"You got a problem?" he said.
"These are ten-year-old kids."
"Right, sure, kids. What are you--one of those namby-pamby, touchy-feely daddies who thinks everyone should be equal on the court? No one should get their feelings hurt, no one should win or lose . . . hey, maybe we shouldn't even keep score, right?"
The Kasselton assistant coach came over. He had on a matching shirt that read "Assistant Coach Pat." "Bobby? Second half's about to start."
I took a step closer. "Just knock it off."
Coach Bobby gave me the predictable smirk and reply. "Or what?"
"He's a sensitive boy."
"Boo hoo. If he's that sensitive, maybe he shouldn't play."
"And maybe you shouldn't coach."
Assistant Coach Pat stepped forward then. He looked at me, and that knowing smile I was all too familiar with spread across his face. "Well, well, well."
Coach Bobby said, "What?"
"Do you know who this guy is?"
"Who?"
"Myron Bolitar."
You could see Coach Bobby working the name, as if his forehead had a window and the squirrel running on the little track was picking up speed. When the synapses stopped firing, Coach Bobby's grin practically ripped the boy-band goatee at the corners.
"That big 'superstar'"--he actually made quotation marks with his fingers--"who couldn't hack it in the pros? The world-famous first-round bust?"
"The very one," Assistant Coach Pat added.
"Now I get it."
"Hey, Coach Bobby?" I said.
"What?"
"Just leave the kid alone."
The brow thickened. "You don't want to mess with me," he said.
"You're right. I don't. I want you to leave the kid alone."
"Not a chance, pal." He smiled and moved a little closer to me. "You got a problem with that?"
"I do, very much."
"So how about you and me discuss this further after the game? Privately?"
Flares started lighting up my veins. "Are you challenging me to a fight?"
"Yep. Unless, of course, you're chicken. Are you chicken?"
"I'm not chicken," I said.
Sometimes I'm good with the snappy comebacks. Try to keep up.
"I got a game to coach. But then you and me, we settle this. You got me?"
"Got you," I said.
Again with the snappy. I'm on a roll.
Coach Bobby put his finger in my face. I debated biting it off--that always gets a man's attention. "You're a dead man, Bolitar. You hear me? A dead man."
"A deaf man?" I said.
"A dead man."
"Oh, good, because if I were a deaf man, I wouldn't be able to hear you. Come to think of it, if I were a dead man, I wouldn't be able to either."
The horn sounded. Assistant Coach Pat said, "Come on, Bobby."
"Dead man," he said one more time.
I cupped my hand to my ear, hard-of-hearing style, and shouted, "What?" but he had already spun away.
I watched him. He had that confident, slow swagger, shoulders back, arms swaying a tad too much. I was going to yell out something stupid when I felt a hand on my arm. I turned. It was Ali, Jack's mother.
"What was that all about?" Ali asked.
Ali had these big green eyes and this cute, wide-open face I found fairly irresistible. I wanted to pick her up and smother her with kisses, but some might deem this the wrong venue.
"Nothing," I said.
"How did the first half go?"
"We're down by two, I think."
"Did Jack score?"
"I don't think so, no."
Ali studied my face for a moment and saw something she didn't like. I turned away and headed back up the stands. I sat. Ali sat next to me. Two minutes into the game, Ali said, "So what's the matter?"
"Nothing."
I shifted in the uncomfortable bleacher.
"Liar," Ali said.
"Just getting into the game."
"Liar."
I glanced over at her, at the lovely, open face, at the freckles that shouldn't be there at this age but made her damn adorable, and saw something too. "You look a little distracted yourself."
Not just today, I thought, but for the past few weeks things had not been great between us. Ali had been distant and troubled and wouldn't talk about it. I had been pretty busy with work myself so I hadn't pushed it.
Ali kept her eyes on the court. "Did Jack play well?"
"Fine," I said. Then I added, "What time is your flight tomorrow?"
"Three."
"I'll drive you to the airport."
Ali's daughter, Erin, was matriculating at Arizona State. Ali, Erin, and Jack were flying out for the week to get the freshman settled.
"That's okay. I already hired a car."
"I'd be happy to drive."
"It'll be fine."
Her voice cut off any further discussions on that issue. I tried to settle back and watch the game. My pulse still raced. A few minutes later, Ali asked, "Why do you keep staring at the other coach?"
"Which coach?"
"The one with the bad cable-show dye job and Robin Hood facial hair."
"Looking for grooming tips," I said.
She almost smiled.
"Did Jack play a lot in the first half?"
"Usual amount," I said.
The game ended, Kasselton winning by three. The crowd erupted. Jack's coach, a good guy by all counts, had chosen not to play him at all in the second half. Ali was a tad perturbed by this--the coach was usually good about giving kids equal time--but she decided to let it go.
The teams disappeared into corners for the postgame spiel. Ali and I waited outside the gym door, in the school corridor. It didn't take long. Coach Bobby started toward me, the same swagger, though now his hands had tightened into fists. He had three other guys with him, including Assistant Coach Pat, all big and overweight and not nearly as tough as they thought they were. Coach Bobby stopped about a yard short of yours truly. His three compadres spread out and folded their arms and stared at me.
For a moment no one spoke. They just gave me the hard eyes.
"Is this the part where I pee in my pants?" I asked.
Coach Bobby started with the finger again. "Do you know the Landmark Bar in Livingston?"
"Sure," I said.
"Tonight at ten. Back parking lot."
"That's past my curfew," I said. "And I'm not that kind of date. Dinner first. Maybe bring flowers."
"If you don't show"--he moved in closer with the finger--"I will find some other way to get satisfaction. You get me?"
I didn't but before I could ask for clarification he stomped off. His buddies followed suit. They looked back at me. I gave them all a five-finger toodle-loo wave. When one of them let his stare linger past the comfort zone, I blew him a kiss. He turned away as if he'd been slapped.
Blowing a kiss--my favorite rile-up-the-homophobe move.
I turned to Ali, saw her face, thought Uh-oh . . .
"What the hell was that?"
"Something happened during the game before you got here," I said.
"What?"
I told her.
"So you confronted the coach?"
"Yes."
"Why?" she asked.
"What do you mean, why?"
"You made it worse. He's a blowhard. The kids get that."
"Jack was practically in tears."
"Then I'll handle it. I don't need your macho posturing."
"It wasn't macho posturing. I wanted him to stop picking on Jack."
"No wonder Jack didn't get to play in the second half. His coach probably saw your idiotic display and was smart enough not to fan the flames. Do you feel better now?"
"Not yet, no," I said, "but after I smash his face in at the Landmark, yeah, I think I will."
"Don't even think about it."
"You heard what he said."
Ali shook her head. "I can't believe this. Wha
t the hell is wrong with you?"
"I was sticking up for Jack."
"That's not your place. You have no right here. You're . . ."
She stopped.
"Say it, Ali."
She closed her eyes.
"You're right. I'm not his father."
"That's not what I was going to say."
It was, but I let it go. "Maybe it's not my place, if it was about that--except that wasn't it. I would have gone after that guy even if he said it about another kid."
"Why?"
"Because it's wrong."
"And who are you to make that call?"
"What call? There's wrong. There's right. He was wrong."
"He's an arrogant ass. Some people are. That's life. Jack understands that, or he will with experience. That's part of growing up--dealing with asses. Don't you see that?"
I said nothing.
"And if my son was so gravely wounded," Ali said between clenched teeth, "who do you think you are to not tell me? I even asked why you two were talking at halftime, remember?"
"I do."
"You said it was nothing. What were you thinking--humble the little lady?"
"No, of course not."
Ali shook her head and stopped talking.
"What?" I asked.
"I let you get too close to him," she said.
I felt my heart nose-dive.
"Damn," she said.
I waited.
"For a wonderful guy who is usually so damn perceptive, you can be pretty obtuse sometimes."
"Maybe I shouldn't have gone after him, okay? But if you'd been there when he yelled at Jack to do it again, if you'd seen Jack's face . . ."
"I'm not talking about that."
I stopped, considered. "Then you're right. I am obtuse."
I'm six four, Ali a foot shorter. She stood close and looked way up at me. "I'm not going to Arizona to get Erin settled. Or at least not just for that. My parents live there. And his parents live there."
I knew who his referred to--her late husband, the ghost I've learned to accept and even, at times, embrace. The ghost never leaves. I'm not sure that he ever should, though there are times I wish he would and of course that's a horrible thing to think.
"They--I mean, both sets of grandparents--want us to move out there. So we can be near them. It makes sense when you think about it."
I nodded because I didn't know what else to do.
"Jack and Erin and, heck, me too, we need that."
"Need what?"
"Family. His parents need to be part of Jack's life. They can't handle the cold weather up here anymore. Do you understand that?"
"Of course I understand."
My words sounded funny in my own ears, as if someone else were saying them.
"My parents found a place they want us to look at," Ali said. "It's in the same condo development as theirs."
"Condos are nice," I said, babbling. "Low maintenance. You pay that one monthly fee and that's it, right?"
Now she said nothing.
"So," I said, "to put it right out there, what does this mean for us?"
"Do you want to move to Scottsdale?" she asked.
I hesitated.
She put a hand on my arm. "Look at me."
I did. And then she said something I never saw coming:
"We're not forever, Myron. We both know that."
A group of kids rushed past us. One bumped into me and actually said, "Excuse me." A ref blew a whistle. A horn sounded.
"Mom?"
Jack, bless his little heart, appeared around the corner. We both snapped out of it and smiled toward him. He did not smile back. Usually, no matter how awful he'd played, Jack came bounding out like a born-again puppy, offering up smiles and high fives. Part of the kid's charm. But not today.
"Hey, kiddo," I said, because I wasn't sure what to say. Lots of times I hear people in similar situations say, "Good game," but kids know that it's a lie and that they're being patronized and that just makes it worse.
Jack ran over to me, wrapped his arms around my waist, buried his face in my chest, started to sob. I felt my heart crack anew. I stood there, cupping the back of his head. Ali was watching my face. I didn't like what I saw.
"Tough day," I said. "We all have them. Don't let it get to you, okay? You did your best, that's all you can do." Then I added something the boy would never understand but was absolutely true: "These games aren't really that important."
Ali put her hands on her son's shoulder. He let go of me, turned to her, buried his face again. We stood there like that for a minute, until he calmed down. Then I clapped my hands and forced up a smile.
"Anyone up for ice cream?"
Jack rebounded fast. "Me!"
"Not today," Ali said. "We need to pack and get ready."
Jack frowned.
"Maybe another time."
I expected Jack to give an "awww, Mom," but maybe he heard something in her tone too. He tilted his head and then turned back to me without another word. We knuckled up--that was how we said hello and good-bye, the fist-knuckle salute--and Jack started for the door.
Ali gestured with her eyes for me to look right. I followed the gesture to Coach Bobby. "Don't you dare fight him," she said.
"He challenged me," I said.
"The bigger man steps away."
"In the movies maybe. In places filled with pixie dust and Easter Bunnies and pretty fairies. But in real life, the man who steps away is considered a big-time wuss."
"Then for me, okay? For Jack. Don't go to that bar tonight. Promise me."
"He said if I didn't show, he'd get satisfaction or something."
"He's a blowhard. Promise me."
She made me meet her eyes.
I hesitated but not for long. "Okay, I won't show."
She turned to walk away. There was no kiss, not even a buss on the cheek.
"Ali?"
"What?"
The corridor suddenly seemed very empty.
"Are we breaking up?"
"Do you want to live in Scottsdale?"
"You want an answer right now?"
"No. But I already know the answer. So do you."
3
I'M not sure how much time passed. Probably a minute or two. Then I headed out to my car. The skies were gray. A drizzle coated me. I stopped for a moment, closed my eyes, raised my face to the heavens. I thought about Ali. I thought about Terese in a boutique hotel in Paris.
I lowered my face, took two more steps--and that was when I spotted Coach Bobby and his buddies in a Ford Expedition.
Sigh.
All four of them were there: Assistant Coach Pat drove, Coach Bobby was in the passenger seat, the other two slabs of beef sat in the back. I took out my mobile phone and hit the speed-dial button one. Win answered on the first ring.
"Articulate," Win said.
That's how he always answers the phone, even when he can clearly see on the caller ID that it's me, and yes, it is annoying.
"You better circle back," I said.
"Oh," Win said, his voice kid-on-Christmas-morning happy, "goodie, goodie."
"How long will it take?"
"I'm just down the street. I suspected something like this might occur."
"Don't shoot anyone," I said.
"Yes, Mother."
My car was parked near the back of the lot. The Expedition followed slowly. The drizzle picked up a bit. I wondered what their plan was--something moronically macho, no doubt--and decided to just play it as it lays.
Win's Jag appeared and waited in the distance. I drive a Ford Taurus, aka The Chick Trawler. Win hates my car. He won't sit in it. I took out my keys and hit the remote. The car made that little ding noise and unlocked. I slipped inside. The Expedition made its big move then. It raced forward and stopped directly behind the Taurus, blocking me in. Coach Bobby jumped out first, petting his goatee. His two buddies followed.
I sighed and watched their approach in my rearview mi
rror.
"Something I can do for you?" I said.
"Heard your girl chewing you out," he said.
"Eavesdropping is considered rude, Coach Bobby."
"I figured maybe you'd change your mind and wouldn't show. So I thought we could settle this now. Right here."
Coach Bobby leaned his face right into mine.
"Unless you're chicken."
I said, "Did you have tuna for lunch?"
Win's Jaguar pulled up next to the Expedition. Coach Bobby took a step back and narrowed his eyes. Win got out. The four men looked at him and frowned.
"Who the hell is he?"
Win smiled and raised his hand as if he'd just been introduced on a talk show and wanted to acknowledge the applause of the studio audience. "Nice to be here," he said. "Thank you very much."
"He's a friend," I said. "Here to even up the odds."
"Him?" Bobby laughed. His chorus joined in. "Oh yeah, sure."
I got out of the car. Win moved a little closer to the three buddies.
Coach Bobby said, "I'm so gonna kick your ass."
I shrugged. "Take your best shot."
"Too many people around. There's a clearing in the woods right behind that field," he said, pointing the way. "No one will bother us there."
Win asked, "How, pray tell, do you know about this clearing?"
"I went to high school here. Kicked a lot of ass back there." He actually puffed out his chest as he added: "I was also captain of the football team."
"Wow," Win said in a perfect monotone. "Can I wear your varsity jacket to the prom?"
Coach Bobby pointed a beefy finger in Win's direction. "You'll be using it to soak up blood, you don't shut up."
Win tried very hard not to look overly giddy.
I thought about my promise to Ali. "We're two mature adults," I said. Each word felt like I was spitting out broken glass. "We should be above resorting to fisticuffs, don't you think?"
I looked past him toward Win. Win was frowning. "Did you really use the term 'fisticuffs'?"
Coach Bobby moved into my personal space. "You chicken?"
Again with the chicken.
But I was the bigger man--and the bigger man's the one who walks away. Sure, right.
"Yes," I said, "I'm chicken. Happy?"
"You hear that guys? He's chicken."
I winced but stayed strong. Or weak, depending on how you want to look at it. Yep, the bigger man. That was me.
I don't think I have ever seen Win look so crestfallen.
"Do you mind moving your car now so I can go?" I asked.
"Okay," Coach Bobby said, "but I warned you."
"Warned me about what?"
He was back in my personal space. "You don't want to fight, fine. But then it's hunting season on your boy out there."
I felt a rush of blood in my ears.