For a month, we had the court to ourselves, but when Wilson invited his celebrity pals out to the country, it got to be even more fun.
First came a handful of actors and pro athletes, mainly from L.A. and New York. Through them word leaked into the hip-hop crowd. They told their people, and the next thing you know this court was the wildest scene in the Hamptons -ever-a nonstop party with athletes and rappers, CEOs and supermodels, and just enough gangsters to add some edge.
But as the celebs thinned out, one of the most expensive residential acres on Beach Road was starting to seem like a playground in a South Bronx housing project.
At that point, Wilson made his retreat. For weeks he barely ventured from the house; then he began to avoid the Hamptons altogether.
Now about the only person you can be sure of not running into at T. Smitty Wilson’s Hamptons compound is T. Smitty Wilson.
Chapter 5. Tom
ME, JEFF, FEIF, Walco, and Rochie are stretching and shooting around one basket when a maroon SUV rumbles up the driveway. Like a lot of cars here, it looks as if it just rolled off a showroom floor, and its arrival is announced well in advance by 500 watts of teeth-chattering hip-hop.
When the big Caddy lurches to a stop, three doors swing open and four black teens jump out, each sporting brand-new kicks and sweats.
Then, after a dramatic beat or two, the man-child himself, Dante Halleyville, slides out from the front passenger side. It’s hard not to gawk at the kid.
Halleyville is the real deal, without a doubt the best high school player in the country, and at six foot nine with ripped arms and chest tapering to a tiny waist and long, lean legs, he’s built like a basketball god. Dante is already being called the next Michael Jordan. Had he declared himself eligible for this year’s NBA draft, he would have been a top-three pick, no question, but he promised his grandmother at least one year of college.