“Did you mean to say ‘fucking,’ or did you just blurt it out?”
“I was hoping to work the f-word in at the end.”
“Why?”
“Remember what David Ortiz said when he addressed the crowd at Fenway Park a few days after the Boston Marathon bombing?”
“Yeah. He said, ‘This is our fucking city.’”
“He struck just the right note of determination and defiance,” she said. “The crowd loved him for it. After what I’ve been through the last few days, I think the public will love me for it, too.”
And so they did.
Two days later, a new Dispatch/URI poll put the governor’s favorability rating at 73 percent and showed her surging to a twenty-five-point lead over Devereaux and a forty-point lead over Crenson.
By week’s end, the hottest item at the Providence Place Mall was a sweatshirt emblazoned with the words “None of Your F**king Business.”
43
Saturday morning, there was no more locker-room ribbing about sexy grandpa. Instead, the guys laughingly offered to hook me up with their maiden aunts and older sisters.
Coach Martin assigned me to work with Jefferson and Benton again while he and his assistants ran the rest of the players through some perfunctory drills at the other end of the court. When that was done, we chose up teams for a final five-on-five. The play was sloppy, the players tight, knowing this was their last chance to impress.
About twenty minutes in, Krueger took a bounce pass in the post, drew the defense with an up-fake, and fed a wide-open Sears at the top of the circle. As the shot went up, Jefferson and I crashed the boards. The ball hit the rim and bounced out. We both leaped for it. Jefferson leaped higher and came down with the basketball. I came down on the back of his right heel.
Jefferson dropped the ball, toppled to the floor, grabbed his foot, and screamed. In the stands behind the bench, his wife screamed, too. Then she jumped up and ran to him with their son in her arms.
Martin and his two assistants bent over Jefferson. I got out of the way and cursed under my breath. When they pulled the kid off the floor, he couldn’t put any weight on his right leg, so they lowered him back onto the hardwood. Martin walked to the bench, pulled his cell phone from a gym bag, and called for an ambulance.
When Jefferson’s wife began to weep, my heart sank.
“Hey, Mulligan,” Jefferson shouted. “It’s not your fault.”
But that’s not the way it felt.
After the EMTs carted Jefferson away, his wife and son trailing behind, the somber coaches assembled the players on the sideline and told Benton that he’d made the team. They wished the rest of us well and told us it was time to go home.
As the others filed into the locker room, I remained behind on the bench, holding my head in my hands. Martin wandered over and sat beside me.
“How bad?” I asked.
“Real bad. It’s his Achilles.”
“Snapped?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
He draped an arm over my shoulder.
“Don’t blame yourself, Mulligan. Shit happens.”
This particular shit that had happened meant surgery and a year’s worth of painful physical therapy. Keenan Jefferson’s dream of a basketball career was almost certainly over. He could look forward to a lifetime of flipping burgers now.
By the time I shuffled into the locker room, the other players had already showered and were getting dressed. Krueger, furious that he hadn’t made the team, shouted “Fuck” a dozen times and dented a locker door with his fist.
Benton came over and sadly shook his head.
“I guess I’m supposed to be happy,” he said, “but I feel like shit. I think I got the spot that was gonna go to Jefferson.”
“That’s not what happened,” I said. “Both of you were going to make it.”
“You think?”
I wasn’t sure about that, but what I said was, “Absolutely.”
He looked at the floor and thought it over.
“Either way, I owe you big time,” he said. “I’d never have gotten this far without your help.”
And then he grabbed my hand and shook it.
A minute later, only Sears and I remained behind.
“Too bad about Jefferson,” he said as he stuffed his Converse All-Stars into his gym bag. “That was a tough break.”
“It was.”
“When he went down, my first thought was that my chances were better with him out of the way. And then I felt like such an asshole.”
“Um.”
“So, listen,” he said. “The guys have had a good time playing together. We talked it over and decided to meet for a regular pickup game at Begley Arena every Saturday morning. Can we count you in?”
“I don’t think so, Chris. I don’t know if I’ll ever want to play basketball again.”
Late that afternoon, Joseph and I pulled on hooded sweatshirts and walked the mile and a half to Hopes. My plan was to get shit-faced on Bushmills shots and Killian’s. Knowing how Joseph liked to pound ’Gansett, I didn’t want either of us behind the wheel tonight.
As the empties piled up on our table, my mind wandered to Yolanda. I was angry and hurt that she hadn’t trusted me-or at least given me a chance to explain. I’d expected her to call me after the governor’s press conference, but she hadn’t. I resisted the urge to call her. I figured it was her move. I kept glancing at the door, longing to see her to stride in on those long legs and scan the sparse crowd for me. But she didn’t.
Instead, shortly before nine, it was Twisdale who wandered in. He took a quick look around and then headed straight for us. It was the first time I’d ever seen him in the place.
“Mind if I join you?”
“Suit yourself.”
He dragged a chair across the grimy linoleum and sat beside us.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
I smirked and cocked one eyebrow at him.
“You know the hot new catchphrase that’s on everyone’s lips, right? None of your fucking business.”
“I heard about what happened with you and Jefferson. A real shame.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay. I can understand that.” There was an uncomfortable pause. “So, have you found work yet?”
I looked away and studied the label on the Killian’s bottle. “I’ve decided to loaf for a while and catch up on my drinking.”
“Any prospects?” he asked.
“Oodles of ’em. I’m a hot commodity.”
“Given the sorry state of the news business, I really doubt that.”
“I don’t give a shit what you think, Chuckie-boy.”
“How about coming back to The Dispatch?”
I raised my eyes from the bottle and gave him a hard look. “You gotta be shittin’ me.” I was suddenly aware that I was slurring my words.
“I’m serious.”
“Ain’t gonna happen.”
“Corporate has authorized me to offer you a forty-dollar-a-week raise.”
“Not interested.”
“And a formal apology.”
“You know where you can shove that.”
He sighed and got to his feet. “I’m trying to help you out, here, Mulligan. When you sober up, give me a call.”
With that, Twisdale turned for the door. Joseph’s eyes flashed laser beams, boring a pair of holes in his back.
“Fuckin’ jerk,” he said. “Want I should punch his lights out for you?”
“I’ve got a better idea.”
I yanked the cell phone from my jeans, fumbled it, dropped it on the floor, got down on my knees, found it under the table, and called for a cab. Ten minutes later, the driver pulled up out front and honked.
“Sit tight,” I said. “I’ll be back in a half hour.”
Joseph nodded. He didn’t ask where I was going.
I directed the cabby to the Walmart on Silver Spring Street. When he pulled into the parking lot, I asked him to keep the meter running and wait.