by Sloan, David
Cole exhaled deeply and put the tablet down. The security chief gave them a harassed look. “Please. Please. Go. Away.” Cole and Tucker were more than willing to obey.
Observing everything from the open door that led to the loft, Noh raised his hand in farewell as the two bracket-holders limped toward the hallway. Cole wobbled over stiffly to shake his hand.
“Thank you, Mr. Noh. That thing you did with the screen saved our lives.”
“I told you,” Noh said, smiling broadly.“Kaah Mukul would help you. It was fate.”
“I guess so,” Cole said. “How did you do that thing with the lights and sirens?”
“I programmed that for a customer.” Cole and Nera looked at him quizzically. Noh shrugged. “Wealthy people often have strange requests.”
“Wait, the game!” Tucker yelled, stopping abruptly in the doorway. “Is it over?”
Henry nodded. “Yes son, it’s over.”
“Who won?”
* * * *
Two blocks away, in a quiet side street away from the crowds exiting the arena, Mr. Graham walked alone. He held his baseball cap, now heavily stained with blood, flat against a wound on the side of his head. His car was close enough, in a parking garage just around the corner, but he limped heavily and his breath billowed out through the unseasonably cold night air.
A limousine pulled up beside him, and one of the windows rolled down.
“Need a lift?” asked a voice. It was a voice that Graham knew. It was Bryan Casing.
“It’s been a long time, Alex,” said Casing, talking slowly. “What happened to your head?”
“Walked into a wall,” Graham said with irritation, starting to walk again. The limo kept pace with him.
“It looks bad,” said Casing. “Do you want me to look at it?”
“I’m fine,” said Graham. “And, as I recall, you don’t have a medical license anymore.”
“You might need stitches. GW hospital is just down the road a ways.”
“No, I just need to get to my car. I’ll live.”
The limo stopped and Casing stepped out. Graham picked up his pace, but Casing kept up easily.
“How is work these days?” Casing asked.
“Brutal,” said Graham, wincing.
“Well, I’m sure they consider you a skilled and welcome set of hands. One of many, am I right?” Graham stopped in front of the parking garage and turned to face his old rival full-on.
“Goodbye, Bryan,” he said, and he turned away.
“Alex,” called Casing, “are you sure you don’t need any help now? It could be dangerous to drive with a head injury, and that looks nasty.”
“I live dangerously.”
“You? ‘Graham, the man with the plan in a can?’ You used to be more careful.”
“Well, you know what they say about mice and men.”
“Was that a mouse or a man that did that to you?”
Graham stopped. “Good-bye, Bryan. I’ll be fine.”
Casing heard the tone of finality in his voice and shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He waved for the limo and got back in. “See you around,” he said, and closed the door.
Behind them, Graham watched until the limo turned the corner before walking into the parking garage and straight to his car. Reaching into his pocket for his keys, he brought out a bag of peanuts by force of habit. The bag crinkled. It was empty. Fuming, he opened the car door, paused, and slammed down on the roof with all his might.
-[Post-Game Analyisis]-
[Thursday, April 10th]
The lights were off in the video vault of the Boston College athletics department. On the large television monitor looped a silent recording of the last five minutes in BC’s recent Final Four loss to UCLA. The back-up point guard known callously, and now nationally, as “Other Williams” was sitting alone, leaning back, watching it all unfold again and again. He had been there a long time.
There was a knock at the door. Williams sighed, but didn’t move. Only at the second knock did he stand and open the door. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the hallway lights, but he quickly recognized the man standing there.
“Uncle Bryan?” he asked, surprised.
Bryan Casing smiled but offered no hug or contact. He stood still and straight as ever in a grey suit and blue tie that made him look, to Williams, much like a basketball coach.
“Good to see you, John. May I come in?” asked Casing.
Williams turned on the lights and stood aside. Casing paused before the monitor and watched the plays unfold. “Self-teaching or self-punishment?”
“Maybe both,” said Williams. “Why are you here?”
“Partly to check in. Your mother tells me that you’ve been a little depressed lately.”
“I’ve been better.” Williams looked away.
“Anything I can do?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. I never do, but I always want to ask.” Casing sat down and Williams did too. “You shouldn’t feel bad. You and your team fought hard with your best player down. You lost to the team that would eventually win the tournament, so at least you have a lot of company.”
“I messed up,” said Williams. “I had my opportunity, it was my time to step up, and I lost it. We had that game before I came in.”
“It could have gone better, yes, but it was hardly a catastrophe. You’ve improved dramatically just in the last few games. Everybody thinks so. You were confident. You didn’t back down. Tyson Williams will be in the NBA next year, which probably means that you will be the starting guard. Lots of opportunity to prove yourself again.”
“You think I’ll ever shake the ‘Other Williams’ thing?”
“You put in the work, get some good breaks, and maybe you’ll get back that great nickname you had in high school. It will be nice to see The Original Score running again.”
Williams half-laughed, the closest he had come to smiling in a while.
Casing shifted his mood. “You know your father is getting out in a few months. Do you have any plans?”
Williams shook his head.
“I’ve offered him a job,” Casing went on. “It isn’t much, just some janitorial work. It won’t kick in until my new building is completed, so he’ll try to find something local for the next year. You should have some time in the summer to catch up, if you want.”
“I don’t know if I want that,” said Williams.
Casing nodded sympathetically, then leaned back in his chair.
“You heard that they captured the Wall Street arsonist, Ichabod, during the Championship game? A lot has come out about him since then. His real name is Eli. Apparently he has a lot in common with you. He was a college athlete, did you know that? He played baseball at Syracuse. Pitcher. Grew up without his dad in a run-down neighborhood. He had a lot of talent, just like you; he’s even as tall as you are. Of course, he’s different from you in that he has a severe mental illness and he dropped out after his freshman year to burn buildings and launch rocks at people. But the other similarities are interesting, aren’t they?”
Williams stared blankly. “I don’t think I see your point, man.”
Casing smiled. “Just saying that your life could be a lot worse, given what you’ve been through. And you still have a good future, if you want it.”
He stood up and put his hands in his pocket. “I have something for you,” he said as he retrieved a folded piece of paper and handed it over. Williams unfolded an NCAA bracket from that year, filled out with all the winners. Every team was marked with a yellow highlighter.
“That’s the perfect bracket that belonged to Cole Kaman,” said Casing. “I met him and asked for a signed copy, but he gave me the original. He said he didn’t want to keep it. I thought it would be nice for you to have. He signed it at the bottom.”
Williams looked down in the lower left-hand corner and saw a sloppy C__ K___ and the simple words “Good Luck!” written in black pen. Williams held it up to Casing.
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sp; “Why would I want something that predicts us losing?”
Casing focused a penetrating gaze on Williams.
“Motivation.”
Then he put his hand in his other pocket and retrieved another piece of paper. Williams unfolded it to find a blank bracket, formatted for the year 2016.
“This,” said Casing, “is for you to fill out now. It’s up to you, but I suggest that you put BC going all the way.” Williams looked at both pieces of paper, one in each hand, then looked back up.
“I have to go,” Casing said. “I’ll be back up soon after your father gets out. It’ll be nice to see him outside.” The older man moved toward the door.
“You know,” Williams said, standing, “I still don’t really know anything about you. I keep waiting for you to tell me.”
Casing laughed to himself. “It’s funny, I have a new hire that keeps reminding me of the same thing. You college kids and your curiosity.” He hesitated as he considered the opportunity, but finally shook his head. “I’m really a story for another time. I’ll tell you as a graduation present, how about that? In the meantime, you have a season to prepare for.”
Casing patted Williams on the shoulder and left the room. A young couple was waiting for him outside, and Williams saw the man give him a quick wave before the door closed shut.
Williams sat there for a while, considering his Uncle Bryan’s words. He looked back up at the screen just in time to see the last painful five seconds of the game tick down and then automatically restart at the five-minute mark. With decisive movement, he turned the machine off and the screen went black. Then he looked around for a pen, found one, and began to fill out his bracket.
________________________________________
About the Author
David Sloan is a neuroscientist currently living in West Virginia. [Brackets] is his debut novel. He has never had a perfect bracket. Not even close.