“Good for him,” Zaire said, leaning back. “He earned that today. I ain’t takin’ nothing from him.”
They tried again. “Would you say he’s a role model for young players?”
Zaire’s jaw twitched. “Man, everybody a role model to somebody – just depends who looking at you.”
“Would you say you’re one?”
He met their stares and didn’t stutter in his response. “Yea, I am.”
He was a role model. He didn’t ask for it, but that’s what he became. Every time he went back to Crescent, the kids ran up on him with their little clubs, ready for him to show them something. And he gave them that every single time. He did it in every city that held Black folks, because he knew what it meant for them to see him standing there. He heard how the ratings jumped the second he stepped his Black ass on their turf. So yeah, he was a role model.
That shut the room up again. The PR rep motioned to wrap it up. Zaire stood up, gave them a small nod, and walked off. He’d kept his cool…kept his dignity, until he got to the hallway.
Chase was there, halfway out his blazer, surrounded by a few from his team and a camera guy. He turned when Zaire passed. “Good game, boy,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear.
The word hit Zaire in the chest before his brain even caught up…Boy?
He stopped walking and looked back. “What you say?”
Chase raised his hands like it was a joke. “Relax, man. It’s just sports talk.”
Zaire stepped into Chase’s face. “Nah, say it again…say it how you said it.”
The hallway got real still. Chase smirked, eyes flicking to the cameras nearby. “You heard me,boy.”
That did it.
Zaire swung before he could talk himself out of making a permanent decision. No matter how much money he amassed or how far away he moved from Crescent, he was still the same young nigga from Crescent that toted a blue flag and fought for his respect.
His fist caught Chase clean in the mouth. The sound echoed off the walls. Chase stumbled, hand flying to his face. The camera flashed.
Security rushed in trying their hardest to break up the fight.
Ertan grabbed his arm. “Z, chill!”
But it was too late. Chase shoved him back with all the strength he could muster and Zaire swung again, drawing blood this time. “Nah, talk that boy shit to me now!” Zaire foamed at the mouth.
Zaire was beyond mad. He could feel the way his body warmed and his finger itched to take it further than just fists. They didn’t understand what he carried into the game today, probably didn’t care one way or another. However, that was where they had him fucked up, where they needed to learn the lessons of never underestimating a man that had been taunted and talked down on for the past ten years.
He showed up today as a twenty-eight year old man but he walked in as his five-year old self wishing to see his father’s face in the free world, sporting his signature dickie suit and blue flag, not in a state issued jumpsuit.
“You’re done!” Chase yelled, pointing his pale finger at Zaire. “So small-minded that you let your anger get the best of you.”
Zaire heard Chase loud and clear but didn’t give a damn about none of that. All he knew was he’d let Chase and the organization slide one too many times. He was a man at the end of the day, so respect should’ve been given, even if you didn’t like how he showed up or how he talked. None of that was a measure of his character. When he felt like his back was against the wall, he would always be the lesser man. Crescent had engrained that in him.
“Fuck you!” Zaire hollered, throwing another punch at Chase’s pretty American face.
“Chill out!” Ertan was trying his hardest to get Zaire off Chase, knowing this could be a career ending incident.
“Get off me!” Zaire barked, trying to shake the hands holding him. His chest heaved and his hat was gone. His chain was twisted around his neck but none of that mattered. If they wanted a savage Black man, Zaire was going to give it to them.
They dragged Zaire back, still cursing and breathing hard. His eyes were red but he wasn’t crying. He was just done…done pretending…done swallowing it all down.
He knew the headlines were already writing themselves.
Zaire Cook Loses Cool.
Another Outburst From Golf’s “Street Star.”
