The Wife Win

Harper sniffs, rolling her eyes. “Oh, please. You’re the most fit GM in this league. Seriously, you put some of the players to shame. You look good.”

Her smile suddenly wilts, as if realizing what she’s said, and her eyes drop to her plate, backpedaling a little.

“I mean…you’re in better shape than Mike Pella.” She sweeps her hand in an arc over her belly to indicate how big Mike’s gut has gotten. “He looks like he swallowed a basketball.”

I laugh at her reference, and we continue our lunch as the time flies by with the ease of our conversation.

Doug, the cameraman, returns and sets up his equipment as Harper dives right in, continuing the interview process like we’re still just having a chat over dinner. Harper has changed my outlook on this process. She’s turned the prospect of interviewing—a task I’ve always loathed—into something truly enjoyable.

It’s not a hardship to be in her company. Over this past hour, I’ve forgotten to be angry over Jasmine’s visit. Instead I found myself smiling and laughing more with Harper than I have in years.

Harper is incredibly bright, thoughtful, and knowledgeable in the realm of sports and stats. She can whip off numbers and stats with a snap of a finger. It’s clear she’s done her research and is well-versed in all aspects of the sport.

We talk another thirty minutes about the current team and the strengths and weaknesses of my players until she finally concludes with a question about my leadership skills and the award I’m to receive while in Chicago.

“Marek, congratulations are in order, I hear, as you’re one of this year’s recipients of the league’s leadership award. That’s high praise, considering you’ve only been with the Pilots’ organization for less than two years. During that time, you’ve experienced losses, both professionally and personally. What is it that you’ve taken away from those experiences that you’ve applied in your role as GM?”

Her question, although rather innocuous, with the personal aspect skimming just underneath the surface, feels like a flaming arrow piercing my heart.

Somehow it manages to rattle me, bringing to the forefront all the wounds I’ve suffered the last two years. Perhaps I’m still reeling after my discussion with Jasmine earlier.

My throat clogs and I reach for my glass on the table, taking a drink to clear my thoughts before offering my response.

I tilt my head, looking her straight in the eyes as I answer her reflectively. “That’s a good question, Harper. And thank you. I’d have to say, strip me of my title as a general manager, I’m just a man. Simply a human being who experiences the same sort of difficult things others encounter in their lives. We either find the strength to carry on, or we don’t. Winning and losing are a part of life and especially the game of basketball. My leadership and philosophy in life is to expect a loss or two, but don’t let it keep you from taking another shot. Without losses, you won’t ever know how great it feels to win the next time.”

She adds in with a smile, “So you believe that failure is a part of the game.”

I nod at her statement rather than question. “Absolutely. Failure is not the same as losing. Failure is never trying again after being defeated. Not taking the second shot. Losing is the act of accepting that you need to take a step back and learn from the experience. To develop new strategies to implement so you can focus on winning again. That’s the winner’s attitude and my motto.”

Sure, that may be my winning motto in the game of basketball. But in the game of life? I’m a big, fat, fucking screw-up.

And Harper sees right through that bullshit answer.

“That’s a great motto to live by, Marek,” she says warmly, offering me a friendly smile. It’s the smile that tells me exactly what’s coming next. She can’t hide it from her expression. “Would you say you’ve employed that same motto in your personal life and taken your own advice?”

My jaw clenches tightly and my eyes narrow. I set myself up for that question. I lobbed the ball up in an alley oop pass and she dunked it in the net.

Do I blame her for asking? No. But I also don’t give her what she wants.

I stand up, removing the clip-on mic from my jacket lapel and hand it back. She accepts it and lifts a brow.

“Interview’s over.”