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Coach snorts. “No, I mean here at all. I could’ve tapped out during these last months. Just drifted off. God knows the doctors probably wanted me to.”
“I don’t think they—”
“When people talk about there being a tunnel, and a light at the end, I always thought it was bullshit. But there is a path. And there is light.” He inclines his head as if he’s picturing it. “But my work wasn’t done.”
I lean forward, my elbows on my knees. “You’ll have to retire someday.”
“Why? What will you do when you retire?”
I’ve asked myself that a lot since I got hurt but never had a satisfactory answer. “Travel with Nova and my friends. Visit my sister. Take a pottery class.”
He snorts, and I laugh too.
“You’re joking.”
“Who the fuck knows. I’m no artist, but Nova makes it look good. Maybe I’ve been missing out.” We sit in silence a minute before I ask, “How about you?”
“I have no idea. That’s what terrifying. The not knowing.”
I nod. “It’s messed up, but this year signing with the Kodiaks felt like the biggest risk I’ve ever taken. How is it possible coming back to something you’ve done is more terrifying than doing something entirely new?”
“Because there are ghosts here. Ghosts of who you were. Where you’ve been. What you did in these halls, with these people. But after you’ve climbed the mountain, the most frightening thing in the world is finding yourself back at basecamp looking up.”
I shift an arm across the back of the bench, watching a kid skate with who looks like his brother. The younger one falls, waits to be picked back up.
“When I was young, all I cared about was being the best,” I say. “Now I look at a guy like Kyle, and I know I don’t want to be that. But I don’t want to keep going until my body fails more than it works. I don’t want to be remembered as weak.”
“You think Jordan or Kobe would’ve achieved what they did if they were looking for approval? They wouldn’t have dared. They wouldn’t have risked.” Coach sniffs, tugging his toque down on his head. “We can’t control how people remember us, Wade. We can only control how we remember us. If you go out fighting in a way you can respect, that’s enough.”
I’m still turning that over when a black car pulls up in the parking lot nearby. Security guards step out.
“Come on,” I tell Coach, rising. “This is your ride.”
We cross to the parking lot, and a guard holds the door.
I nod for Coach to get in first, and I shift into the spacious back seat after him.
Inside the limo is a huge case and another guard. The guard opens the case, and inside is the championship trophy.
Coach’s eyes glass over as he inches closer, perching on the edge of the seat. His legs shake from the effort.
“The hell is that?”
“You wanted a championship,” I say. “I brought you one.”
The two-foot-high prize features a life-sized basketball, all of it gold. It’s been held by so many legendary teams.
Coach lifts a hand, tugging off his glove as if to brush a finger over the shiny face of the trophy, but he hesitates.
His eyes tear up. “I can’t.”
There’s a superstition around touching it if you haven’t won.
I take his hand and press his palm to the mirrored surface.
“We’ll do it together.”
26
