Page 84 of Lovely War
TWENTY-SIX
Quincy may not be visiblein the locker room at the Superdome, but he’s easy to find. Look for the throng of reporters packed five deep, microphones and recording devices aimed inward at a central point. He’s the central point.
Taylor and I slump against the wall in the corner. Taylor is eating trail mix from a reusable silicone pouch. I’m putting all my weight on one foot and then the other in turns, trying to give each one a break from the pinch of my shoes. I let my head tip back against the concrete.
“Should we be filming that?” Taylor asks, her forehead contracting. She examines a raisin and drops it back into the pouch.
I make no move for my camera. “I think those eighty-four journalists have it covered.”
In Taylor’s defense, I often record this kind of thing. But I’ve already gotten plenty of footage today, and Quincy’s learned enough by now to stick to the same rote answers he’sbeen giving all week. This won’t be anything new. Also, it’s been a long day, and it’s only ten in the morning.
“The semifinal game tonight against UNC will be the biggest game you’ve ever played in,” one reporter says. “How are you handling the pressure?”
“Just trying to concentrate on what we’re here to do,” Quincy says. “Preparing for the game, staying off my phone, and sticking to our normal routines as much as we can.”
During their downtime yesterday, he and JGE convened a meeting of their two-person club to discuss the Super Mario podcast. Sticking to the usual routine hasn’t been easy. All week the college basketball marketing machine has taken Coach Thomas’s efforts to keep the team insulated from distractions and blown them up like an overproduced pregame fireworks show. Photo shoots, press conferences, open practice for fans and press to observe. It’s been fun at times, no doubt, but it’s awfully difficult to focus on basketball.
Not even the locker room is a refuge. Dozens of strangers with ID badges around their necks are milling around. The room’s cinder block walls have been frosted with banners and signs bearing the Ardwyn name and team colors, the NCAA logo, and the tournament’s slogan:The Road Ends Here.
The spectacle peaks today and Monday, but it started as soon as our feet touched the ground in New Orleans. When the plane landed, airport employees rolled out a custom carpet in Ardwyn Blue, and a brass band played as we walked into the terminal. Fans in team gear populated the restroom lines, which coiled past the snack kiosk like four-colored snakes. When we walked by, the dark blue parts of the snakes cheered.
It was easier to focus once we arrived at the hotel. It’s inan unfortunate location on Canal Street, and outside it smells like hot rum garbage and sugar-dusted spring break. But it’s reasonably quiet, and the room I share with Jess overlooks an endless row of palm trees with fronds like waving hands. Every so often a red streetcar moseys by. Between the two big hotels across the street peeks a cluster of colorful buildings with cast-iron balconies, the tiniest glimpse of the French Quarter.
“How is the atmosphere here in New Orleans?” another reporter asks Quincy, stretching his arm to get his tape recorder closer.
“Great,” Quincy says. “We haven’t had a chance to see much of the city, but the staff here at the stadium is so welcoming, and you can’t beat the weather.”
His media training has paid off. Every day here has been the same: meals, film, and rest in the hotel, practice and everything else at the stadium. Back and forth, up and down Poydras Street on the bus.
“UNC has no freshmen in their starting lineup,” one of the journalists says. “Do you think their experience gives them an advantage?”
“This is the Final Four, so I expect a tough game. All I can say is that my mindset has changed and I’ve grown a lot this year. The experience I’ve gained has been priceless for me, and I’m so grateful for it.”
It dawns on me that those sound an awful lot like the words of someone reflecting on the looming end of his college career. I guess he’s made his choice.
Jess ambles over, tugging on her sagging beanie. “My phone is dead.”
Taylor pops an almond into her mouth and chews. “Wall charger or portable charger?”
“Portable, please.” Jess holds out her hand.
Taylor pulls one out of her bag. Jess reaches out for it, but Taylor draws her hand back. “You should really carry one of these yourself. You use your phone for work.”
Jess takes Taylor’s face in her hands. “You are seen, valued, and appreciated,” she says.
Taylor emits a tiny, incomprehensible squeak.
As the group of reporters moves from Quincy to JGE like one living organism, the locker room door opens. Eric slips in. He stops to talk to Coach Williams, who holds a clipboard between them and the reporters at mouth level, as if somebody might try to read their lips. When they’re done, Eric works his way through the crowd to me.
His eyes brighten when he sees my outfit. “You look like Ms. Weston.”
Ms. Weston was an ancient hippie who taught psychology at our high school. The main thing I learned from her—well, from reaching into her car every Monday to help carry a box of books inside—was how to identify the smell of hash. I look down at my floaty skirt and patterned blouse. Hm. Eric may be on to something. “I’m both thrilled and horrified.”
He angles his body to cut Taylor and Jess off from the conversation. Not that they’re paying attention. Jess has the charger now, but they’re talking about how to get a replacement for Jess’s headphones, which she left on the plane.
“Arizona Tech just went into their locker room, so we should be fine,” Eric says in a low voice. The teams follow a staggered schedule, so if the Rattlers are in the locker room,there’s no chance of running into Maynard in the hallway when we head out to the court for shoot-around.
The knot that’s occupied my stomach all week loosens for the moment. “Good.” I nod once, a wordlessthank you.Eric offers me a high five, same as he would for a player who needed encouragement.
