Page 7 of Tough Score

Keely

My beer-flashcard-cramming-session and the M&M popcorn from last night paid off.

Oakley's fills up with Hawkeyes fans quickly tonight, even before the first puck drops.

There's nothing better than watching the home team heroes play a heated game against a rival team that pushes into overtime while packed into a local bar with white and turquoise Hawkeyes' jerseys as far as the eye can see.

The energy in this bar is so intoxicating that it reminds me why I love sports so much.

People of all different walks of life, regardless of age, gender, or political affiliation, are all pulling for one singular desire: for their favorite team to win.

I see a lady in her late seventies clinking beer glasses with a biker dude in his leathers and a jacked bodybuilder high-fiving a woman wearing gothic style attire..

And that last play by Reeve Aisa, one of the team's goalies… Well, I've never seen a group of people celebrate so hard the moment the puck slid into the net. I wouldn't be shocked in the least if the jumping up and down by the crowd of people in here cracked the foundation of this building. I swear I could feel it shudder.

The teams' interviews have been over for at least an hour, and I suspect that the players will start streaming in at any moment.

My uncle and two bartenders, Aaron and Emma work diligently behind the bar together, filling orders and taking payments as patrons belly up to the bar to put in their orders and shuffle around the bar with a tray, picking up empty bottles and glasses from tabletops while asking if they would like anything else.

I have yet to look like a stammering idiot when people ask me for a local IPA or if we have any oatmeal stout on the menu. I'm able to list off the ten different flavored hard ciders we carry and the six different brands that brew them.

It's just after eleven when I see the first couple of players walk through the doors in rain jackets and jeans, looking like they got caught in a tsunami. It's been storming all day so it's no surprise that the rain still hasn't let up. After all, it's October, and it's Seattle. Rain is to be expected.

I walk to the back of the bar and set down my tray of empty beer bottles on the counter near my uncle, who's standing by the card reader running a payment.

He stands there waiting for the receipt to print.

"You never told me how the interview went with Sam Roberts," he says.

I shrug and push the tray of empty glasses and beer bottles through a window that leads to a room with a large dishwasher. As soon as Aaron and Emma get caught up with drink orders and don't need my uncle anymore, he'll start a load in the washer and sort the bottles for recycling pick up tomorrow.

"Sam was really nice. But as I suspected when you mentioned that you got me an interview, I'm still a few years of experience away from a position at the professional team level. I appreciate that you called in a favor, though. It was thrilling just to get an interview with the Hawkeyes GM."

"Did he say you were out of the running? Or are you being too hard on yourself as usual?" he asks with one graying, bushy eyebrow downturned with skepticism.

My uncle doesn't mince words or sugarcoat anything, and I like it that way.

My father is the opposite. He always knows what you want to hear in order to lower your defenses.

"It doesn't really matter either way. The job doesn't start for another couple of months, and I need something now. I have an interview tomorrow with one of the local private school athletic directors, and that's promising. She sounded really excited over the phone about our meeting in the morning," I tell him.

The receipt for the card payment finally prints and he tucks it into a black plastic holder with a pen for the customer's signature.

"You're not in that big of a hurry to get a job, are you? You told me that you still have some money in savings, and you can stay in the studio apartment above my garage for as long as you want, Keely."

"I know," I tell him, giving him a reassuring grin. Ever since my father went to prison when I was in eighth grade, my uncle has been checking in on me and my mom frequently. It was tough for him to do a whole lot since he had Oakley's to take care of and lived hundreds of miles away, but I knew I could call him if I needed anything, and he'd show up in a heartbeat. "You've been incredibly generous, and I know that you're not trying to push me out, but the sooner I get back on my feet and start turning Seattle into my home, the better I'll feel."

He purses his lips together but he can’t argue. He knows that this is a huge adjustment for me and that I feel a little bit like a fish out of water after moving away from the city I grew up in.

I was lucky to get into a college not far from home and then I got a job back in Mesa right after school. I’ve never lived anywhere else.

"Did you call Jaxson, the guy who runs the city league soccer team yet? He comes in every week with the Tuesday night co-ed team for drinks after their game. You could talk to him about it then. He said they have another opening. It might be a good place for you to make friends," he says as if he's my mom dropping me off on my first day at a new school.

"I haven't called him,but I will.”

Though I'm still not sure if I'm ready.

My physical therapist, Dr. Jacobs cleared me to play years ago, but going back to play means that I’d have to put myself out there again, which would take me out of the bubble I have become comfortable living in.

---