by Sloan, David
[Brackets]
A novel
By David Sloan
[Brackets]
Copyright © 2012 by David Sloan
All Rights Reserved
ISBN -13: 978-1479187904
Cover design by David Sloan
For Naomi,
With whom things have
been even better than predicted.
-[Selection Sunday]-
[Selection Sunday: March 15, 2015]
The office of Boston College’s basketball coach was sparsely decorated. There were a few pictures of past glories, a framed jersey, but little else. After all, his job was really on the court. Offices were for short, to-the-point conversations. Like the one he was about to have.
There was a knock at the door. The coach barely looked up.
“Come in, Williams,” he said.
The team’s back-up shooting guard, one of two players with the last name of Williams, walked through the door. He moved with the distinctive glide of all talented basketball players, effortless and smooth despite his size. But he kept his eyes down as he slouched into the chair opposite the coach’s desk, and when he eventually looked up, his face hardened. On the wall to his right, a projector beamed an enlarged still of some game film from the ACC finals that they had lost two days before. Williams recognized it instantly. It had been a highlight on all the sports shows, repeated over and over all day, mostly because of his error. He looked over at his coach in anticipation of what was coming next.
“How you doing?” asked the coach.
Williams shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Fine.”
The coach raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to have to do better than just ‘fine’. Your team is going to need you at your best this week. Are you up to it?”
“It don’t matter,” said the player, looking away. “I’m just the ‘other’ Williams anyways, right?”
“Hey,” the coach half-rose, pointing his finger toward Williams’ chest. “Don’t you ever say that again. You are not a lesser part of this team unless you act like a lesser part of this team. You earned a place here, and no one—not the media, not the fans, not the bloggers—can take that away from you. It wouldn’t matter if all of your teammates had the same last name, you are still an important part of this team. Got that?”
“Yes, coach,” said Williams softly.
The coach paused for a long moment, examining his player. Then he turned to the wall with the projected image. “Okay, then,” he said. “I want to talk about something on this video. I want you to watch it and tell me what you see.”
He pressed a button on the remote and the play unfolded. North Carolina had the ball. Williams was on defense at the top of the key, knees bent, arms wide, face just a few feet from his opponent, who was dribbling in place. The others were scrambling around under the basket and on the wings, trying to make something happen. Second half, the Tar Heels up by three, one minute to go. With eight seconds left on the shot clock, the other North Carolina guard ran up to the man that Williams was guarding and took the ball. Williams immediately left his man and started to double team the other player. Shouts of a countdown came from the crowd as the North Carolina center ran up behind Williams to set a pick, and Williams’ man took a stance outside the three-point line. The other guard passed the ball over Williams’ head. Williams suddenly realized his mistake. Spinning around to reacquire his man, he slammed his shoulder into the North Carolina center and reached out desperately. His attempted block missed and the shot went up, but Williams’ hand had tapped the shooter’s forearm. The basket was good, the foul was called, and the coach signaled for a time-out. In just a few seconds, North Carolina had gone up by six. And it was Williams’ fault.
“Now,” said the coach at his desk, “what do you think I want to talk with you about?”
Williams shrugged. It seemed obvious. “I shouldn’t have left my man. I shouldn’t have doubled.”
“You’re right, that’s true,” said the coach. “But that isn’t what most concerns me.” He rewound to the moment just after the time-out was called. The camera angle had shifted so that there was a good shot of Williams’ face as he made his way off the court. The coach froze the image.
“How would you describe your facial expression there?” he asked the player. Williams studied the face for a moment and half-heartedly relived it.
“I’m mad,” he said.
“Maybe,” said the coach. “But I remember distinctly what you looked like right then. I’ve seen that look before. It isn’t anger, it isn’t embarrassment. People look that way when they lose control in a big moment. That right there is panic.”
The player looked at the still image of his face again. The eyes were wide, the corners of his open mouth drawn down. It was the agonizing expression of someone who couldn’t breathe in a room full of air.
“Williams,” said the coach, leaning forward and drawing the player’s gaze from the video. “We are about to enter the most competitive, intense, and insane tournament experience in the nation. We will be watched not just by our school or our conference, but by the country. You haven’t gone through this yet, but I have. The pressure all the way up to the championship is going to be intense, more so because we’re a one-seed. There is no room for mental meltdowns like the one you had there. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
The player shifted uncomfortably in the chair. The coach felt that he wasn’t getting his point across and was about to explain further when Williams spoke up.
“Control is the goal, but roll with the whole, right?”
The coach mulled over the unexpected bit of wit. It took him a second to realize which spelling of “whole” had been used.
“That’s interesting. Who said that?”
“It’s something my uncle used to say to me in high school because I would get into trouble, get mad at other kids, stuff like that. He said that I had to try and keep my head in things, that when things got crazy I should just try to stay calm and go with it without worrying if I couldn’t control it. It would work out.”
“Good advice,” said the coach. “I didn’t know you had an uncle.”
Williams shrugged. “He ain’t really my uncle. We just called him that ‘cause he would stop in sometimes and take care of us. He knew my dad. I didn’t exactly listen to him much.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” said Williams, uncomfortable with this sudden discussion about his personal life, “the guy who was friends with your drug dealer dad isn’t the guy you should be trusting.”
The coach shook his head and tried to get back to his point. “But he was right. And I want you to take that advice, starting now. The ACC tournament is over, and you can’t change what happened. Roll with it. But now we have a new opportunity. Focus, maintain, stay in the game, just like I always tell you, right? So when it gets crazy again—and they don’t call it March Madness for nothing—I expect to see a different look on your face.”
“Yes, coach,” Williams nodded.
The coach stood up and walked his player out of the office.
“You go out now and be with your teammates. You’re a part of a number one-seeded team in the Big Dance. That’s something to be proud of. Go out, enjoy the moment, call to brag to your mom and your uncle, then get some sleep. You have four days to figure out just what you can give this team during this tournament. We’ll talk about it later, OK?”
“OK,” said Williams. The coach patted his back as he left, then closed the door and walked back to his desk. On the way, he looked up at the frozen image of Williams walking to the bench. In the background, slightly blurry, the coach saw himself, standing with his arms folded, pacing away from the players. The memory of exactly what he felt during that momen
t came back to him, and he sat at his desk to think about listening to his own counsel.
-[East Division]-
[East Division: Play-in Game]
[Tuesday, March 17]
Late in the evening, in a cramped and cluttered apartment in Bridgeport, Connecticut, a massive man sat hunched in front of an outdated computer monitor. Methodically, he clicked through an online satellite map of a street of interest. He marveled at the divine providence that allowed him to observe locations from miles away. Not that he could be stopped if anyone found out what he was planning; he knew their limitations and he knew his strengths. But the freedom of the Web allowed him to operate in anonymity, provided that he was careful, and to do more without the distraction of weak, mortal reprisals. He could fulfill his purpose as intended. After taking a few hand-written notes, he shut down the computer and removed the ethernet cable, just in case.
He put on a thick, dark coat with full pockets, locked the apartment, walked down the many flights of stairs to the street, and stepped into the bitter evening air. No one else was outside, which was good. It wasn’t a safe neighborhood for most people. That suited him. The cold and the fear were his allies, allowing him to practice in privacy.
He stepped into an empty lot near the back of the building. Aided only by lights from the street, he walked over to the faded gray brick wall that bordered the lot on one side. Snow drifts had accumulated on the plywood sheet that he had hidden. He brushed off the wet snow so that the red, round object nailed to the target’s center was clean and visible, then leaned the wood against the wall so it was stable. Once satisfied with its position, he walked twenty paces back to a shallow mound of frozen, exposed dirt.
He adjusted his glasses and looked toward the target. From his pocket, he took out the leather and hemp sling that he himself had woven together and a rough chunk of concrete the size of a chestnut that he had found near the wall. He gazed unblinking at the object nailed to the wood, accumulating enough internal hatred for the thing so that all of his energy would be channeled toward obliterating it. His great, bullish breaths quivered as he recited a tense prayer.
The Lord is my shepherd. I am the rock and the staff…
The tendons in his wrist contracted as he curled his fingers in succession.
I am the hot, cleansing fire, the purger of false prophecy from the green pastures…
He placed the cement in the pocket of the sling, began to whirl it, and raised his leg like a pitcher.
Though I walk in the valley of death, I cannot fear...
The full weight of his body thrust forward explosively as he released the sling.
…and I cannot be stopped.
The brittle projectile hit the poker chip in the dead center; it shattered into several tiny pieces against the target. The collision caused a thud, sharp but thick, followed by the sprinkled impacts of tiny clumps of debris echoing against the buildings in the otherwise quiet night. He adjusted his glasses and looked around to see if anyone heard, if anyone cared. No one came. Satisfied with his first attempt, he took out a larger chunk from his pocket, drew a deep breath, and aimed again.
His mind churned as he practiced. The next place was a good one, a sure target, but somehow it was unsatisfying. He knew that his targets were right. The wicked were becoming as stubble. His success proved the justice of his cause. But something was missing. There was a larger purpose that he had not yet found, a target toward which all of his previous work was building. He knew that if he remained vigilant, he would recognize it when he saw it, when he felt it. It would be unusual and glorious, logical and difficult, the manifest end to his inspired mission.
After ten more practice shots, all direct hits, he carefully wrapped up the sling, put it in his pocket, and headed back home. It was almost 11 o’clock, and he never missed the news.
[East Division: First Round]
[Thursday, March 19]
The icy Connecticut air was relentless, attacking every inch of skin exposed to the morning chill. For Cole Kaman, that meant he could no longer feel the tops of his ears. He made it to the front door of his office without slipping on the icy patch in the walkway, fumbled the keys with his thickly-gloved hands, and heaved inside with a shiver.
I can’t believe it’s like this in March, he thought.
The cubicled offices of the Cheney Real Estate Agency were empty. Cole was always the first one, and the unpleasant morning weather would ensure his solitude for at least another half-hour. He walked over to the switches on the wall and flipped them on one by one, illuminating in a fluorescent glaze the same array of desks, phones, computers, and chairs that he saw every morning. Eight and a half hours until he was off. Sixteen hours until the weekend. He ran his fingers through his floppy black hair and breathed in the smell of Thursday Morning.
Coming in early was not officially part of Cole’s job description, but it had become part of a routine that the other office workers now expected. For him, the advantage was a leisurely start to the day, first dibs on the coffee he made, and a radio station of his choosing. There was a certain contentment in being king of the office for a few moments before succumbing to the title of office lackey. Within a half hour the coffee would be gone, replaced by a stack of to-do items all marked urgent, and the office music would be unceremoniously switched from classic rock to light hits. For reasons he sometimes acknowledged, there was more satisfaction to being alone in a place where privacy was a premium than in being alone in his apartment, where privacy was the default.
After nearly half an hour, Anne Marie Cheney, owner and manager of Cheney Real Estate, entered the building. She hustled in and shook off the snow that had fallen on her wool cap. Her high heels clicked on the tile as she stepped off the doormat.
“Hiya, Cole. How about this weather, huh?” she said brightly. He nodded. She had said almost the exact same thing every work day for the last three and a half months. The click-clack of her high heels followed her as she went into her office.
It was a nice enough job for him. He’d had so many in the last five years, most of them less comfortable, all of them equally unimpressive. For now, he was content where he was, and there was no pressure from within or without to search for something different. In his last job, as a cashier at a home improvement store, it was bad luck that had forced him into switching. The sharp clacking of Anne Marie’s heels evoked the smallest shudder as he recalled being the victim of a disturbing collision between a box of hammers, a potted rhododendron, and a seeing-eye dog.
From the window, Cole watched as each coworker survived the ice and entered with the relief of coming from cold into warm. Tom, Linda, and Nera all arrived within five minutes of each other. Tom said hello to Cole with his eyebrows before slumping into his chair and rubbing his entire face several times. Linda promptly marched over to the radio and changed the station. Nera hung up her coat and brought some papers to Cole’s desk.
“Hey Cole,” she smiled, removing a scarf that clung to her hair.
“Hey. How about this weather, huh?” he replied, instantly loathing himself for not thinking of something else.
“Who cares about the weather?” she retorted. “It’s Opening Day! The good times are going to roll.”
Cole smiled involuntarily every time he talked to Nera, but now he could tell that he looked both goofy and clueless. “Opening Day?”
“For the tourney? March Madness?” She looked at him with surprise, then exasperation. “Tom didn’t explain this to you on Monday?”
“Uhhhhh,” Cole stalled. He did remember. Vaguely. But basketball had never been his thing, and neither had college. So when Tom had told him about the annual office ritual of filling out brackets for the big annual college basketball tournament, he had taken a blank bracket without questions and without enthusiasm and scrawled out his picks almost at random. If he remembered right, he had been eavesdropping on Nera talking about her weekend while he wrote. He had even given up ten dollars without thinking much
about it. In fact, he would have preferred to keep that money.
Now Nera turned on Tom accusingly. “Tom, you didn’t brief Cole about Opening Day?”
“I thought you did,” Tom said. “We better do it now.” Tom motioned Cole over to his desk. He sat forward, his receding hairline glowing under the lamps. Glancing covertly at Anne Marie’s office, he began to speak in unnecessarily low tones.
“Every year, we all fill out our brackets on Monday. On Thursday, the first day of the games, today, we track what happens in the first few games, which start around noon. We used to listen to the games online and make a big deal of marking the brackets after each game ended. But a few years ago, Anne Marie heard a story about how much time people wasted following March Madness games at work. So, she thought of this ‘clever’ way to eliminate waste at work while still keeping up morale.”
He checked his watch. “The games start at noon, and new games start about every two hours. That means there are two big blocks of games during the afternoon of the workday. So what’s going to happen is that Anne Marie is going to call group meetings at 2:00 and 4:00. Everyone has to report on what they did during those two hours, and you need to show that you were productive. At 4:00, at the end of the second meeting, whoever is ahead in the bracket guesses gets to leave an hour early with pay, as long as that person worked through the afternoon. You understand?”
“What about the money?”
“Hey, shhhh.” Tom’s voice lowered even more. “That we keep to ourselves. We’ll give it out at the end of the tournament.”
“Oh,” said Cole, thinking that this just wasn’t as fun as Tom was making it out to be. But he wasn’t the type to spoil a good mood.
Tom cleared off a medium-sized bulletin board on the wall near his desk. He put up, in very neat rows, each handwritten bracket from the office. With the passion of an artist, he explained to Cole that he preferred to have everything filled out and checked by hand instead of having everyone just make their picks online and seeing their wins and losses spewed out by a computer. “It needs to be tangible,” he effused. “It needs to be organic.” Cole’s bracket, messy and hurried, was tacked right next to Nera’s, which had been written carefully.
