The following is a fictional short story with a heavy Celtics theme which will be published in five parts over the course of this week. I hope it will provide a form of entertainment as we fill some time before the Celtics return. I hope you enjoy the story. Please note, this contains some NSFW language.
If There’s Green, There’s Still Life
By John Karalis
Read Chapter 1 here
Read Chapter 2 here
Chapter 3
I was upstairs when Amira got home. I was my first beer into a second six-pack when she turned the corner and saw me. I was standing in the middle of the room rapping along to Kanye’s verse in Clique with the game on mute.
Now I’m looking at a crib right next to where TC lives
That’s Tom Cruise, whatever she accuse
Our eyes locked. I used the beer bottle as a microphone as I walked towards her.
He wasn’t really drunk he just had a few brews
Pass the refreshment a cool cool beverage
Everything I do need a news crew presence
She pushed the bottle down and gave me a kiss on the lips.
“You’ve had a few brews yourself”
“Pass the refreshment,” I said again and took a big swig.
“How’s your dad?”
I took a deep breath and frowned. I turned and sat on my desk chair.
“He’s, ummm…”
I glanced at the game. Up 15 with 10 minutes left. I kept watching as I spoke to her.
“He’s going to die. Lung cancer. He’s going to die.”
She walked over and sat on my lap. I put my arm around her and put my head on her chest.
“He’s going to die.”
“I’m sorry. I know you guys have had your problems, but…”
That was a hard sentence to finish for her. I know the “but” was there because she wanted to be encouraging, but she also knew I wasn’t going to fall for token sympathy.
“You guys used to be good.”
Amira and I met in college. She was a volleyball player. I was on the basketball team. They’d just be wrapping up when we strolled into practice, giving both teams a tiny bit of crossover time on the floor. I’d always find a reason to be the first person stretching in the corner by the equipment closet. After some eye contact and smiles over a few weeks, she started to volunteer to put stuff away more often, lingering to make small talk.
We did the typical college dating thing. We went to each other’s games when we could. We had horrible, drunken public displays of affection at parties. We’d argue over nothing and break up and then make up a day later.
She’d met my dad in the stands when he used to come to my games. I’d glance over coming out of time outs and see them chatting occasionally. He would be gesturing things and, undoubtedly, embarrassing me, and they’d both be laughing..
“We were,” I said. My buzz made me put too much emphasis on “were.” I picked up my phone, thumbed through Twitter, re-tweeted some funny blogger jokes, and tossed my phone onto the desk hard enough to make me pick it up and check it for cracks.
“I know it’s hard, Bill.”
I sighed hard. “He wants to go to a game with me.”
She pulled back and looked at me head on.
“A Celtics game?”
“Yeah,” I said. It was combined with a quick laugh that was soon followed by tears. “That son of a bitch.”
“Are you going to go?”
On the TV, Isaiah Thomas just finished a ridiculous drive that involved a floater over Roy Hibbert. The replays highlighted the size difference between them, and how high the ball had to go so it wouldn’t get blocked. More importantly, it gave the Celtics a 20 point lead going into the TV timeout.
“Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”
She pursed her lips and nodded slowly.
Amira and had actually broken up after college and each moved around the country for work. She was a news radio anchor going from market to market to work on her resume. I was chasing crappy PR jobs before finally coming home to eventually become the Sports Information Director at Providence College.
I first reached out to her after September 11th to make sure she and her family were OK. Her family is Syrian, and that was not a good time to have a Syrian name. We chatted a bit about life, which at that point in hers included a stop in Tampa Bay to anchor from 2pm to 5pm shift on WFLA. She was dating someone and I had just gotten out of short thing, but we felt comfortable enough exchanging AOL instant messenger names and keeping in touch.
I’d casually mentioned the reconnection while having beers with my father when he drunkenly asked if any of the hijackers were friends of her family.
I’d explained away a lot in my life when it came to him.
“Yeah, he screwed my mom over pretty good, but he was still there for us kids.”
“Yeah, he was a drunk and a gambler, but he never let it get in the way of being there for things we did.”
I don’t even know if he remembers saying the words. I remember having had a few beers in my own system at that point and knocking his bottle over into his lap. I remember saying “fuck you” loud enough for everyone to hear it, and walking out.
“You have a lot of unresolved anger towards him,” she said as I stared off at nothing. “Maybe this is a chance to let it out. Stop carrying it with you.”
Brad Stevens was doing a post-game interview on the TV after a 16 point win. I could read his lips say something about trust and spacing before he walked off the floor.
“Are you going to be OK, Bill?”
“Yeah, eventually.”
The thing about my father’s comments is that while I hated what he said, my reaction at that time made me realize I still had feelings for Amira. It was just like all the other things I’d hated about him; they’d all led to something I loved. I don’t know that I would have pursued her when I’d heard she was moving to Boston to do afternoon drive on WBZ. I don’t know that I would have asked her out for drinks again, or made any sort of move.
Amira leaned down and gave me a long, soft kiss on the mouth and got up. I watched her walk out of the room and thought about telling her what my Dad said. I’d never told her that part of the story. She’s always thought that as an adult my responsible lifestyle simply didn’t mix with his irresponsibility. She’s always thought my father was just in a state of arrested development, and that I’d simply become too mature to deal with him.
These were all true things to some degree, but I could never bring myself to tell her that one thing. It was only now that I realized I couldn’t tell her because I didn’t want to ruin him for her like he was ruined for me.
I got myself together and decided this was a good time to call out sick for tomorrow. I always felt some serious Catholic guilt calling into a Catholic college and lying about taking a sick day. I figured God knew what I was dealing with this time and would maybe even consider this game with Dad one of the necessary miracles for sainthood.
After I called, I opened another beer, turned on my phone, and joined in some Twitter trolling of Lakers fans.
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