Sunlight splinters through the trees on this gorgeous late June evenin. I’m in a reclined position on our patio furniture which used to not bend like this, but has been worked in through the years and has almost melded to my body. The beer in my hand is cold, almost too cold to the touch – the way I like it. My eight year old son is perched on the front steps of the porch just a few feet from me. A picturesque scene, what more could a man ask for, what more should he ask for? The feeling in my stomach returns and I writhe in temporary discomfort, shifting in my seat. Taking a big gulp of too-cold beer it washes through my insides coating my throat then into my stomach. That uneasy feeling has been stronger than usual of late. My wife insists it’s from when I drink and wants me to see the doctor, but I hate doctors. Truth be told, it’s been awhile since I’ve trusted any appointed ‘experts’ in any field; no good seems to come from ‘experts’. No doctor can cure this feeling though. There’s no pills, no medication, no procedures, nothing medicinal that can help me. Painful emotions have cemented into something tangible. You know how older couples who have been married many years often die within a short time of each other. The husband passes, and not six months later the wife has lost the strength and no longer holds on. That’s the best way I can describe this feeling, but instead of letting go because of the pain I’ve decided to hold onto it. Just as you can’t separate conjoined twins, this feeling can’t be removed, it is a part of me. I became acutely aware of what was happening to me in 2015. After seeing NBA franchises being sold at fire sale prices I knew it was over, but like a parent whose child disappears, I just always held out hope, no matter how improbable, that the league would return. Even when players like Dwayne Wade, and Chris Paul were signing lucrative long-term contracts in Greece and Spain, I still held out hope that they would return. After the league completely disbanded, owners were salvaging what little money they could. Not until I saw the New Orleans Hornets sold for a paltry $500,000, and the Milwaukee Bucks sold for a meager $437,000 did it really start to sink in that my NBA was gone, and never coming home. Not until the LA Lakers were sold for $720,000, to a USC fraternity who purchased it for pure novelty, did I officially begin the mourning process. It was time for me to move on. I settled down with a girl, Patricia - not terrible looking, but not too attractive either. In short time we started a family, Jordan, our daughter, and Michael our son. My son chose this particular evening to ask me about his name, “Dad, Mom says that I was named after a sports guy.”
“You sure were.” I responded glowingly, “you were named after Michael Jordan himself.”
“Oh, um, who is that?”
“Hahaha, you’re too young to remember him, but he is a famous basketball player, a ferocious competitor. When I was growing up my friends and I all wanted to be like him. He’s hands down the greatest player in the history of the NBA.” I pause as a wave of nostalgic euphoria shoots through me. Pride overwhelms me as I think that my children, especially my son, will carry on this name. However, as if I was being violently awoken from a wonderful dream my son asks, “ Dad…what’s the NBA?”
That uneasy feeling returns, it’s like bile filling an empty crater. I recline in my chair, and take a large swig finishing off my beer. I reach into the cooler beside me and pull out another too cold brew that has a couple ice cubes stuck to the can. “Michael, how about I start calling you by your middle name?”
No comments:
Post a Comment