Page 12 of Loving the Legend
“Mr. Washington in the flesh,” he says, voice buttery smooth like velvet.
“Hey, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” I reply.
His gaze scans over my face, leaving a trace of warmth in its trail.
His presence evokes a memory I haven’t thought about in years. My mom used to convince me to meditate by bribing me with dessert. One time, she’d bribed me with homemade chocolate glazed doughnuts. We sat and meditated while the dough was doing something Mom called proofing. I swear an hour had passed when I peeked an eye open to check the time. Groaning, I saw that the long hand had only moved nine spaces forward. I stole a glance at Mom and did a double-take. She was glowing like the fireflies we searched for during evening strolls in the summertime. My neck tilted back as I watched the sunlight orbit around her like she was in the center of the galaxy. She sat so perfectly still that waves of calming energy wafted over me. I nearly jumped out of my skin when the kitchen timer went off. I thought only minutes had passed when time had leaped.
I asked her what she saw when she meditated. She imagined a utopia with crystal clear waters with healing properties so potent that a few minutes of soaking soothed all the aches from her body. Lilies, poppies, and lavender cover the land, but jasmine perfumes the air. Elephants and gentle wild cats roam. A grand swing sweeps her up to an enchanted house that sitsat the summit of a mountain. Inside the house is a room with a large bed full of the fluffiest pillows and softest bedding. She has the best naps of her life there. Glass walls offer sweeping views of the land. She said it’s the safest place in the entire universe since nothing bad can happen there—a land where her soul dwells.
I am strangely reminded of Mom’s utopia, gazing into the depths of Sid’s eyes.
“You know, most college nicknames are ridiculous, but yours tracks,” he says.
The brimming, resonant tone of his voice passes through me like a gentle charge. I take a steadying breath. “Is that right?”
Wait, did he just say that I’m pretty?I accept the compliment instead of clarifying the true meaning of my moniker.
I wrap my hand around the hand he’s extended and fall into the pull of his dap. As my chest rests against him, I absorb every bit of the five inches he has on me at six-foot-nine, and the bulk of his muscle mass. I imagine a full hug would be like a swaddle. I pull away from the hug, but not before I absorb his heavenly cologne. It’s distinct.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you too. Congratulations on breaking my record. I’m selfishly glad it was you. I think you bring something fresh to the game,” he says, removing his coat and beanie. The sides of his fade are shaved in geometric patterns. Everything works on this guy. It’s kind of ridiculous.
He thanks the wardrobe attendant standing by as he hands her his coat, scarf, and beanie, then retrieves his phone and a sheet of paper from his coat pocket. He asks her if keeping his corduroys is fine but switches to the sweater picked out. She asks who the designer is, and he explains the pants are by an up-and-coming designer out of Brooklyn.
She flicks long strands of hair off her shoulder, leans in, and says, “The Wonder Kid can do whatever he wants. I’d never tell.”It’s forward and flirtatious. He’s used to or misses it because his only reply is, “Cool. Thank you.”
He turns back to me and passes me his phone and paper to hold while he removes his sweatshirt. He’s wearing a tight-fitting cotton tank underneath. My eyes graze the indent of his nipple ring as he throws the royal blue sweater over his head and takes in the fit.
He shrugs. “I think it works.”
Of course, it works.
“Good lookin’ out,” he says as he retrieves his phone and paper from me. The attendant takes his original sweater and departs.
He grabs a glass bottle of water from the table before we get started. Our chairs face each other roughly four feet apart, and there is a microphone overhead, and one attached to us. We run a few sound and camera checks. Makeup is minimal for us. We go over the details and structure of the interview with the director. The structure is simple—we’re the interviewers. Sid and I will take turns asking each other whatever we want. If there are questions we’re uncomfortable answering, we can just say “Next question,” and it’ll be edited out. We’ll both receive the final version for sign-off as our contract stipulates. We flip a coin to decide who will ask the first question, and Sid wins the toss. He opens up the paper he’s placed on the side table, and I realize he’s prepared questions. I rub my sweaty palms against my thighs, regretting my decision to wing it.
The camera rolls.
“Hello, people of the world, I’m Sid King, and this is Ty Washington, and like me, you can see he’s awful pretty,” he says, spot-on impersonating a famous boxer.
The room erupts into laughter, myself included.
Sid grins, a glint of mischief whirling in his eyes. “First and foremost, Ty”—he leans back, hooking an arm over his chair—“congratulations again on tallying thirty points and eleven rebounds in your ninth game as a rookie. How does it feel to have made history in your first season in the league?”
His professional but relaxed interview style throws me for a second.
“Uh, thanks,” I reply.
He nods for me to continue.
“It’s great. I, uh, tend to focus on the next thing instead of spending too much time reflecting on the wins.” This is a half-truth. What good are the wins if the people you love most aren’t here to celebrate them?
“I can kinda relate to that. When you’ve lived in survival mode for most of your life, it’s really hard to find comfort in achievement and wins. We’re geared to move towards the next thing,” he says, unhooking his arm from over the chair to lean forward slightly. “I sometimes think the act of reflection is for when I'm an old geezer, swaying in a rocking chair on my porch, looking back over my life. For now, I want to stay in the arena and reach new bounds.”
“Me too. Though there is value in celebrating the wins in real-time with the people that matter most to you.”
A knowing expression crawls across his face.
It’s my turn to ask a question. “If you could have a career other than basketball, what would it be?” I pull down the hem of my pants around my ankle, wishing there was a pill for moments like this that could help me forget myself. I’m convinced there’s an inverse relationship between joy and self-consciousness.
