First, you need to know that my good friend, Drew, who’s my age and lives directly across the street from me, is absolutely stacked. He’s got muscle on top of muscle. Once, a young woman asked to take a selfie with him because she thought he was John Cena. Yeah, he’s that ripped and intimidating. He’s the kind of guy where if you punched him in the jaw, you’d break your wrist. So there’s that.

Drew became a single man a couple years ago, and about eight months ago started dating Beth, a much younger, attractive woman. Beth moved in with Drew, and they’re making a nice life for themselves. I’ve met Beth. She’s a pleasant brunette and a very friendly woman. A bit shy, perhaps, but affable. And so there’s also that.

My son, who’s currently eight, is quite the hoops player. We have one of those portable basketball hoops in the driveway, from which you can look directly across the street into Drew’s front yard.

One day not long ago, my son and I are out knocking down threes together in the late afternoon. My son, who is an extreme extrovert and socialite, looks across the street and spies Drew working on his front yard sprinklers in a muscle tank and shorts. Drew is staring at the grass contemplatively, strategically assessing his next move. He has his hand to his chin, indicating he may be perplexed by the plumbing or some other unforeseen lawn obstacle. I take this as a sign that he does not wish to be disturbed, but my son doesn’t share that same opinion. “Daddy! Daddy! Mr. Drew is outside. We should say hello to him!” My young son is practically boiling over with enthusiasm, for nothing in the world excites him like saying hello to a friend.

Being the quintessential melancholy introvert, I reply, “Well, son, it looks like he’s trying to focus. Let’s let him be so we don’t distract him. C’mon, let’s shoot.” I pass him the basketball. He collects it and stores it under his arm.

“But, Daddy, we should say hello!”

“It’s okay, not right now. Maybe later. C’mon, see if you can hit one from long range.”

He points across the street. “But why? He’s right there!”

“Let’s just keep shooting. Now c’mon!” I clap my hands to inspire him to drain one from the perimeter.

Crestfallen, my son weakly launches a three that falls way short. I grab the rebound and fire a step-back jumper that clanks off the rim and bounces toward my son, who’s not paying any attention to the basketball. He’s gazing across the street at Drew, and it’s clear that my son’s lone mandate in the world is to acknowledge Drew’s presence. To say he’s fixated is an understatement.

“Hey, buddy,” I shout to my son, who has let the ball bounce past him into the palmetto bushes. “Focus here. Let’s keep shooting. Get the ball. Let’s go!”

“But Mr. Drew is over there. Shouldn’t we say hello?”

“Son, I told you already, let’s not disturb him.”

Drew is now on his knees digging in the grass, perhaps trying to liberate a trapped sprinkler head.

My son fishes the ball out from the palmetto bushes, dribbles a couple times, and without even looking at the rim, fires an airball that bangs off my car’s rear bumper. He’s just too fascinated by Drew across the street.

“Focus!” I yell. “You could damage my car!”

“But shouldn’t we say hello?”

“No more of this! He’s busy. Let’s let him focus on what he’s doing.”

“But—”

“No more!” I pass him the ball, but it just bounces past him, for my son has spied something new across the street. Beth has joined Drew in the yard.

My son’s eyes grow as big as pancakes. He’s jumping up and down and pointing. “Daddy! Beth is outside with Mr. Drew! Look!” My son is about to burst into flames of joy! TWO friends—not just one—are outside and within ear shot. What on Earth could possibly be better than this!

I squint into the afternoon sun to confirm my son’s diagnosis. There, on her knees with Drew, is Beth, just as my son had said. “So she is.”

Beth has her arm slung across Drew’s broad back, perhaps consoling him because he has purchased the wrong size PVC joint. Drew doesn’t look happy, and Beth is trying to cheer him up.

“Let’s go over and say hello, Daddy! Please?”

“No. It’s clear they’re busy and frustrated. Let’s not bother them. Get the ball and let’s shoot.”

“But Daddy, don’t you want to say hello to Beth?”

“Sure, and at some point I will. We’ll have them over for dinner soon. But right now let’s play basketball and let them be. C’mon, let’s bury some rainbows.”

My son stomps his foot. “But she’s right there!”

I pull my cheeks down into jowls. “If you don’t stop this, we’re going inside. Now, for the last time, get the ball and let’s shoot.”

My son retrieves the ball and dribbles it back toward the hoop, never taking his eyes off Beth and Drew.

I clap my hands to re-focus my son. “Yo, pass it here. I’m open underneath the rim! Quick! Time’s running out! Five, four, three….”

My son can take no more of this. He rolls the basketball into the grass, cups his hands around his mouth, and shouts so the entire neighborhood can hear: “Hey Beth! My daddy wants to say hello to you!”

My lungs collapse and all my blood drains through my feet.

Drew cranes his head in my direction, his face awash in confusion and twisted rage. “What?” The peaks of his biceps cast long shadows that cross the street and reach my feet in the driveway.

“No,” I shout back with a quivering voice. “No, I swear. I … um … ha, that’s just my son being, you know, silly!”

“Nah-ah,” my son shouts. “He really wants to say hello to Beth.”

I don’t know what else to say or do, so I loft a meek, “Hello, Beth,” that barely drifts across the street before it blows away in the wind.

Beth waves politely while Drew fans out his expansive lats.

I lower my head, gather my ball and slither inside my house, while my son runs across the street to be with Drew and Beth, the greatest thing in the world!