[Brackets]

by Sloan, David

  “I think it’s proven itself well enough for the past three weeks. Why are you here?”

  “You didn’t think I would miss your moment of glory, did you?” Graham asked as he sidestepped some pedestrians.

  Neeson waited for a real answer. When it didn’t come, he asked, “How’s Jason doing?”

  “He sends his regards.”

  “You saw that his puppet bracketeer took a nasty fall a while ago? That’s why you don’t buy the knock-off version, Mr. Graham, you buy the real thing.”

  “You seem awfully confident for someone who still has a game to watch.”

  “I am. And when I win, I will declare this proof of principle a success, and I will expect you to hold up your end. My company is on the verge of a boom, and your continued investment will be just what we need to push us over into a sustainable profit margin.”

  “What makes you think that we even need OPUS anymore when we just bought the designer?”

  Neeson’s smile faded. “You don’t need him to reinvent something that I’ve already perfected.”

  “Jason seems to think that your success isn’t as guaranteed as you’re making it out to be.”

  “Jason is a liar,” Neeson barked, drawing a few startled stares from people walking by. Neeson noticed the attention and walked Graham around the corner where they were less visible. “Jason is a traitor and a back-stabber. He can’t be trusted.”

  “We’re not in the business of trusting, Neeson. We’re in the business of acquiring. We acquired Jason because he has a skill set that we need. Who knows, perhaps someday we’ll acquire you as well.”

  “I’m not for sale, Graham. And we had a deal.”

  “Calm down,” Graham ordered. “Our deal still stands. You just might be an investment that could pay off.” Graham took a step forward and leaned uncomfortably close to Neeson’s right ear. “But I want to remind you of something you seem to have forgotten. You are still in our debt. You still haven’t finished your end, and you still have no buyers for your highly risky product. In other words, you are still sitting squarely under my shoe. And if you find yourself on loser’s row at the end of the day, then my foot comes down hard. I will own you.”

  Graham took a step back and brought another handful of food to his mouth. “Enjoy the game,” Neeson sneered at him, then walked away.

  Neeson quickly entered the arena, his good mood totally spoiled. The game was about to start. He was going to win this game just as he had won the previous sixty-one. Graham would have to make him an offer, and Neeson would tell him to shove it. No, no actually he would take the money.

  When he sat down, he was excited and determined. He barely acknowledged Cole or Tucker or the pretty girl that to whom Tucker had generously offered Perry’s seat. Neeson clapped loudly and vigorously as the game started. He remembered that he actually liked basketball.

  He ended up applauding for most of the first half. Boston College came out strong and held a solid lead. Tucker leaned forward to see Neeson and yelled, “Man, Good Williams is killing it for you.” On cue, Good Williams banked in a jumper with no time on the shot clock to put BC up by ten. The crowd roared as Tucker began to explain to Cole the difference between Good Williams and Other Williams. Other Williams, sitting at the end of the bench, jumped up and waved his towel to hype up the spectators behind him.

  Neeson was so happy that he stood up to give an ovation. He looked around the arena and saw laid out before his eyes all of the variables at play in winning and losing—all of the variables he had harnessed and quantified in OPUS. The BC coach with his 40 years of experience and his previous NCAA championships, both as a player and as a coach. The BC team with its seniority and high assist-to-turnover ratio. Even the BC fans, who had sold out every game in Boston and had come out in much stronger force than the west coast UCLA fans.

  He was having fun. He thought about setting up an arena in Chlorophyll Valley—nothing too big, mostly for regional events. WindSkin Arena. That sounded good. He looked over at the younger man, Cole Kaman, whose face was a mask of tension.

  “Come on Cole, you should be enjoying this more,” he nudged. Cole looked back at him acidly.

  “Whatever.”

  Neeson backed off without pressing. After all, he didn’t want to give Cole any unwarranted confidence. Cole was riding on pure luck; it couldn’t be a comfortable feeling. Good Williams stole the ball and passed it up for an easy lay-up. Boston College was up by 12 at the half, and Neeson felt good enough to buy himself a beer. On the way up, he was stopped by a reporter.

  “What do you see going into the second half?” the reporter asked.

  Neeson smiled. “I think Boston College is showing what I thought they would. They’re poised, they’re confident, they look like they want it more. My kind of people. I think, by the end of the night, we will each be a win away from one big celebration on Monday evening.” The reporter thanked him and left.

  Coming up behind him, Tucker overheard their conversation. “I don’t think you should be so sure yet, man. There’s still a lot of time in this half. A twelve point lead is nothing.”

  Neeson laughed it off. “Come on, BC is destroying this team. Williams almost has a double-double already. Do you really see those guys making some miracle comeback?”

  “All I’m saying is that you may be jinxing yourself by claiming victory this early.”

  “I’m not Perry. I don’t do jinxes. Winning, on the other hand… ” He left Tucker and went to buy himself a beer.

  The second half began much like the first. BC continued to dominate, but UCLA didn’t completely go away. With five minutes left in the game, BC was up by eight—enough for Neeson to begin strategizing what he was going to do for the final few minutes. The cameras would be on him eventually, if they weren’t already, so he had to make a good showing. Applause during the final two minutes, then standing applause for the final minute. And he had to be smiling—not like an idiot, but satisfied, assured, vindicated. He thought it would be good to find some BC fans somewhere close by so that he could hand out high-fives and clap victoriously. He saw a clump of them two rows back and estimated how long it would take him to run up conspicuously.

  He snapped back into focus when the crowd around him gasped and stiffened. Looking down, he saw a BC player on the floor, crumpled on the ground and holding his knee.

  “Whoa,” Tucker exclaimed, “did Williams just go down?”

  “Wait, which Williams?” demanded Neeson. But he didn’t need to ask.

  “He’s not getting up,” Tucker said, with hints of both remorse and sinister glee at the sudden loss of color in Neeson’s face. “I think you’re in trouble, man.”

  A sudden panic gripped Neeson by the throat. His mind began ticking back through his data he had fed to OPUS. Had he included injuries in the massive data sweeps that had created the brackets program? Of course he had—he couldn’t have left off something like that. BC had a very low injury rate. Good Williams hadn’t been out with injuries during the regular season. Could this possibly have been taken into account? With a swift mental kick, Neeson brought himself back to the game. He couldn’t lose it now. Yes, there was an accident—but that didn’t affect any of the other myriad factors still at play, still accounted for, still under control. The coach was the same. The other players were the same. Just under four minutes left—what could happen in that space of time? Good Williams probably would have been benched for the last minute anyway since they were so far ahead. Neeson focused on deep breaths as two teammates walked Good Williams off the floor.

  But as soon as play resumed, the feeling of the game began to change. UCLA got a quick steal out of a timeout and scored an easy lay-up. BC took a bad shot that clanged off the rim and directly into the hands of the UCLA point guard, who sprinted back up the floor and shot a quick three-pointer. Thirty game seconds after Good Williams was out, BC’s lead was cut in half. Neeson watched all of this without speaking. Tucker, on the other hand, spok
e quite a bit.

  “I told you! I told you!” he crowed. “You don’t call it till it’s over, that’s why you play the game. There is change in the wind, my man.” The last remark made Neeson go rigid.

  UCLA made another strong drive and got fouled. Neeson breathed easier when they missed both free throws. Everything was okay; this would play out correctly. Thousands of data points and hundreds of hours of intense computation could be depended on. Four minutes left.

  Both teams traded baskets for the next minute and a half. Neeson found himself cheering anxiously every time BC did something even remotely good. “Come on, come on!” he yelled. To his horror, BC responded by making a bad pass that led to another UCLA shot. Three-point game.

  Tucker leaned over and started quipping. “You sure BC stands for ‘Boston College’ and not ‘Big Chokers?’” Cole laughed until he saw Neeson’s glower, which remained stubbornly focused on the court.

  With 1:42 left to play, UCLA rebounded another BC shot and launched it up court to a guard, who went in to make a lay-up and was fouled in the process. “Ooooh!” Tucker stood, “And one! And one! Tie it up, baby!” UCLA made the shot. Tie game.

  This is impossible, Neeson thought. He couldn’t have come this far only to lose because of a freak injury. OPUS couldn’t have missed the possibility that the team would completely collapse without one player. BC called a time out. With the crowd on its feet, Neeson leaned in to Cole.

  “So, Cole, you said at the press conference that you didn’t have a system for picking the teams, right? Just between you and me, you have one, right? Or someone gave you suggestions?”

  Cole raised his eyebrows and glanced at the engineer sideways. “Really, I didn’t even think about it. I was just doing it for a girl. Why, you have one?”

  The teams were back on the court, and Neeson left Cole’s question unanswered. Just a minute and a half to go. Anything could happen.

  BC got the ball out of the time out and made a jump shot. Back on top. UCLA brought the ball down, taking their time and passing a lot at the top of the three-point line. With five seconds left on the shot clock, the guard forced up a three-pointer that was contested. The shooter fell backwards on the floor with his hand in the air as the ball barely missed the fingers of the blocker, arched, and went in. The shooter jumped up and pumped his fists as his team tried to refocus him. BC came back fast and took advantage of the momentary lapse to drive up court. The ball went to Other Williams, who crashed straight into the chest of the UCLA center as he rolled the ball high off his fingers. The ball dropped into the hoop as the referees whistled a foul.

  Foul! Foul! Good! Neeson thought, but his joy was short lived. The refs waived off the basket and called an offensive foul on Other Williams. UCLA was still up by one with fifty seconds left.

  “What? You’ve got to be kidding me! That was no offensive foul? Whose pocket is he in, huh?” Neeson yelled, slamming his beer cup to the ground. Cole had his hands in the air, whooping in surprise. Neeson wanted to tell him to shut up, that it wasn’t like it was his bracket anyway. He knew what Jason had done. UCLA made a jumper to bring their lead to three. Forty seconds left.

  Neeson felt his phone vibrate. It was a text message from Mr. Graham. “Consider yourself acquired.” He almost flung the phone up the stands to where he imagined Mr. Graham was looking on with the calculation of a stalking spider, but he restrained himself. He wasn’t going to lose control. He simply had to analyze the variables at play and come to a rational conclusion. Good Williams had been injured. By whom? He didn’t know; he hadn’t seen. Other Williams had been penalized. Why? No good reason. Boston College should be winning this game by a landslide—by an 83% probability margin, to be precise. But they weren’t. Therefore, the only rational conclusion was that they were being sabotaged. This had happened before; OPUS had been sabotaged before. Was it possible that Graham himself had been in on this all along? Had it been Graham and Jason from the beginning, out to exploit and humiliate him? And Cole and Tucker, too. They were all connected, weren’t they?

  BC tried an ill-advised three that missed wildly. Then they fouled the UCLA players after the in-bounds pass, forcing them to shoot free throws. Neeson’s heart sank as one, then the other, went through. Five point game, thirty seconds left.

  “Cole,” Neeson had to shout over the crowd just to be heard, “Listen, I know about the bracket. I know it’s not yours. It’s OK, I won’t say anything, but I just need to know how Jason did it. How did he recruit you? Did he know you from before?”

  Cole just stared back. “Jason who? What are you talking about?”

  Neeson pulled back, furious. Liar! his mind accused. He knew! He stood in mute shock as BC took another bad shot and UCLA got the rebound. Foul shots. There wasn’t any time or energy left for the Boston players. With fifteen seconds left, everyone knew that UCLA had won. Tucker pulled Cole to his feet and started the crowd of UCLA fans singing: Nah Nah Nah Nah, Hey Hey Hey, Goood-byyyyyye!

  Neeson erupted. Shaking with rage, he grabbed Cole with both hands at the shirt collar and screamed into his face. “That game was mine, you cheater!” Cole tried to push him off, and Tucker grabbed Neeson by the arm to separate them. Neeson threw Cole down over the seats and aimed a punch directly at Tucker’s jaw. Tucker ducked, the punch glancing over his scalp, and pushed into the engineer’s abdomen. Feet slippery with spilled beer, Neeson jammed down onto the seats, struggling against the crowd closing in. Two security guards shoved into him, and when he kicked back, one used pepper spray. The engineer cried out with incoherent rage and pain as he was muscled up the stairs and out the tunnel. Through his tearful, squinting eyes, he got one last look at the arena, but he could see only what he had lost.

  -[Midwest Division]-

  [Midwest Division: Play-in Game]

  [Tuesday, March 18]

  The rolling hills of the Kentucky countryside were covered with morning frost. The sky was white and getting lighter as the weak winter sun rose up gradually from behind a bank of eastern fog. It was light enough to see the gigantic hole in the ground, with all the steel and cement that formed the first foundational walls of a massive structure. Construction workers huddled together, taking quick, practiced sips of near-scalding black coffee as they waited for their heavy tractors to warm up. The grunt of diesel engines interrupted what would otherwise have been a completely quiet Tuesday morning in the countryside.

  The architect Haj Hitok surveyed the site from beneath a hard hat pulled down to his eyebrows, keeping his hands in the pockets of his thick coat. To his left was a companion, also bundled warmly.

  “You know, I am going to be in Miami this weekend. It’s supposed to be 24 degrees down there,” Haj said to his companion.

  “I hope you mean Celsius.”

  “Of course.”

  Haj’s companion was a much older man. Thin strands of grey hair strayed out from underneath his hat, and his keen eyes were heavily framed with wrinkles and the effects of history, his head tending to bow forward just a little.

  They stood together in silence for a while. “You have a big hole to fill here, Haj,” the older man said absently.

  “That is easy. All we have to do is put a building in it. But then, you will have to fill the building. Frankly, I believe our job is easier than yours.”

  “You might be right. It is a competitive market out there. But with this, we will have a competitive advantage. If you’re going to recruit, it’s good to have something either very old or very new. I’m very old, this is very new. Together we should be hard to turn down.”

  “But you are not old, Bryan.”

  Bryan Casing smiled to himself. “I’ve aged more than my fair share. I’m hoping that this place will help me pay back the balance.”

  The two walked back toward the foreman’s trailer, their boots crackling over frozen mud embedded with marks from large tire treads. Haj had to leave soon.

  “I am curious about something,” Haj asked. “How will
you know whom to target? There are many people who work for me who are smart and talented, but when I try to consider if I would recommend them for this, I just don’t know.”

  Casing folded his arms and leaned his shoulder against the door of the trailer, smiling faintly in reverie. “I had this physics professor in college, Dr. Seldon, who had a saying: ‘The talent factor is a strange attractor, but skill is the rarity that yields singularity.’ He had a lot of sayings like that and I’ve pilfered most of them. The metaphors aren’t very good, but what he was trying to say was that talent doesn’t merely stand out. It has a gravitational pull that attracts people and opportunities. Highly talented people—as you well know— always seem to end up at the right place at the right time. And the more focused and refined the talent is, or the more that talent has been transformed into true skill, the stronger the pull is. The candidates who are right for us are rare, but I expect it to be relatively easy to identify them because ours is exactly the kind of organization that they would attract. Call it social physics. By the way,” he mentioned as an aside, “if you do come across anyone that we might be interested in, let us know. I know the kind of circles you run around in; we would take your recommendations seriously.”

  Haj prepared to leave. “I will. Unfortunately I still have some of my best stranded in a small apartment in Bangkok, waiting to see if things will change enough to get back on schedule.”

  “How long will you keep them there?”

  Haj shrugged. “Who knows? Things as they are…what do you think? Can they recover without a war?”

  “Beats me,” Casing conceded. “It’s a political crisis complicated by crop failure complicated by an unstable economy complicated by sectarianism complicated by China complicated by a popular uprising, complicated by, complicated by. If I were you, I’d bring them home and set them on a different project.”