Star Carlos Boozer on the murder that affected his life

I've never told anyone that my best friend died in my arms, and it was all because of basketball.For more than 30 years, I've kept that day tucked away in a corner of my heart, like the contents of a carefully folded, air-dried box buried behind cobwebs and cardboard boxes in the farthest corner of my attic. I never mentioned it to anyone, including my parents and siblings, until I started writing this book. On the road to the NBA, I only revisited this memory when I was alone, and my family has always been forward-looking, so I was hesitant to talk about the past. However, what happened changed the course of my life and theirs, and there is no way I can tell my story without mentioning it.

Chris was seven years old and I was six when it happened.In the late 1980s, we were two inseparable pals living in adjacent tenement buildings in the crime-ridden Washington, D.C. projects. We met in kindergarten, and our families knew each other well enough to know that if they found one of us, the other was sure to be there, too. We walked to school together in the mornings and went to the corner grocery store together every afternoon, where we shared $2 worth of turkey, cheese, and mayonnaise heroin wrapped in thick white deli paper, which we unwrapped just as we stepped out of the house. Then we went to the half-dozen courts around the neighborhood to play basketball until dusk reminded us to go home.

Chris and I were immersed in basketball. The year before, my father had handed me my first rubber ball, and I hadn't been without it since. That's why Chris and I got along so well - he was just as eager as I was to spend all of his time on the basketball. If we weren't on the court, we were watching NBA games on TV.

In mid-1988, the Los Angeles Lakers won their second consecutive championship, but Michael Jordan stole the show as his Chicago Bulls didn't even make the playoffs. By the end of the regular season, Jordan had become the scoring and steals leader, as well as winning Defensive Player of the Year and Regular Season Most Valuable Player. He was the first person to win all of those honors in the same season, a feat that is still unmatched.

Two months ago, Chris and I were glued to the screen in my living room, engrossed in the NBA All-Star Game, in which Jordan won the MVP; however, it was the Slam Dunk Contest that had us as excited as if we had drunk two liters of soda. In the final round, Jordan ran the length of the court and jumped from the free-throw line for a layup-a full 15 feet of jaw-dropping air time. Like an eagle, stretching his wings, he whizzed through the sky. Jordan's performance was flawless and awe-inspiring. Like many of my peers, Chris and I knew we would one day play together in the NBA. We had no doubt. All we needed to do was practice every day, so we went to the local courts after school and tried to play alongside the older kids when our shots barely grazed the rim.

Chris was a better ball player than I was. He had excellent ball handling and dribbling skills, was fast and skillful, just like Jordan himself. Even at that age, I envied Chris' talent.

On the court, I watched Chris do his thing. He pulled off a beautiful crossover dribble and the older kid defending him lost his footing and fell to the ground. It's called a "broken ankle" and every time, there are strong reactions. This time was no exception. As the players cheered, the other neighborhood kids on the sidelines shook the chain-link fence around the court.

"Damn! He broke you up with that shot," I heard someone say behind me. I couldn't help but laugh because I knew that if anyone on this court was going to make it to the NBA, it would be my best friend Chris.

On any other day, the big kid would have whisked away and gotten back into the game, plotting his revenge in the paint. On any other day, Chris and I would be walking home side by side, happily reliving this great crossover game.

But today was different. Chris had inadvertently shown his hand to a gang member. The older kid stood up, calmly walked back to his bike, pulled a small black pistol out of his backpack hanging from his handlebars, and aimed it directly at Chris.

The sound of the gunshot echoed around the field as most of the kids scattered and ducked for cover, afraid that they would be the next to be hit. Screams and panic rose up as the gunshots echoed. I stood a few feet behind Chris where the bullet could have hit me, but my best friend exposed the bullet's trajectory as he fell awkwardly backward onto the blacktop, clutching his stomach. I watched in shock as the shooter remounted his bike and calmly pedaled away. No one tried to stop him. No one dared to get his attention again. None of us wanted to die.

I ran over to Chris and dropped to my knees, cradling his head in my hands.

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