“Yeah. A while. Something like that.” He says the last part as he walks away, back to the house.
Didn’t have this—an NBA player posted up next to the rec center—on my bingo card for today. One thing’s for sure. It feels like this summer is about to get even more interesting.
three
Colson
Thefuckingsunisstill out with a vengeance, but at least it doesn’t feel like my skull is cracking open. Progress. The hangover’s gone, but the rest of it—the ache in my shoulder, the weight in my chest—is still annoyingly here.
I make my way into the kitchen and open the one cabinet I put food in yesterday. I brought some essentials from my place in my packing frenzy. Scanning the slim and really random options, I land on something tried and true.
PB&J.
It might be pathetic for a six-foot-five professional athlete, but it’s familiar. Automatic. Something I ate a thousand times as a kid. Something I ate a thousand more times while I was broke and hustling for a contract.
I spread the creamy peanut butter, then the raspberry jelly, on the bread I brought from my apartment and turn on the TV, a little desperate for background noise.
Big mistake.
ESPN blares through the quiet of the house, and before I can switch the channel, the familiar headline flashes across the ticker.
BURKE’S SIDELINE OUTBURST RAISING SERIOUS QUESTIONS FOR CHICAGO
My stomach drops.
They cut totheclip—the clip I’ve seen more than enough times, but apparently not enough to stop tormenting myself with.
There I am during a nationally televised game, standing at the edge of the bench, yelling at one of the coaches. A teammate trying to step in. My face twisted in frustration. My arm in a sling, my season circling the drain. The moment everything tipped from bad to catastrophic.
I know I look unhinged, like I’ve completely lost it. But no one knows the full story. I’m not sure if my head coach knows anything about what’s going on, but I doubt it. I always thought he was one of the good ones, which is why this hurts so bad.
The commentators start in, their voices too sharp for this early in the day.
“…immature reaction…”
“…lost the trust of his coach…”
“…behavior you don’t bounce back from easily…”
I swallow hard, sandwich hovering halfway to my mouth.
I remember every second of that day. The rough rehab and physical therapy session. The looks from a select few of our staff which made it feel like I wasn’t doing enough. Seeing a teammate get hurt but the staff wanting him to risk it to go back in the game. The fear that everything I’d worked for since I was a kid was slipping away.
And I’d snapped. Publicly. Spectacularly.
I shut the TV off before they can play it again. The replay hasn’t quit in my head so there’s no need for the echo chamber.
Dropping into a chair, I stare at my sandwich like it personally offended me when my phone buzzes.
A text from Kevin—my old teammate-turned-friend, one who definitely still has a spot on the team.
Kevin
hey
where’dyou go
I stare at it. My thumb hovers but I don’t know what to say. My fingers have nowhere to go. What am I supposed to say?
