By Chad Jones

Blood is pumping out of the brachial artery in my arm, pooling at my feet and soaking through my shredded North Face coat, jeans and Nike Air Zoom Tallac Lite boots. My entire left arm is numb, but oddly enough I can still feel the warmth of my blood steadily flowing down my leg.

“Am I going to die?”

“Yes. I’m going to die here over a pair of sneakers.”

Bystanders camped out at House of Hoops on 125th Street rush to dial 911, but everything moves in slow motion for me as I call the only person I can think of.

“Chloe, I’ve been stabbed. Come now to the Harlem House of Hoops,” I say to my sister, who I now fear will be the only surviving member of my immediate family after this incident. Losing our parents at a young age made grief a very familiar foe to us.

Because of an argument over two pairs of sneakers while camping out for kicks, my life is going to end. Grief and heartache will descend upon my family for the third time in less than a decade.

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