Page 88 of Lovely War
Dad’s last championship was Quincy’s freshman year, and I remember him saying that, deadpan like always: “I’d rather be luckyandgood.” The game was at Rutgers, in an arena much bigger than any others the team had played in, and the players were nervous. “You can’t do much about the luck part,” Dad told them. “But you can do a lot about the good. And we have, by putting in the work this season. Being a champion is special and rare. You’ve worked all season, your whole lives, really, toward the next thirty-two minutes. That work—not whatever happens in this game—has made you into the people you are, the guys I’m proud to coach. Being champions would be icing on the cake. Now go take your shot.”
I’m using shots from practice, the players doing drills and conditioning, sweat pouring down their faces. Walking to the weight room before sunrise, snow on the ground. Sitting in the film room, studying tape. These images are interspersed with quick, sudden transitions to the biggest moments of the season, the flashiest dunks, the most impressive three-pointers, the raucous student section. Then I took some old film of Quincy at fourteen staring at the basket, ready to shoot a free throw, and found a similar shot from this season. I morphed the first into the second, so it looks like he’s growing up on-camera. JGE and Gallimore gave me some ancient travel ball videos, and I used a similar effect on them.
“Who have you become by playing basketball?” MichaelB. Jordan will ask. “What has this game given you? And with this opportunity, what will you give this game?”
When I finish for the night, I check the result of the Arizona Tech game, even though I know what I’m going to find. Despite their moxie and the fact that most of the country was cheering for them, Iowa Plains’s luck has finally run out. And so, it seems, has mine.
We’re playing Maynard on Monday.
TWENTY-SEVEN
When the audio track forthe hype video hits my inbox, I open the file so fast the sender probably hasn’t taken his finger off the mouse yet. I’ve been refreshing my email all morning waiting for it. Of course it couldn’t arrive when I was eating a granola bar in the hotel room with Jess this morning, watching hungover UNC fans in powder blue shirts stagger down the street from the window. Or during the bus ride or the team meeting.
It has to land now, when I’m standing in the middle of the concourse at the Superdome, enveloped in chaos. Dozens of reporters surround me, yakking with each other and shouting into their phones, waiting for the doors to the interview room to open. Every so often a golf cart noses its way through the masses, ferrying equipment. A constant stream of people pause by the trash can behind me to chug the remains of the complimentary coffee and toss their empty cups. Not an ideal listening spot.
I scramble for my headphones and press play, struggling to listen as JJ Jones waves at me from a distance, dressed like an Easter egg. I try squeezing them tighter against my head, but it doesn’t help. The audio isn’t the problem. My headphones are top-of-the-line, supremely noise-canceling. The foam cushions covering my ears are large enough to serve as a pair of flotation devices for a toddler swim class.
The problem is that I need to close my eyes and focus, and I can’t do that in this crowd, especially when the guy standing next to me keeps jostling my bag as he squeezes mustard onto his sandwich and spreads it with the empty packet. Damn. I’d like to go back to the hotel, listen to it there, and finish the video right away, but I have to record the press conference first.
In theory I could wait until the press conference is over, but I don’t have the self-control for that. I have that Christmas morning feeling, and this email attachment is the biggest present under the tree.
The narration is the last piece of the last video. I imagined Michael B. Jordan’s voice in my head while we worked on the script, but hearing it for real—well, it’s going to hit differently.
I initially took this job because I had no other options. Now I know: The real reason I took this job was to make this video. Maybe, hopefully, my best video. After the press conference, I’ll go back to the hotel and incorporate the audio, breaking it up so it hits the right beats, layering it over the background music. Then it’ll be done, ready for Taylor to upload first thing in the morning.
A notification pops up on my screen and I open it without thinking.
Taylor: OMG it’s amazing!!!!!
Seriously? It’s bad enough that she heard it first, but the last thing I want is spoilers.
The doors to the interview room will open any minute. I need to find a quiet spot nearby. I hurry down the concourse until the voices fade and turn into an alcove near a mechanical closet. It’ll do. I take a deep ceremonial breath before pressing play and—
“Of all the gin joints.” Scott from the UNC media department stops in his tracks, a broad, clueless smile on his face.
Goddammit. I hope your team loses to Duke every single time you play them for the rest of eternity.
Whoa, rein it in. He did casually offer me a job yesterday. Probably not a great idea to call for a pox on a house I may need to live in next year.
I take my headphones off my ears. “Hi, Scott.” My voice is strained with forced politeness. “Sticking around to watch the finals?”
“No, just packing up. We’re about to head out. Is it weird that I’m looking forward to seeing what you come up with for tomorrow, even though you just beat us?”
“Little bit,” I say, holding my thumb and forefinger a half inch apart.
“You know our program is significantly bigger than Ardwyn’s. If you worked for us, you’d have whatever resources you needed. And we’re a bigger name nationally with incredible connections, so the potential for working with cool narrators is limitless.”
If only he knew. I resist the impulse to wave my phone in his face. “I think we do okay.”
“Absolutely. But if you want to go even bigger, give me a call.” He cranes his neck. “Looks like the doors are open now.”
“Great,” I say through gritted teeth.
I give my phone a desperate look before trudging off to the interview room and setting up in my usual spot, near the front and off to the side. The TV cameras get the prime location in the center, but my view isn’t bad. Everyone settles in. Normally JJ would swing by at this point to say something ridiculous about swagger or grit, but he’s nowhere to be found. Strange. He was just here, wasn’t he? Ben, Eric, and Coach Williams stand on the opposite side of the room against the wall, looking as bored as the non-suspects in a police lineup.
It starts with little fanfare. After a week of nonstop press, everyone knows the routine. Coach Thomas climbs the steps onto the platform and sits in front of one of the microphones.
The questions start right away.What does it mean to you personally to coach your team in a national championship? How important is the three-point shooting game to your prospects for tomorrow? How proud would your father be if he could see you today?
