Page 5 of A Shot at Love
@DanielChan: Funny how mainstream media all but ignores the WNBA until they make a misstep. Is it that mainstream media and most men don’t want women insports to succeed? Seems that way to me. Maybe you should give these amazing players a chance before just reaching for any opportunity to tear them down.
#OurWorldThroughSportswithDanielChan.
My heart pounds in my ears. Daniel Chan, the premier sports analyst for HBO, is tweeting about me. HBO launched his show two years ago after seeing him do a low-budget version on his wildly successful YouTube channel. He’s an Asian American version of John Oliver, except he largely focuses on where real-world issues and sports intersect. I was watching a clip of him a couple days ago where he was analyzing the ramifications of younger men and women being considered “professional athletes” before they’re even eighteen. He pokes holes in sports, and he lifts them up.
He also happens to be my ex-boyfriend.
Daniel and I dated for a little over five months during my senior year at Stanford. He was my first serious boyfriend and the first person I really felt connected to romantically. The only other boyfriend I’ve had was a friend of Olabisi who was gentle and easy to be with. We broke up amicably last year after admitting there weren’t any fireworks in our relationship.
On the other side of the spectrum, Daniel was my whole world. He was a track star at Stanford, with a good chance of going to the Olympics. A mutual friend introduced us at a party. We spent every minute together, as Jadea had graduated the year before me and was already playing for the Arrows. We went on runs together, lifted weights together, watched WNBA gamestogether. We loved each other, and it was explosive, glittering, so sweet, and comfortable.
Right before his outdoor track season and our graduation, a car hit him while he was running, and his track career was effectively finished. He had several broken ribs, a fractured femur, and a collapsed lung. His family flew in from New York and stayed with him while he had numerous surgeries. I visited him a few times, dropping off the numerous gifts and cards from our Stanford classmates. I was hopeful that soon he would heal, and we could start our life together, even if he couldn’t run competitively again. Then, one day, I showed up at the hospital, and the nurses told me he had been discharged. I thought he’d be back at Stanford, but it was as if he had disappeared without a trace. I called and called, and he wouldn’t answer. I assume he went back to his parents’ house in New York. We haven’t spoken in the nearly five years since.
But I see him everywhere. A poster for the new season of his show on the train. A viral clip of him interviewing Shaq on Twitter. A cute Instagram pic of his dog (he’s a public figure; Ido notfollow him). I watch every episode of his show, masochistically wondering why he’s smiling and why he left and how he transitioned from running track to sports media. He’s wildly popular online because of his active social media presence and numerous affiliate podcasts. He has about five million Instagram followers and two million Twitter followers. No matter our history, he wields an impressive amount of power for someone his age in theworld of sports. I feel a strange prickle on the back of my neck. Daniel covers sports, and I play them, so he must be aware of me, but this is a direct acknowledgment. I almost feel naked.
I try to focus on the actual content of the tweet and ignore the tidal wave of feelings that are building in my chest. Should I favorite the tweet? I certainly agree with what he’s saying. The WNBA isn’t a perfect place, but we deserve a chance. Daniel is right. We can’t let this scandal take away from everything we can give.
And a small part of me wants to like it, so he knows I see him, too. To maybe shake him up and force him to relive some uncomfortable memories, assuming he even feels that way about leaving me. Finally, I click favorite and then practically throw my phone onto my nightstand. Like I need Daniel Chan involved in my life again. There’s nothing that could complicate it more. The father I never knew and the boy I thought was the love of my life.
I drift off to sleep feeling confused and restless.
Daniel. Chan.
*
When I get to practice the next day, it feels like everyone is waiting for me. Maybe because they are. Lynn, our shooting guard, rounds on me first. I cringe in suspense, waiting for accusations and angry questions. If anyone will tell it to me straight, it’s Lynn.
Instead, she leads me to the bench, as though I need to sit down. “Are you alright, baby?” Her voice is soft, butthere’s a touch of menace. “Anyone giving you a hard time?”
I try not to look as surprised as I feel. “No one besides some bored internet trolls. Thanks, Lynn.” Lynn is our team veteran at 32. She has been an All-Star three times and was one of the players traded to St. Louis when the team was first formed. She and I always battle it out for top defender. She always wins.
Olabisi and Allyson, the other two starters, huddle around us. Soon, Taherah, Jasmine, and Flo are there too. Their voices all overlap with concern and kind words. I haven’t seen Jadea yet, but that’s no surprise—our superstar always runs a few minutes late. Allyson’s sweet Australian accent filters through the noise first. “We don’t believe it, Annie. It’s all a misunderstanding. Maybe someone who wants to make Jack look bad.” She tightens her long blond ponytail angrily.
The words take a moment to process. I look at their kind faces and something clicks. They believe the story is a lie, that Jack isn’t my father. I’m almost afraid to tell them. I take a deep breath. “Some of it’s true. I talked to my mom, and Jackismy biological father.”
All their chatter stops. Taherah’s eyes widen in shock, and her hands drop from where they were fidgeting with her Nike hijab. Olabisi swears softly. Jas’ mouth opens and closes several times.
I finally look at Lynn. Jadea is our star, our energy, our non-stop thrill ride. But Lynn is our calming force, our voice of reason. She nods twice, resolute. “That doesn’t mean anything yet. That’s your business, notours. Whatever people might say—this is your team. We stand with you.”
You’d think all the tears would have left my system, but a few glimmer on my lashes at her kind words. “Thank you so much.” My voice pitches, and a few of my teammates smile that knowing Annie-be-crying-again smile. “Let’s practice.” I’m resolved to have the ball in my hand and feel normal before I confront Coach Rembert about my draft status. She stands a few paces away with some of the assistants, pretending she’s not listening to our conversation.
Just as we head to the ball racks, Jadea comes running from the locker room. “Arrows!” She yells to get our attention. “Annie!” She almost runs into me in her excitement. I can’t see Coach Rembert over Jadea’s head, but I imagine her folding her arms and pursing her lips. “Did you see this?”
To my immediate panic, she shows us the Daniel Chan tweet I saw last night. “Wow!” Taherah finishes reading first, her brain moving faster than the rest of ours, per usual. “Finally, he’s saying what we were all thinking.”
“Exactly!” Jadea waves the phone around emphatically. “I already retweeted him and posted it on my Instagram story.” I don’t say anything, shifting on the balls of my feet. I never told Jadea about Daniel, for reasons I can hardly explain. She had already graduated from Stanford when we got together. Every time we talked on FaceTime or the phone, she spoke excitedly about her first year in the WNBA and asked me aboutStanford, but never about my love life. She assumed I didn’t have one, and I didn’t correct her. And then I just didn’t know how to start the conversation after so long of not saying anything. I imagine my mom saying with tears in her eyes, “I just didn’t know how to tell you.” Guilt squirms in my gut, but I push it down.
“It’s great,” I say, but the words sound hollow to my own ears. Fortunately, no one seems to hear it. And his wordsaregreat. Daniel was always a feminist, raised by his mother who is a surgeon and a badass. I had the pleasure of bonding with her at the hospital. Before he disappeared forever, obviously.
Jadea looks at us like we’re missing the point. “Yes, yes, finally a man who understands us, blah blah! Who cares? Look at the favorites? The retweets.”
She shoves the phone screen closer to show me his original tweet. I squint and then gasp. “There are over 100K likes. 12K retweets. In like twelve hours.” I knew Daniel was wildly popular, but as his jaded ex it seemed appropriate to try to ignore him as much as possible. Even as I fell down a YouTube rabbit hole of clips from his show. Only a few brought tears to my eyes.
Jadea bounces on her heels, gesturing to the phone wildly. “This is what we need. Something to cancel out all the trolls. Something that proves this is not what people should be talking about.” With Jadea’s two million Instagram followers and nearly a million TikTok followers, I know she, too, can feel the rush of social media’s unique brand of justice. My piddling 20K makes me more cautious, though.
Plus, the Daniel of it all.
“Jermaine said to lay low,” I remind her evenly. Does she hear my secrets in my words?
