last time. "I've already found mine."