That is usually how I know.
At 6 PM, I go upstairs.
Alderman is in his office. He looks up when I knock.
"Decision?" he asks.
"No."
He waits.
"Decline it," I say.
He nods once. "Reason?"
The professional answer is that I believe this team can win a round. That my role here is defined. That moving conferences for six weeks on a degenerating hip is medically stupid. That Isaac is not ready for full replacement minutes. All true. All partial.
"I want to finish here," I say.
The sentence is not loud. It does not need to be.
Alderman studies me for a moment. "Okay."
"That's it?"
"That's it. I'll inform them."
"No argument?"
"It's your clause. Your decision."
My decision.
The words do not feel like victory. They feel like weight. Good weight, maybe. The kind you put on a bar because something needs to get stronger.
I leave his office and take the stairs down instead of the elevator. The hip dislikes this. I do it anyway. Not as punishment. As information. Each step tells me something. Pain. Range. Load. Choice.
In the hallway outside the locker room, Gerald is at his desk.
"Morning," he says. It's 6:19 PM.
"Morning," I say.
I almost keep walking.
I don't.
Gerald looks up.
"Good crossword?" I ask.
The third word is apparently crossword.
Gerald blinks once. Then he looks down at the paper. "Terrible. They think 'arena' is a five-letter word for venue."
"It is."
"Too easy."
