I remember November 1963 It was the Saturday after they’d gunned down Kennedy. Too cold for b-ball, we huddled in the schoolyard and talked at half voice. We didn’t notice Joel at the corner of the chain link until he began to kick it and scream, “I’m so ugly.” And he was. It was as if he was sculpted from a single piece of granite by an indifferent artist who said— “This is good enough,” and put it aside. We didn’t see the gun until he put it to his head and pulled the trigger. We all heard the empty click. I remember that click as clearly as I remember that last motorcade. And, I remember, that even after he dropped the pistol, not one of us ran to help him.