I looked out my second story office window and knew exactly why. I could hear sounds throughout morning. This crew of 4 men and 3 bucket trucks stringing power lines along new poles they had been planting in front and back yards of my neighborhood past few weeks.

Often during this time, I would be working on my laptop on front porch and watched this professional teamwork in total synchronicity, moving from pole to pole in planned sequence. First it was connecting phone lines. Then, cable. Today, and finally, from back alley, electricity.

What was of extreme interest to me was foreman of this well- oiled machine. A big, burly middle-aged fellow whose sheer stature and hard look would intimidate most. But, he always uttered his commands, some very loudly as his underlings were often thirty-five feet in air, with warm authority.

You could tell his crew really liked and had great respect for him. Although this was far from your typical 'lean on your shovel' squad, they still joked while working at a well-managed pace. Bossman, whose job description no doubt mandated a no hands-on, no physical labor approach, was always doing something to speed things along, be it picking up refuse or spooling wire. In fact, while they were in process of connecting my power, guess who was pruning overgrown pine tree branches in my backyard to make it easier for his boys?

It was at this point that I brought my high-wire friends a sampling of my special blend coffee (I prepared this, just prior to 'lights out'), reserved usually for special company. Setting a tray down on patio table, I engaged 'Jim' in conversation and remarked how much I enjoyed watching them work and how much it reminded me of my great production team when I owned a drycleaning business. Another well-oiled, and fun to run machine.

His sun-hardened face beamed with pride as he began telling me about what a great group of guys he had and how they were most productive crew in this large company.

No wonder!

Curtis had sickle cell anemia, an incurable, painful and terminal disease that plagues young people of African descent.

I would meander into his room to spend a little time with rebellious loner and would often end up refereeing a screaming match between him and one of nurses. The street-wise Curtis would usually win.

Over course of a few years (the hospital was always my home- away-from-home), I eventually learned of horror of his upbringing, sad reality of his current life and apparent dimness of his future.

My experience as a volunteer in Big Brother-like program in our local Children's Aid Society was that a small dose of interest and some one-on-one attention could go a long way to helping a kid who was in trouble with law, failing school and in Curtis' case, a social outcast.

So, when my time was over with last boy I was involved with, I asked CAS if I could hook up with Curtis, albeit 'unofficially' this time. Problem was, I was in process of selling my drycleaning business while building a music production studio (for my next career) and my time was too much at a premium to commit to a structured arrangement. They agreed, and I began to hang with Curtis.

I learned in very short order that among his survival skills was tendency to cajole, cleverly manipulate and even outright steal. Although always kind, I had to have a second set of eyes when in his presence and was forced at times to be, well, curt with Curt.

Also during this time, I was involved in a major lawsuit after having had a song of mine "lifted" by a one-time friend and co-writing partner in Los Angeles, who had become a 'hot' producer of major recording acts. On one of his multi-million selling records was core of a song of mine he had heard and we discussed in my presence during one of my frequent music trips in 1980's. I was a little more than hurt and felt I deserved not only royalties for my creation, but also credibility that went along with a "cut" of that magnitude by a name recording artist.

I retained a highly regarded entertainment attorney in Detroit (he represented many of athletes on professional sports teams in Detroit as well as one of all time greatest boxers and even some famous civil rights icons) who just happened to also be a truly wonderful and giving human being.

It was in a meeting with this man that I casually mentioned Curtis and my desire to do something very special for him. See, in my heart, I had a feeling Curtis would not live for too many more years. Sickle cell sufferers often died in their early twenties, or even before, a decade ago. I wasn't expecting anything from my lawyer in this regard, but next day phone rang and I was instructed to have Curtis "dressed up" and at Palace of Auburn Hills at a specific gate number one hour prior to a Detroit Pistons game later that week.

He was a huge basketball fan. His hero of heroes was Isaiah Thomas, captain of Motor City NBA Champs prior two years. But I didn't let on to Curtis where we were going that night. Just that we were hanging out. I just asked his foster mother (and I use term “mother” very lightly) to have him dressed nicely with his birth certificate in hand by a certain time.

Curtis was on time, eagerly waiting on his rickety porch when I pulled up. But to my utter dismay, he looked as disheveled as he always did in his overbaggy, tattered clothes. And of course, good ol' foster mom couldn't find his birth certificate. Now, can you imagine fancy dancin' I had to do at U.S. Customs having this 'gang looking' teenager with no identification trying to cross border in my new BMW? Well, fate and some silver tongued talkin' prevailed and we were soon racing up I-75 to The Game.