When my daughter was five, we lost her inside a mall. Not for long, but long enough. Erica and I both thought the other was the one holding Maria\u2019s hand. How small a thing to be wrong about, and how huge. When we realized she wasn\u2019t near us, as we were turning to go into the little mall coffee shop with the frilly pink shakes that Maria loved, and she didn\u2019t give her yip of excitement, my stomach clenched. I panicked. Erica, of course, didn\u2019t. She never panicked openly, a gift from a childhood of trying to soothe her parents, and so I knew she had gone into fix-it mode. While Erica went up to the security guard across the way, I began to jog in between groups of people, scanning every face for either my daughter or the face of someone who looked like they might steal a daughter. Back when I played ball, I used to do that from the bench, scan the opposing team for the one I thought would cause trouble\u2014the hard fouler, the technical waiting to happen, the too quick to flip out. I had a knack for it. And a big mouth for bringing it out of them. I was an okay player, good enough to warm the bench. But where I actually shone was in riling up the other team, making them play sloppy. Rico \u201cThe Instigator\u201d Gonzalez was what Tay called me, shaking his head, as we left the court.<\/p>\n
But there was no point in instigating, when Maria wasn\u2019t where she should have been. Every skill I\u2019d ever had went out the window, except my quickness on my feet, as I spun between people, looking for her. And my big mouth, as I called out her name every few minutes. People had started to look at me, gauging the level of threat I was. I could feel my heart starting to pound, the clenching feeling overtaking my stomach and then my chest, sending my shoulder blades pushing towards one another.<\/p>\n
And then Maria was there, pressed against the glass of the toy shop staring at a mechanical kitten batting a ball around. Everything unspooled inside me as I grabbed her up into a hug.<\/p>\n
\u201cDaddy, what wrong?\u201d she asked. And how could I explain how easy it was to lose everything.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cDad, what\u2019s wrong?\u201d Maria asked.<\/p>\n
I held up my hand, the blood spiraling down from where I\u2019d cut open my finger as I chopped onions. \u201cYour mother\u2019s knives have a mind of their own.\u201d<\/p>\n
She rolled her eyes and went to fetch the peroxide and a Bandaid, used to me hurting myself in the kitchen every time Erica actually let me in there.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy were you cooking, anyway? Mom left some frozen stuff in the fridge for us to heat up?\u201d She handed me the peroxide and I poured it over the cut.<\/p>\n
\u201cMan and daughter can not live on iced food alone!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI bet your hands would prefer we did.\u201d She comically shrugged at me and left the room. I wondered what Erica had packed away. She always did it before business trips, probably in hopes I wouldn\u2019t end up cutting an arm off making pancakes. I had gotten clumsier over the years\u2014the quick reflexes of my basketball-filled youth giving way to a slowness that I had fought against before giving in to it. I had asked the doctor, worried that it might be a sign of something, and he\u2019d smiled and said it was just a sign of aging and having over-worked my joints too much as a youth. The body remembers what we\u2019ve put it through, he said.\u00a0 Almost 40 now. A number that had stopped seeming scary the longer I looked at it. I hadn\u2019t ever imagined I\u2019d reach it and now I still felt good, felt young even. Youngish. Forty was only halfway to eighty and halfway to eighty sounded good.<\/p>\n
In the freezer were several Tupperware containers neatly stacked together with labels written in Erica\u2019s perfectly controlled handwriting: kale lasagna, black bean enchiladas, stew. There was even a pint of Culver\u2019s frozen custard tucked neatly in, so we\u2019d have something for dessert. Peanut Butter Cup, the flavor Maria and I loved but Erica always crinkled her nose at. Peanut butter is for savory, never for sweet, she\u2019d say, sticking out her tongue at us. It was these small details that I had come to realize long love was built on: the kindness and remembering that Erica always showed. Tay had once commented on how quiet Erica was and I\u2019d said it was because she liked to watch people, figure out what they needed, what they valued, who they were.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe\u2019re gonna have enchiladas!\u201d I called out to wherever Maria had gotten off to. Teenagers had an uncanny ability to always be in the room you least expected them to be. I brought the Tupperware out, and set it on the counter to thaw a little.<\/p>\n
My phone rang and I picked it up, without looking at the number, expecting Erica to be calling to see which dinner I was making. \u201cHello, darling.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDarling?\u201d It was Tay. His voice sounding off.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh, hey, man, thought you were Erica.\u201d I laughed. \u201cNot that you\u2019re not my darling.\u201d<\/p>\n
There wasn\u2019t the normal chuckle I expected in return. Just a moment of silence. \u201cTay, what\u2019s up?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cJust got a message about Coach. He. He, uh, had a heart attack.\u201d<\/p>\n
A clench to the stomach. \u201cHe\u2019s in the hospital?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, he\u2019s not.\u201d<\/p>\n
And the clench covered my body.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cYou okay, Rico?\u201d Coach asked, one hand already extended to help me up. I\u2019d slipped on sweat on the court, during practice, and laid myself flat.<\/p>\n
\u201cRight as houses, Coach,\u201d I said, taking his hand, and oomphing myself to my feet.<\/p>\n
\u201cSafe as houses, kid, not right.\u201d He shook his head at me, as if he was exasperated but he was smiling.<\/p>\n
\u201cAin\u2019t no English class in here,\u201d I finger-gunned back at him as I jogged away down the court.<\/p>\n
I pitied teams whose coach wasn\u2019t our Coach. He wasn\u2019t a father figure to us, but he wasn\u2019t not either. There was a sense that he genuinely cared about each of us beyond our abilities on the court. He\u2019d ask about our classes and actually listen to what he had to say. When he\u2019d found out that I was going in to Music Education, he\u2019d been delighted with the surprise of it. As if I\u2019d just revealed I was from Mars. I had sung since I was a child, in church, and it made sense to me\u2014to teach others to use their voices. Mine was big enough already. People expect you to do one or the other\u2014art or sport, as if they are on opposite sides. But it\u2019s all the same coin, you just flip it differently.<\/p>\n
I was one of the only players on the team who had tried out, rather than being pulled in from high school with the lure of a scholarship. I remember thinking I was a good player, but mostly trying out for the sake of it. I didn\u2019t expect to be picked. But Coach talked to me after the tryout, asking me about my life and my goals and what I thought I\u2019d bring to the team. He\u2019d shook my hand before I left and I figured that was the end of it\u2014my short-lived attempts at being a college star. But then I\u2019d been called back for another tryout.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re the last piece of the puzzle,\u201d Coach had said. But he didn\u2019t explain what I was fitting in to. It was a couple of years later, on our way to the Final Four, all lounging about the bus\u2014buzzing with the nerves and sadness. Our bus one player less than it should be. You could feel it in the air, like the smell of ash. I\u2019d sat down next to Coach and asked him what piece I was. He didn\u2019t even hesitate, or ask what I was talking about.<\/p>\n
\u201cI needed someone who would pay attention to everyone. A big voice to point out the flaws.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI do have a big voice,\u201d I\u2019d agreed. But some part of me felt let down, I\u2019d wanted there to be more than that\u2014that he saw something bigger in me.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re not an instigator, Rico, you\u2019re an architect. You see the flaws in the design. I like a realist.\u201d He\u2019d patted me once on the shoulder and then went back to looking at his notes for the game. The big journal he always carried where he plotted out everything. Always pen and paper. He must have had hundreds of those journals somewhere. I imagined reading them and seeing every game unfold in my head.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou ever reread those, Coach?\u201d<\/p>\n
He shook his head. \u201cI let things be.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cDad, you okay?\u201d Maria asked. She was in the doorway, again, watching me as I leaned against the kitchen counter, breathing in and out slowly. I was trying to calm the clench, fight back the tears.<\/p>\n
\u201cGot some bad news, kiddo,\u201d I said. \u201cMy old basketball coach. He passed away.\u201d<\/p>\n
She walked up and hugged me. At 14, she was already much taller than all the boys in her grade. Her arms long enough to fold me into a hug that felt infinite. I had wondered, more than once, if she\u2019d pick up basketball. She\u2019d watch games with me, when she was bored around the house, but I never saw her eyes light up at it. She watched it because I watched it, and that was enough for me. \u201cI\u2019m sorry, Daddy.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThanks, love.\u201d I felt my stomach unclenching, but knew I\u2019d cry later. I felt that ache in my chest that I\u2019d have to let out at some point.<\/p>\n
Maria walked over to the Tupperware dish and began to dish out enchilada servings to reheat. She put them into a pan to put in the oven. She hated the microwave, ever since she was a child, and said that the gentle hum of the machine sounded like ghosts telling secrets.<\/p>\n
My phone rang again, but I didn\u2019t pick up. It was another teammate, Tony. I let it go to voicemail. I could call him back. Maria looked at the phone and then at me. \u201cWas he a good coach?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe was a great coach.\u201d My voice broke just a little on the word. I pictured all of us getting the calls, remembering a time in our life when all we\u2019d worried about were grades and the next game. And then I thought about Shamar.<\/p>\n
\u201cDaddy, what\u2019s wrong?\u201d Maria was eight years old and it was the first time she\u2019d ever seen me cry, really cry. Not just the sometimes misty-eyes I\u2019d get at the end of movies where a dog lived or a hero saved the day. It was a full cry, shuddering shoulders, breaths that I couldn\u2019t take all the way in.<\/p>\n
Erica was next to me, one hand on my shoulder. She looked at Maria. \u201cIt\u2019s okay, baby. Daddy got some really bad news. A friend of his died.\u201d<\/p>\n
Maria frowned with worry. \u201cUncle Tay?\u201d<\/p>\n
Erica shook her head. \u201cNot Tay. A friend from a long way back, before you were born.\u201d<\/p>\n
Maria came up to us, tentatively. Then sat on my other side. She looked at Erica, and then placed her own hand on my other shoulder. I focused on steadying my breath. The news had come out of nowhere. I\u2019d been watching TV, a pro game, and then at halftime, they\u2019d brought it up. I saw the stunned looks on the commentators faces as they processed the news. Shamar James, a star of the NBA, still in the prime of his career. All I could think about was Shamar when I\u2019d known him. The quietest member of the team, we\u2019d been like the yin and yang of it. He was studious in everything\u2014the way he watched everyone at practice, following feet with his gaze. He was the gentlest man I\u2019d ever met.<\/p>\n
It was a flash of memory\u2014him folding a piece of paper into a swan and leaving it on top of the tip he\u2019d left for a server at a restaurant, the careful precision of his fingers as he made creases\u2014that had sent the first sob racking through me.<\/p>\n
I hadn\u2019t talked to him in years, not since his first couple of years in the NBA, when we\u2019d started emailing less and less. I figured he was getting caught up in his career. I thought maybe one day we\u2019d talk again. When he had kids, I always imagined him with children, what a sweet giant he\u2019d be with his own children, maybe he\u2019d reach out and we\u2019d talk about parenting. Then about the old days, about basketball and teams and the way the world used to stretch out in front of us. I\u2019d imagined him a future without knowing that imagining was the only way he\u2019d have one.<\/p>\n
I wanted to say something, to show Maria that it was alright. But I couldn\u2019t find the words. It was the first time, I couldn\u2019t find the words to say something. To say anything. And so we\u2019d sat, my two loves hands on each of my shoulders, in silence, as I regained my breath.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere do we go from here, man?\u201d Tay asked. We were at a booth in Culver\u2019s, the place we always ended up after practices, after games where we won or lost. The blue accents on everything as comforting as any home could possibly be.<\/p>\n
It was the day after the loss, after our season ended. Our last on the team, since we were both Seniors. We had known it was going to be a loss, as soon as we had heard about Liam\u2019s injury, we had known. But it still felt much realer, much harder, now that it had actually happened.<\/p>\n
\u201cI guess we get jobs, live lives, give up on these hoop dreams,\u201d I said it like I was making a joke, the grandiosity of it all. But it did feel like giving up, like some loss beyond the loss of the game.<\/p>\n
\u201cMan, think about us in fifty years. You think we\u2019re gonna be those guys telling their grandkids about the big loss? Back in my day, we played basketball with one arm tied behind our backs.\u201d<\/p>\n
I laughed. \u201cYou\u2019re definitely going to be one of those guys.\u201d<\/p>\n
He threw a french fry at me and turned to stare out the window. People in the parking lot all looked happier than us. Families picking up ice cream cone treats and teenage couples going on first dates.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat a goddamn loss,\u201d I said. In the moment, then, in a life before I knew what was to come, it had felt the biggest thing to lose.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere did you find her?\u201d Erica asked me, after we\u2019d come back through the mall to her. I carried Maria the whole way, afraid to set her on the ground, to feel her slip away.<\/p>\n
\u201cDaddy found me,\u201d Maria proudly announced.<\/p>\n
\u201cBy a toy shop,\u201d I said. \u201cShe got Pied Pipered by a robot kitten.\u201d<\/p>\n
Now that I\u2019d found her, that everything was safe, I felt a lightness. Disaster wasn\u2019t disaster, everyone lives happily ever after. I felt like dancing. Erica wrapped an arm around me and Maria, as we walked out of the mall. Every parent remembers the first time their child disappears from sight, that first scare. It settles into you like an omen, a protective charm, because you found them then. Nothing was wrong. No one was hurt. You carry it in front of you.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou can\u2019t do that again. You have to make sure mommy or daddy are with you if you walk away. You understand? We get scared when we don\u2019t see you.\u201d<\/p>\n
Maria nodded. We buckled her into her carseat. I double-checked the latch. A habit I\u2019d keep after that day, all the way through to when I\u2019d drive her around as a teen and would always check twice to see that she\u2019d clipped her seatbelt into place.<\/p>\n
\u201cI was lost,\u201d Maria stated, as Erica and I got into the front seat.<\/p>\n
Erica turned back to her and smiled. \u201cYou weren\u2019t lost, baby, just misplaced.\u201d<\/p>\n
In that moment, and every moment of something falling away from me after, I\u2019d realized the difference between the two words meant so much it took my breath away.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
You could feel it in the air, like the smell of ash. I\u2019d sat down next to Coach and asked him what piece I was. He didn\u2019t even hesitate, or ask what I was talking about.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":19534,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-19527","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","writer-chloe-n-clark"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/19527","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=19527"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/19527\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":19535,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/19527\/revisions\/19535"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/19534"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=19527"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=19527"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=19527"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}