Canzano: Madness not limited to March
A little boy keeps providing meaning.
Every time March Madness rolls around, I think about a fifth-grade boy named Maurice Neal.
He was only 11.
Neal lived in St. Louis. Both of his parents worked full-time jobs. He came home after school one day, put away his books, pulled on a red sweatshirt, and left his house.
He walked a few blocks and stopped at a convenience store to buy a bag of Fritos cheese-flavored corn chips. Then, he met his best friend at the neighborhood basketball court.
In 2005, I was in St. Louis for the men’s Final Four. I was staying at the Marriott Hotel across the street from the Edward Jones Dome. I heard a terrible story about that little boy. The police report said that some older kids came to the court.
One of them pulled out a gun.
Neal got shot.