"As a little girl, I remember my daddy always used to get called Sweetfeet. Pawpaw said he was the best player in the league, but he also said that A Mississippi boy isn't made for A Big City." The interviewer narrowed her eyes at me, most likely judging me. She'd spoken on Mississippi in a interviewer before, but it was nothing nice.
"My pawpaw was from New Jersey and he wasn't involved in my daddy's life til he graduated and got drafted to the Giants. I never understood why he always said that my daddy wasn't made for New York until now; My pawpaw had a passion for football, but he ruined his chances by being involved in a gang shooting when my father was 8. That night, he paralyzed from the waist down from 4 bullets in the back."
"With this being such a violent shooting involving one of their star players, it was all over the news."
"Was your grandfather the only one to be injured?" The interviewer asked me, her lips pursed.
"No, 4 others were injured. One of the four was his baby brother who died on the scene."
"He took on a hatred for everything. But who can you really blame when you got yourself into that shooting? Mercy Hemphill was a hitman. People paid him to kill." Her face scrunched up as she fixed her mouth to ask another question, but the man behind me signaled that there wasn't much time left.
"How do you know that your grandfather didn't kill your father?"
"You wouldn't kill anyone that brings money in for you, would you?"
