Keeping Score
Warrick shrugged, uncomfortable with the question. The truth was that every day the noise seemed to grow louder. “I’m doing my best. There’s a lot at stake.”
Oscar grunted again, shifting on the bleacher toward him. “It’s the finals, not surgery.”
Warrick’s gaze swept the nets circling the ceiling, the black wire carts of supplies—basketballs, yoga bands, and jump ropes. Of course, Oscar was right. There was no comparison. Basketball wasn’t life and death. But every time Warrick stopped to think about how close he was to the NBA finals title, he was transported back to the twelve-year-old boy who’d been unable to live up to his father’s expectations and unwort
hy of his mother’s attention. Warrick had something to prove, at least to himself.
He shook off the past. “I may not have another shot at the title.”
Oscar looked from Warrick to DeMarcus and back. “You tanking the finals?”
“No, but I may retire after this season.”
DeMarcus rose from his seat on the bleacher. His movements were slow and stiff. “You, too?”
Warrick shrugged. “I’ve been thinking about it.”
“Don’t.” Oscar’s advice was much like the man, brusque and to the point.
“Wait until the finals are over to decide.” DeMarcus sat again.
Warrick jerked his chin toward his coach. “You left the game when you were a couple of years older than I am now. You were on top. How did you know it was time to retire?”
DeMarcus drew a hand over his hair. “I had a great career. No regrets. But after my mother died, my priorities changed. The game wasn’t fun anymore.”
Warrick lifted his gym bag and settled the strap onto his shoulder. “The game isn’t fun for me anymore, either.” Coaching was looking better and better.
“What was it you just said?” Oscar’s frown cleared. “Sometimes you’re too close to the situation. It takes someone on the outside to see it clearly.”
“There’s a lot at stake.” Warrick turned to leave. It wasn’t only that the game wasn’t fun anymore. Like DeMarcus, his priorities had changed.
The reporters were no longer camped on the sidewalk in front of her house. Marilyn celebrated by entering her home through the front door. It was a beautiful June day, despite the personal clouds following her. She’d had a hard run through Prospect Park and was dripping with sweat. As she crossed the entranceway and mounted the stairs, the sudden ringing of the telephone brought her to a stop. She changed directions.
Marilyn answered the phone in the family room, careful not to drip sweat on the armchair. “Hello?”
“Marilyn. It’s Arthur Posey.”
Her mind went through twists and leaps trying to determine why she was hearing the hospital administrator’s voice again. She glanced at the clock above the sandstone fireplace. It was almost noon on Tuesday.
“What can I do for you, Arthur?” The conversation had barely begun and already she was anxious to end it.
“Actually, Marilyn, the question isn’t what you can do for me. It’s what I can do for you.”
The hospital administrator’s voice still made her gums itch. “What would that be?”
“Reinstate you at Kings County Medical Samaritan Hospital.”
Marilyn froze at Arthur’s words. He was calling to give her her job back? “Why?”
“The board met and reconsidered the decision to revoke your hospital privileges.”
Marilyn pictured Arthur in his office, seated in his maroon leather executive chair behind his oversized mahogany desk. Was he alone or was a member of the hospital’s board in his office holding a gun to his head? Marilyn couldn’t believe he was making this call willingly.
“You mean the board disagreed with your decision? They didn’t fire me, Arthur. You did.” The word fired still stung. It would for a very long time. The unjust reason behind the dismissal made it worse.
“The board and I have decided to give you another chance.”
Marilyn gritted her teeth at the pompous statement. “Why?”