Page 63 of Sweet Disaster
He speaks English with a fluidity of a wealthy bi-lingual. “Thank you for joining me today, Gavin. I’m sorry it’s such short notice. I hope it did not inconvenience your schedule.”
I shake my head in acknowledgment, words drying in my desert throat. A trickle of sweat beads at my temple, as the coolness of it trails down my cheek. I wick it away with a flick of my finger, dropping my shaking hand back in my lap.
Coppola clears his throat and stands, facing away from me as he looks out the window into the landscape.
“I shall get straight to the point of this meeting, Gavin,” he says, his thick Italian accent making my name sound somehow exotic. “You have been cut from the Fury’s roster. Your contract will be paid out through the end of next month. There is no need for you to practice today.”
My ears ring with loud, harsh white noise. So loud it hurts. Like the time Christian and I jumped into this reservoir by our old home from high atop of a bridge. When I broke the water line, it felt like my eardrums burst.
I stare at him dumbfounded. “Excuse me, but what do you mean?”
The words were painful enough the first time around, but my confusion prevents me from comprehension. The severity of the situation is tough to digest.
He sighs, exasperated over my density and having to repeat himself. Well, fuck him. He’s damn well going to give me this courtesy.
“I’m sorry, Gavin. But your play this week, aside, was a little too late and not enough. You have not met our expectations and we need a stronger and more aggressive defense. The decision is final. Your last game was yesterday.”
The words sink in and I’m reminded of the time that I was told by my fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Halvorson, that I would never amount to anything. That I was dumb and didn’t have the intelligence to excel.
I guess she was right. Maybe she was clairvoyant about my future. If I’m not a basketball player, what good am I? I have nothing to fall back on. No degree. No skills. Absolutely no brains to do anything outside of manual labor. Nothing that requires an education, at least.
Coppola continues to speak, but I only hear bits and pieces. He mentions something about my unrestricted free agency.Play somewhere else.Go back to the United States.
“You may see Marella before you leave and she will provide you with all the paperwork. The terms of your contract will be sent to your agent. It was a pleasure knowing you, Gavin, and I wish you well.”
And just like that, my career ends with the buttery smooth English of an Italian man. Coppola moves around the desk toward me, where I awkwardly stand, feeling like a gangly baby giraffe, and take his hand.
“Thank you,” is all I can get out as I turn and leave.
I do as he instructed and stop by the receptionist’s desk, picking up the paperwork he referred to and then walk out into the hallway. My body is on autopilot as I head to our locker room to clean out my personal items.
A numbness snakes through my limbs, even though a fiery anger and disappointment begins a low boil in the pit of my stomach. It’s bubbling by degrees, notching up steadily until I know it will erupt over the top. There’s nothing I can do to stop it.
I’m angry. Over losing my spot on the team. Over losing Kady. She’s the first person I wanted to talk to, but I can’t. She’s gone. She left me and I don’t mean anything to her now.
My anger seethes deep and I want to punch something. I’ve lost the only two things I care about most in one fell swoop. My girl and my basketball career.
Life sucks. What the hell did I do to deserve this cruelty from the universe?
My mother’s voice comes barreling through my thoughts, as if she stands right by my side. I’m filled with her soft-spoken, motherly words of wisdom that she’d always dole out to me as a kid.
“When God closes a door, he opens a window.”
It never made sense to me before. I didn’t get it. Sure, I’d faced adversity before and had gone through tough times in my childhood. But not as an adult.
I sneer down in hostility at my packed duffle bag which contain all my basketball possessions from my locker. I feel claustrophobic. I can’t see any proverbial open windows right now. Just an old, metal locker door that I want to smash my head against.
I sit down on the bench, hunched over with my elbows on my knees, and I begin to laugh. Unrestrained laughter pours out of me until I’m nearly sobbing. With grief. Loss. Agony. Defeat.
Crying over the heartbreaking loss of the two most important things in my life.
And feeling like a mother fucking failure because of it.
