Chapter 8 - I Sat While My Team Fell Behind
Dad came to the game.
He sat six rows behind our bench.
Not courtside.
Not hidden.
Still wearing the same navy work pants from the cafeteria, though he'd changed his shirt.
People recognized him from the video.
I could tell by the glances.
He could too.
He stayed.
I sat the entire first quarter.
Easton went up 18–9.
Jordan ran point.
He was good.
I hated noticing how good.
Coach Brody paced.
Every possession he glanced at Karen Sloan like he could will the quarter shorter.
I stared at Dad once.
He wasn't watching me.
He was watching the game.
When the buzzer ended the first, Coach pointed.
“Carter.”
I stood.
The crowd erupted.
For one ugly second I loved it.
Then I hated that I loved it.
Jordan came to the sideline.
“You good?”
“No.”
“Great.”
“What?”
“You play terrible when you think you're good.”
I almost smiled.
We checked in.
The game became simple.
Screen.
Cut.
Defend.
Run.
Bodies moving fast enough that nobody had time to be embarrassed.
I scored eight in the second quarter.
Jordan hit two threes.
We went into halftime down four.
Coach started drawing adjustments.
Then an assistant whispered in his ear.
His face changed.
“What?”
He looked at me.
“Merritt is here.”
Thomas Merritt always came to big games.
This shouldn't have mattered.
Tonight it did.
He was standing outside our locker-room hallway with Karen Sloan.
I saw him through the open door.
Gray hair.
Expensive quarter-zip.
Concerned donor face.
Coach went out.
I followed.
“Tyler, get back inside.”
Merritt saw me.
“Son.”
I had always liked when he called me that.
Tonight it felt strange.
“Mr. Merritt.”
He looked genuinely upset.
“I'm sorry you're getting dragged into administrative nonsense.”
I stared.
“Did you pay my tuition?”
Karen said:
“Tyler.”
Merritt answered anyway.
“My foundation supports opportunities.”
“Mine.”
He sighed.
“I told Coach I'd make sure financial barriers didn't keep certain young men from attending Hawthorne.”
“Certain basketball players.”
“Among others.”
Karen's face changed slightly.
Merritt looked at her.
“What?”
She asked:
“Among others who?”
He realized he'd said too much.
Coach stepped in.
“This is exactly why we're not doing this tonight.”
Merritt looked at me.
“Your father has made this much larger than it needed to be.”
My entire body tightened.
“What did he make larger?”
“A technical question.”
“Did he know you picked me?”
“No.”
At least Merritt didn't dance.
“Why not?”
“Because we were helping.”
I looked at Coach.
Same answer.
Different suit.
Merritt continued:
“Your father is proud.”
“He works in the cafeteria.”
“I know.”
“You say that like pride is the problem.”
Merritt frowned.
“I’m saying he could have accepted assistance without turning it into an issue.”
“What did you want?”
“Nothing.”
Karen said:
“Thomas.”
He looked at her.
She held his gaze.
“Nothing?”
He exhaled.
“I wanted the program healthy.”
“What did you ask Coach for?”
He didn't answer.
Coach said:
“We have a second half.”
Karen stepped between us.
“Go.”
I went back inside.
Not because Coach told me.
Because Jordan was waiting.
“What happened?”
“Merritt is here.”
“Of course he is.”
“He says Dad overreacted.”
Jordan laughed.
“Rich people love that word when somebody returns a favor.”
Coach came in.
“Enough.”
He started the second-half talk.
I listened.
I really did.
Because Easton hadn't created any of this.
Our teammates hadn't.
The game still existed.
We came back.
Two minutes left, tied.
I drove.
Two defenders collapsed.
Old me saw the rim anyway.
Then I saw Jordan open in the corner.
The framed article in my room flashed through my head.
I passed.
Jordan hit it.
We won by five.
The gym exploded.
I should have felt pure happiness.
Instead, the first person I looked for was Dad.
His seat was empty.
On the chair was a folded cafeteria towel.
May you like
And beneath it—
the sealed envelope with my name.
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