As Frank Layden sat one morning across a breakfast table from me, plowing through a large blueberry muffin that bite by bite looked as though it was slowly attaching itself to his face, he happily strolled down memory lane, while simultaneously glancing ahead to whatever came next. He told his stories. He talked a little basketball, just a little, not a lot. He dispensed bits and pieces of wisdom. He delivered his jokes. But here’s the thing: He never cracked a smile. It was obvious he wanted to have fun, but he never laughed, not out loud. I did.
Your Premium Content
This is your actual content that was previously locked.
