Falling in Love

by Stephen Bradlee

  Darcy screamed “Yes!” The crowd roared. As she dashed off the field, I wondered if Paula would reprimand Darcy for her Babe Ruth challenge. But they just hugged in ecstasy. Maybe Paula knew that Darcy needed that challenge to kick her best, or was faking it, or whatever. These women were so beyond my thinking that it was a joke for me even try to figure them out.

  The Banshees’ top scorer kicked last. I couldn’t watch. With my eyes clinched shut, I waited, hoping that for once in my life I might get a free ride. Just miss Banshee! When the silence became excruciating, I looked. Whack! She made it look easy. Another goal! Scored tied again. And no one was left but me!

  My worst nightmare had happened! Everything was now down to the biggest loser on earth! Miss Sherry the Disaster!

  I couldn’t move! I was too petrified! Paula marched over to me and yanked on my jersey collar, twisting it so tightly I felt like I was choking. She glared at me. Though I was taller, she seemed to tower over me as she seethed, “You can make this shot! So go do it!”

  She shoved me onto the field so hard that I almost fell down. It was pure Paula. She didn’t urge. She didn’t encourage. She demanded.

  I managed to stumble out to the penalty box and even put down the ball, which trembled in my hands. As I stood up, I felt dizzy and queasy, about to vomit. My head throbbed. My heart pounded so hard I felt like I was going to have a heart attack or bust a blood vessel. I gasped for breath but there was no air anywhere on earth. I waited to pass out. I didn’t. Kick the ball into the stands! Just end this excruciating agony! I was going to miss it anyway! So why bother! Die, cry, something! Just end it! Anyway!

  I clenched my fists to keep my hands from shaking! But then my fists shook! I began hyperventilating so badly, I waited to pass out. But I didn’t pass out!

  I looked at Rachel. Her eyes were piercing, slicing through me, paralyzing me. Her head shook slowly. “No way, Rookie!” she spat. “Not past me!”

  Rookie! If only I was that. How about Joke! A junior high school player up against an Olympic Gold Medalist!

  Somehow, my throbbing ears heard Darcy’s voice. “You can do it, Sherry. You can do it!”

  From somewhere in the stands, I heard Dede’s softly projected voice. “Kill it, Sis.”

  I tried to concentrate. Kick the ball straight at Rachel, like Paula. But if Rachel didn’t move, I’d look like an idiot. But strategy was futile. I couldn’t kick that ball. I couldn’t even move. I could only stand there trembling!

  Try, Sherry! There is no shame in losing if you try. Bullshit. You’ll still be a loser. But Paula hadn’t said, “Go win this game.” She knew I couldn’t do that. She had said, “You can make this shot.” Of course, I could. Countless times in practice. But not while feeling so nauseous that I wanted to die. But I had to somehow end this horrible choking and gasping.

  Then it occurred to me. What if I did nothing? Every goal I ever scored had been done solely by my feet, reacting before I could think about what to do.

  But this wasn’t some instant reflex. That ball was lying there, staring at me. It didn’t matter, I had no choice. This kick was going to be done by my feet alone or not at all. If I missed the ball completely and made a complete fool of myself, then so be it but there was no other way.

  Having made this decision, everything then began swirling into some surreal dream. As if not a part of me, my feet stepped forward. Then I felt my right foot against the ball and it shot to the right as Rachel surged toward the ball. I knew she couldn’t get to it. Then in one terrible, painful moment, I realized why. The ball was heading for the outer edge of goal post. Horrified, I waited for it to bounce off the post and complete my loser life. But at the last moment, like countless times in practice, the ball hooked inside the post and buried itself deep into the net. I couldn’t believe it! We had won! And I had scored the winning goal!

  I tried to jump for joy only to realize that I was already several feet off the ground as I let out some primal scream that had been a lifetime in coming. The stadium was sheer pandemonium and then my teammates were hugging me and slapping me and carrying me off the field.

  The surreal dream continued in a blur of girls, women, boys, men, asking me for autographs or asking me questions or wanting pictures taken with me. Were they crazy? With all the great players on this field? I didn’t care. For one precious short moment, I got to act like a winner and I loved it, basked in it. No matter how far I crashed back down in my life, I would always have this one wonderful magical afternoon when I wasn’t total loser.

  Then somehow, I found myself in a cab beside Paula listening to the Wildcats rendition of Queen’s, “We are the Champions,” singing out, “We are the Champions. Of New York!” Then Paula yanked my head toward her. She was again in my face with her eyes flaring the same fire they had on the field but the rest of her face was soft, rosy and beaming. She declared, “Sherry Johnson, you are a champion, and don’t ever let anyone tell you any differently. Especially you!”

  An awesome surreal dream! And I never wanted to wake up. Only I did. When I saw everyone pouring out of the cab in front of Callahan’s, I felt slapped on the face. The greatest day of my life was destined to end in disaster! And become the worst, and maybe the last, day of my life! I had to run to a group, to be with my own kind. I wasn’t a Wildcat, not on the field and sure as hell not in a bar.

  “No!” I screamed and everyone swiveled around startled. I laughed nervously. “I’m sorry. But I’ve got to be somewhere,” I said. “This was great, really.”

  “Bullshit,” declared Rita and Christine, their arms pinning me between them. “You are going with us.” They were all but carrying me inside when Paula stopped them and they released me.

  As the other Wildcats dove into the bar, Paula turned to me. “Sherry, you don’t have to drink if you don’t want. Nothing will happen to you. I promise. We just want you with us.”

  Paula held the door open. “Come on, if only for a little while.” How could I turn that down? Of course I wanted to be with them. Paula didn’t know me but I knew her. I believed her. I did what she said.

  Inside, the place was packed and rowdy. But the cheering crowd parted for us and I ended up at the bar between Christine and Paula. When they moved off, Rita replaced them. Darcy then arrived decked out in a short cocktail dress and stilettos. Rita moved on and Darcy sat down. Obviously, Paula had told the team to keep an eye on me.

  There were songs and chants and cheers, with constantly raised glasses. No one cared that I kept hoisting high a diet Pepsi. It felt weird to be in a bar, and even weirder to actually be aware of it, that is, being sober in a bar. But I loved feeling like some kind of queen, surrounded by the Wildcats and constantly being offered congratulations and praise. After an hour, I almost believed I deserved it.

  With a Wildcat constantly beside me, I felt secure, until Christine stepped outside to take a call and a tall handsome guy perched on the stool beside me. “Hey, Champ, I’m Chip Benson, two-time All-American with a pro basketball career that we won’t talk about and currently the public relations director for a Fortune 500 company which will remain nameless because both the job and the company are boring.”

  He had obviously had more than a few drinks and being sober made me feel a bit superior and brave. “Then why don’t you quit your job,” I replied. “And do you always give out your resume when you say hello?”

  “Answer one, the bucks. Answer two, only for fellow Champs.” He looked at my nearly empty glass. “Let me buy you a drink.”

  He motioned to the bartender as Darcy sailed by, saying, “Hey, Chip. That’s a Wildcat stool. Get off.”

  “Just keeping it warm for that hot tush of yours, Darling.”

  “Dream on,” she shot back, then turned to me. “Watch him. He’s an asshole when he’s drunk.”

  “Like you’re not,” retorted Chip.

  Darcy turned one last time and smiling sweetly, she retorted, “But I’m a lady asshole.”

  The
Diet Pepsi tasted better than ever but I figured it was because I was feeling so great. By the second one, I was feeling too great and realized what was happening, “You sure this is diet Pepsi?”

  He gave me wink and a wicked smile. “Maybe I just freshened it up a little.”

  Great! I hadn’t drunk a drop of alcohol in almost a year, and now I was half-blasted. I had to get out of there. “I have to go,” I got up.

  “Come on. Just one shot. We always celebrated championships with shots.”

  I remembered refusing and him refusing to let me go. Then I remembered holding a shot while thinking that one shot wouldn’t matter, as long as I left right afterward and went straight home alone.

  Then things got very fuzzy. I remembered saying something to Darcy and then watching Rita and Christine argue with Chip. I said again that I was leaving and Chip yanked me toward the door as Rita and Christine tailed us. There were still two more shots on the bar and I tried to grab one for the road. Instead I knocked it over. The last thing I remembered was that I had desperately wanted to knock back that one last shot.

  The next morning, I woke up in a strange bedroom with a throbbing headache and an uncontrollable urge to kill my fucking worthless myself. After over 297 days sober, I had fallen into that bottomless pit once again. The great day that I had wanted to remember and cherish for the rest of my life had turned into just another nightmare to forget. I wanted to run straight to the Brooklyn Bridge. I could not take it anymore.

  I threw back the covers and searched for my clothes. Strangely, I was still wearing my underwear. That was a first. Then I froze, wondering if Chip, All-American public relations guy, liked to get whipped, too. I glanced nervously around but there was no spilled blood. And I knew that the underwear was mine, a sports bra and prim white panties.

  The pastels and frills around the bedroom revealed a feminine touch. Maybe I had lucked out, and that All-American Chip was in the closet and his big seduction scene just for show. But that was impossible. Luck was something I had never had. More likely he was married. Whatever the reason, it felt too weird. I had to get out fast. But first I had to find a bathroom.

  I yanked open the bedroom door and whacked into a man emerging from a large bedroom. We stared at each other. He was medium height, thin, older and distinguished-looking. Unless I had been way beyond blasted, he couldn’t possibly be the basketball bonehead. He looked vaguely familiar and I was desperately hoping that I had never been so smashed that I had acted out with him! He wondered, “Which one are you?”

  What? How many were there? I spat, “I’m Sherry, not that you need to know or care.”

  “Sherry?” He nodded slightly as if recalling something. Then he headed down the hallway. “Elaine is at a meeting. She’ll be back in a half-hour.”

  Elaine! How the hell did I end up at Elaine’s? And this was Hal? I couldn’t believe it! But then I looked down the long hall and there was the Chinese screen that separated the group-allowed rooms from the private area. Yes, I was at Elaine’s, mortified at finally meeting Elaine’s husband while wearing underwear. He called back, “Coffee’s in the kitchen.” Then he left the apartment. What was he doing home on a weekend? It was all too weird.

  I showered and put on Elaine’s robe, poured a cup of black coffee, went onto the terrace and tried to read the Sunday Times. I wasn’t looking forward to Elaine’s sermon but she strolled in all smiles. “Hal moved back in yesterday,” she informed me.

  Well, at least I picked the right day to act out. The one time I definitely deserved an Elaine sermon, I might not even get one. I rose and hugged her. “I’m really sorry,” I said and then asked, “How did I get here? What happened?”

  “You don’t know.” She laughed. “I always thought that blackouts were gifts from God to keep us from having to relive the horrors but I’m not sure about this one.”

  I tried hard to remember what horror I had managed to live through and slowly the evening began to again unfold.

  I recalled hating myself for knocking back shots with a guy that I didn’t even like. And I remembered trying to call Elaine to tell her that I hoped that she was happy that I was again with a guy because I was not happy at all. But I couldn’t even speed dial her number and as Darcy passed by, I gave her Elaine’s number and my message. Then I remembered staggering out of the bar on that creep’s arm to see Elaine emerging from a taxi.

  “She’s coming with me,” Elaine had informed Chip. When he protested, she exclaimed, “Sherry’s in recovery, you fool.”

  “Get the hell out of here.” Chip pushed Elaine back against the cab.

  Then suddenly Paula was striding toward us on fire. “She’s drunk, and you did it, Asshole.”

  Elaine was looking around for a cop or some help but then Darcy appeared and put her hand on Elaine’s shoulder. “Let Paula handle it.”

  Let Paula handle it! Darcy really said that! The guy was over a foot taller than Paula and had seriously-ripped muscles.

  But Paula stood calmly still and said softly, “Sherry’s going home with her friend.”

  He sneered at her. “Don’t piss me off, Bitch. I’m warning you.”

  Suddenly, I saw the headlines! Olympic Gold Medalist killed in drunken brawl over worthless Sherry! “It’s okay,” I blurted out. “I’ll go with him.”

  “See,” he snorted. “She wants to come with me.”

  Paula didn’t even glance at me. She just stared straight at Chip. “You’re not taking her anywhere,” she seethed.

  Chip let out a malicious laugh. “And who’s going to stop me?”

  Paula spat back, “Me, and my team.”

  I noticed for the first time that we were flanked by Darcy and Christine on our sides with Rita behind us.

  Chip laughed. “Yeah, some real pussies.”

  He yanked my arm and started to walk off. But Paula jumped in front of him. He got into a boxer’s stance, legs wide apart and he cocked his fist. “I’m warning you for the last fucking time.”

  But Paula stood defiant. She hissed, “You really want to mess with four women who can all kick, dead center?” She added, “How high would you like your voice?”

  Christine slowly began singing the scales, “Do. Re. Mi.” Then she jumped an octave and sang, “Fal. Set. Toe.”

  Chip glowered at Paula, his legs still wide apart. Then he glanced down at Darcy’s stilettos and started to look a little nervous. Finally, he jerked away my arm and snapped, “Take her. She’s probably a lousy lay anyway.”

  “You’ll never know,” Paula shot back.

  He strode back into the bar as Paula helped me over to the cab. Elaine looked stunned. “I know mean drunks,” she observed. “I was afraid he’d kill you.”

  Paula was still incensed. “He got off easy.” She turned to me. “I’m so sorry, Sherry. As long as I live, I’ll never forgive myself for ruining your sobriety.”

  I just stared at her, unable to explain.

  Elaine answered for me. “Alcohol is a symptom, not her disease. You saved her sobriety.”

  “What?” Paula stared at Elaine, a woman who never lied and a woman who couldn’t be conned. Then Paula let out a long sigh. “Thank you, Lord. I owe you big time.”

  She hugged me and eased me into the taxi, promising to call me later.

  Now, as it had all come back to me, I felt so grateful to both Elaine and to the Wildcats but I also felt terribly embarrassed and ashamed that I had caused so much trouble.

  “Sherry,” Elaine said. “You can beat yourself up all you want, or you could see this as reinforcement that a bar is a dangerous place for you, and that you can’t do this alone. But the way I see is that those women got you into that mess, and they got you out, and for that you should be grateful.”

  I was beyond grateful.

  “Want to see something?” she asked. “A couple guys at group saw it.” She had returned with all the New York papers and we sifted through the Sports sections. Each paper had an article on the Champio
nship Game and they all mentioned me. The Daily News had a picture of me leaping into the air after I had scored the winning goal. Under the photo the caption read, “A New Champion.” I stared at my picture. I had never seen that look on my face before—of pure joy.

  But of course, I had to think of something negative. Amid my ecstatic teammates sprinting toward me, only Christine was giving me the ultimate Wildcat salute, the thumbs up. I still wasn’t a part of the team.

  Of course, that didn’t stop me from buying several copies of each paper. I put the Daily News article with my picture into an envelope and addressed it to Aunt Dottie. I just wanted to let her know that I finally did something worthwhile in soccer. I didn’t have a stamp so I set it on my coffee table until I bought one.

  Paula called three times on Sunday. I waited until Monday noon to call her home and say that I was okay. I wanted to thank her for Saturday night but I couldn’t come up with the words, so I hung up.

  That morning, Adam had told me that he and his family had been at the Championship Game and they had all agreed that it was the best game they had ever seen. I thanked him politely, not really wanting to talk about it. But I did tape to the bottom of my computer my new aphorism: ‘Sherry Johnson, you are a champion and don’t ever let anyone tell you any differently, especially you.’ – Paula Harper.

  Maybe one day I would believe it.

  When I returned from lunch, amid the documents in Adam’s outbox were two programs from the Championship Game. Each had a page with four signatures: Paula, Darcy, Christine and Rita.

  He informed me, “I told the girls that they didn’t need to try to get your autograph because I said I could score it for them. CJ said that she got yours after the Foxes game but she couldn’t really read it.” That was probably true. I always scribbled my signature, so that when I screwed up no one would really know who I was. “I assured CJ that I’ve seen your signature and it is beautiful.” He was right, of course. My real signature could win a penmanship prize.