Page 55 of Sweet Disaster
“Nah, man. That was just a one-time thing. I’m not into ball girls. This is someone…an American.”
He stops his taping and shoots me a glance. “An exchange student, si? Damn, those girls know how to have fun. Away from mommy and daddy for the summer. Unf.”
He makes a gesture with his hand to his lips, the Euro sign for delicious. As if had just tasted the most perfect slice of lasagna ever known to man.
I don’t like the way this conversation is going. It’s none of his business who she is or what she’s doing here. My protective instincts kick in and I’m ready to kick some ass on her behalf.
“Nah, man. She’s a friend’s sister and is just visiting. She’s leaving tomorrow, anyway.”
Gerardo whistles. “Hm. Never get involved with a dude’s sister. Bad karma, they say.”
I harrumph. “It’s not like that. The guy’s a former teammate of my brother. They went to the same university. I really don’t know him too well. And Kady…it’s nothing serious. We’re just chilling.”
His head nods in understanding. “She here tonight?”
I can’t hide the grin that pops out. Talking about Kady makes me feel good. And knowing she’ll be out there in the stands watching and rooting for me makes me feel invincible.
“Yeah, bro. She’s catching the game tonight. But tomorrow she leaves for Madrid. I might not ever see her again.”
Saying it out loud feels like a whip cracking against my backside. Painful and sharp, ready to send me to my knees in crippling agony.
To think there’s a real possibility I may never see her again is a bitter pill to swallow. I hadn’t anticipated feeling this way toward her. I look back over the last week and it hits me like a kick to the nuts.
I don’t want this to end. I want to continue whatever this is between us. Fuck the long-distance. We could make it work. I’m only here through the end of the season. Then I’ll either have the option to renew my contract or head back to the U.S. and get picked up by the NBA. That’s my hope, anyway.
This doesn’t have to end here.
Shaking my head to clear my thoughts, I notice the coaches gather around and do their thing, calling out the starting line-up. As one of several bench shooting guards, I’m not a first-string player because I’m a young rookie, but they typically pull me into game during the first two quarters of play.
As the game begins, the Royal’s easily maneuver ahead of us on the scoreboard, so by the time I’m brought in, we’re already in a deficit of twelve points. Not a big deal, since we’re still in the first quarter of play, but it does suck when you start off in the tank.
I try to avoid looking around for Kady in the stands and focus on the plays and action on the court. It isn’t easy, but soon my thoughts are completely centered on the game. At one point, our point guard, a six-foot player from the Ukraine, Dimitri Pavlynchenko, dishes me the ball as I’m in the corner of the arc, and I shoot and make a rainbow three.
The shot is a three-pointer that slices through the net with the most perfect arc, getting its name from the magnificent curve it has during its trajectory into the basket. The crowd goes wild and I head back down to the back court with a huge smile on my face, my name on everyone’s lips and being announced over the speakers.
Being out on the court is my happy place. Sometimes there’s no other place I’d rather be. As a kid, there were so many things I wasn’t good at, but basketball was my world. I could communicate when I had the ball in my hand.
In school or in classes, I didn’t speak up much, for fear of being ridiculed. I tried to keep myself invisible so there was a less likely chance I’d be called on to read out loud or answer questions I didn’t know the answers to. By fifth grade, my towering height made it virtually impossible to hide. I’d shrink down in my seat as far as I could go and hang my head low, avoiding eye contact.
Except when I was out on the court. There I’d stand tall, calling shots, taking the lead in plays. Encouraging my teammates and working hard to be the star player. And it’s paid off. I’ve finally hit my stride and pulled my way out of my shooting slump.
I’m playing a fucking fantastic game so far tonight, with a double-double in two of the statistical categories of the game. I haven’t had these types of stats since I started with the team, mostly because I haven’t had much playing time. But tonight, I’m on fire and the stats are looking good.
The coach is ecstatic, clapping me on the ass every time I hit the bench for a few minutes to catch my breath. I throw back some Gatorade and wipe the sweat pouring off my face with the towel, handing it back to the team assistant.
This is everything I imagined it would be to play pro. I know it’s a stepping stone to my real future in the NBA, but it’s exhilarating to be admired and revered. I’ve heard from my agent recently who’s in talks with a few NBA teams, preparing for the draft next year. He gave me some reassuring news about my chances of being picked up and drafted next year. He said with my experience this year on the international team, I should have a good shot at making a roster.
Now I just need to get through this game.
The buzzer announces that we’ve come to the end of first half play and we all rush off the courts, past the cheering and pats on the backs from fans on our way to the locker room. Since it’s a small arena, about the size of a large high school stadium, we’re close to the audience and many gather around to greet us and give us high-fives as we pass.
As I’m about to enter down the tunnel to the lockers, I hear my name and peer up to see Kady’s gorgeous and smiling face. What passes through my body is something I’ve never felt before. Like a shot of adrenaline straight to the heart. An electrical zap so strong it’s like I’ve been struck by the most powerful lightning bolt known to man.
I’m overcome with pride and happiness to see her here, her broad, encouraging smile taking my breath away. She throws me a kiss with her hand and like a dope, I pretend to grab onto it, placing it in my pretend pocket.
God, I’m a fucking sap.
I look around to see if Gerardo is anywhere near by, because if he is and witnessed this romantic exchange, I would never hear the end of it. Like, ever.
Now I know what it’s like to be bent out of shape over a girl. It’s a high like no other. It’s a sensation that takes hold of your body and has you floating up in the atmosphere, high above the earth’s surface.
The problem with this indescribable feeling is the adage of “what goes up, must come down.” Just like the perfect arc of my three-point shot earlier. It was beautiful perfection while in the air, curving and floating as it made its way into the bucket. But once it hit its target, the shot was done. The play was over.
After the points, it was just one 3-pointer being calculated in the game’s total score.
Maybe the same is true for me and Kady.
We are a perfect rainbow three. Flawless and short-lived, creating a lasting, beautiful memory, but over as soon as the ball passes through the net.
