A Tribute to My Forever, Vincent Hanna:

Some days I still reach for my phone waiting for that familiar text .

“Hey baaabe...”

Just like that.

Not because you needed something, not because there was a problem to solve,

just because you wanted me to know I was on your mind.

You called me your pudding pop, and Lord knows I used to roll my eyes, but I’d give

anything to hear it one more time.

To hear you laugh. To hear you coach. To hear you tell one more player, “Lock in.”

Funny how those two words mean something different now.

Because every morning, when my heart wants to stay in yesterday, I hear you.

“Lock in.”

When grief hits me out of nowhere in the grocery store, in the driveway, or when I see a

dad with his daughters,

I hear you. “Lock in.”

When I don’t know how I’m supposed to do life without the man

who showed me what real love feels like,

I hear you.

“Lock in.”

And babe, I’m trying.

I’m trying to lock in for Brae. For Malaysia. For Nasir.

For your parents. For all the kids you coached. For all the lives you touched.

But mostly, I’m trying to lock in because you believed in me.

You always saw something bigger.

You built young men. You built confidence. You built community.

You were teaching people they were One of 1 long before they ever believed it themselves.

That’s why this doesn’t feel real.

Because people like you aren’t supposed to leave this early.

You were supposed to be standing next to me on July 18th.

I was supposed to become Mrs. Hanna.

We were supposed to argue over paint colors, spoil the girls, grow old, and tell the

same stories for the hundredth time.

We were supposed to have more time.

But love like ours doesn’t end because a heartbeat does.

You are still here.

In every player who hears your voice before taking a shot.

In every coach who teaches because of you.

In every young person who stands a little taller because you believed in them.

In every tattoo, every tribute, every memory, every tear.

And in every moment, I look down at my wrist and smile through the pain.

So if heaven has basketball courts, I know you’re coaching.

I know you’re telling somebody to lock in.

I know you’re making people laugh.

And every now and then, I imagine you looking down at me, shaking your head because

I’m crying again, and saying,

“Hey baaabe...”

“You got this.”

And maybe for now, that’s enough.

Until the day I hear your voice again.

Love always,

Your Pudding Pop (Amina)

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