A Different Basket

            “He’s going past the forty, thirty, twenty, my god he’s going all the way! Cannon’s done it again! Another touchdown for the Cavaliers and another championship for West Valley High! In no small part to Cannon, the hometown hero!”

            “That boy is going places Jim, what an arm on that kid!”

            “Number one draft pick material once he makes it past the collegiate level!”

            “Well, he’s been scouted by a lot of universities, that kid. LSU, Washington, Crimson Tide, all the big names.”

            “Well Pete, I for one can’t wait to see what big things he’s got in his future.”

            Rewind.

            “…I for one can’t wait to see what big things he’s got in his future.”

            Rewind.

            “…I for one can’t wait to see what big things he’s got in his future.”

            Rewind.

            “…big things he’s got in his future.”

            The rewind button on the remote is all but gone, the rubber cover on it is worn down to where only a speck of black remains of the left-facing arrows. He rubs his coarse thumb across what remains of the button, but quickly tosses it onto the coffee table and leans back into the couch, sinking into the old cushions as if inviting it to swallow him whole. 

The picture on the TV is of a young football player, toned to the bone with skin glistening under the stadium lights as the sweat cascades down his dark skin. He’s shining in the middle of the screen, hoisted on the shoulders of his team as they parade him to the offsides of the field. A gold-painted trophy awaits him on a crudely put-together podium, speckled with gilded spray paint and super-glued with foam and garland to make it look as far from a conductor’s podium as the drama class could make it. It’s a hodgepodge of creative spirit, but for the small town, it was all that mattered. All that mattered to Jake Cannon.

Jake Cannon, of whom sits silently on his thrifted couch as his tired eyes are glued to the past that’s on full display before him. He wonders where the cheery boy is inside of him; he knows he’s still there, hiding in the recesses of his wandering brain, yet afraid to come to the forefront of the body that was once flooded with invigorated youth and a radiant, hopeful disposition. 

When did he go?

Jake looks to the wall to his right where a framed paper sits crooked on the wall. He tilts his head to match its diagonal, and even though he can’t read it from such distance, he knows by heart what it says. Years of reciting the letter in the mirror in the mornings does that to a person.

“We are excited to inform and congratulate you on your esteemed acceptance into the University of Washington.” He stands up and limps over to it, the lost crumbs sticking themselves to his bare feet as he narrowly misses the tail of his cat, who looks at him in dismay. “We’d also like to congratulate you on your full-ride on behalf of your involvement in our esteemed Football program.” He stops within striking range of the framed acceptance letter, looking on at it with a mix of longing and something he can’t quite figure. “We’re excited to have you a part of the U of W family.”

He punches the glass and watches the shattered frame swing loosely on the lone nail in the wall, the letter falling to the floor like a toddler on a swing set. Anger was the other feeling.

He looks down at his now bloodied knuckle and sighs. He walks to the kitchen with his left leg slightly lagging behind and leaves a trail of red dots behind him like small footsteps as he crosses onto the linoleum floor and washes his hand into the free side of the sink. The soap burns his skin. 

Meow.

He looks behind him at the grey cat that no longer seems annoyed with him. He’s standing in the doorway, but quickly leaps onto the round table and stands on the spot that signals to Jake that he wants his pets. He sighs, but smiles as he takes a dish towel and wraps his wet fist in it. He then walks over to the cat and scratches it right in the middle of its head, which the cat notifies its acceptance with an engine-revving purr. 

“You always got my back, don’t you Heisman?” He moves his finger to the cats chin, which makes it purr more and he can almost see the cat smile. As much as a cat can smile, that is.

He leaves the cat to do as it pleases, walking over to the slightly ajar pantry that’s held open by a new enough textbook that the plastic is still tightly pressed on the pristine cover. He grabs the doorframe so it doesn’t close shut and lock forever as he lightly pushes the textbook to the side. 

Inside the pantry is a makeshift, crude shrine to who was once a hero. Under the lone, dimly bright light above, he sees so many variations of his younger face pressed against the glass of the frames, lined up along both of the short walls without any notable rhyme or reason. In most he’s smiling amidst a crowd of other recognizable smiles. In most, he’s in uniform and his high school jersey is darkened by sweat. In most, he’s on Lincoln Field in varying degrees of joy; smiling under a waterfall of gallons of drinking water, raised on the shoulders of friends with a football raised victoriously above him, hugged by his family. He knows each face and the plethora of names attributed to each; do they remember his?

In one photo he’s standing in front of his parents’ humble fireplace with a purple jersey held between his wingspan. His name is sprawled out in stark white over the number “9”, the glossy number radiating amidst the sea of camera flashes from all angles. His smile is wide, his perfect teeth bright and contrasted against his seemingly midnight skin. He remembered never smiling so wide in his life.

At the far end of the pantry is a collection of now meaningless trophies arranged sporadically on the wired shelves meant for snacks and storage. 

“1995 West Valley Football Player of the Year”

“Biggest Fish Caught in the 1996 Fisherman’s Trek”

“1995 Athlete of the Year”

“1996 Mathlete of the Year”

“1996 Best in Class-Short Story Writers of America.”

“Most Achieved Athlete-1998”

And so many more he wishes were as impactful as they were when he first held them.

In the middle of all the gilded and silver-dusted trophies, is the one from the TV. Despite specks of garland being strewn across the floor, the colored foam riddled with holes and tears, and the gold once hastily painted across the giant bowl now all but gone, he looks at it and can’t help but smile. 

He turns around to the door that’s now closed behind him, and sees the one picture frame that stands out among the rest. It’s a series of newspaper clippings; headlines, sentences, and a picture of him where his smile is absent. 

“…Fall from grace…”

“What’s the opposite of inspiring?”

“…dodged bullet…”

“…never bet on a kid…”

All these crude cut-outs are circling a lone picture of him lying on his side in the middle of Lincoln Field. His hands are would tightly on his lower leg, which is huddled close to his chest as he almost hears the earsplitting scream leaving his pained mouth. 

Then, in a moment that he’s grown accustomed to, he echoes the scream and punches the photo. 

He takes a deep breath and regains his posture; every once in a while, his therapist had a good trick up her sleeve.

“Calm yourself Cannon.” He takes another deep breath, mentally counting to five, then lets it out with another count to five. He then reaches for the door handle and finds that it’s immobile. “Jesus.” He jiggles it with all his strength, and unsurprisingly, he fails to bend to his need. “Jesus!” He rams his shoulder against the door, but it doesn’t budge. 

He backs into the pantry to get a running start, but finds that he only has a foot or two of space to ready himself. “Of course, Jesus.” He says s few more curses under his breath, but then tries to take advantage of the room he does have. He takes a deep breath, remembers the tackle he made against Richlands quarterback, then puts all his force into his right foot and lunges towards the door.

But he falls onto the floor as if he passed through an invisible wall. He lands with a thud on the ground, but years of training had obviously readied him for this, so he doesn’t make a sound.

“There you are.” He twists his body so he facing the ceiling, and floating above him is a familiar face. “I was wondering why you weren’t opening the door.”

“I forgot you had the spare key.” He pulls himself up and orientates himself so he’s looking his brother in the eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“Breaking you out of your temple.”

“Shut up Nick.” He brushes past him with a faux-vigor that diminishes as he left leg drags behind him. 

“I hear you skipped your last session.” His brother follows close behind him, clearly walking slower, if not dramatically slower, than usual on his behalf. 

“Hasn’t helped me so far.” He sits down at the kitchen table where Heisman had yet to move away from. His brother approaches the cat and scratches him in the same way Jake had. He echoes the same approving purr just as his brother sits down across from him. 

“Well, if you went to each one at the intervals you’re supposed to, maybe it would’ve by now.”

“You don’t have the same commanding presence as dad, you know.”

“I’m not trying to echo him, Jake.”

“Then why start a conversation off like that as if there’s nothing else to talk about?”

“Oh okay, ‘hey brother how are you? So good to see you man’.”

“I hate you.”

“What are you gonna do? Tackle me?”

“That’s low.”

“So are you, stomping around this apartment as if you have nothing to do with your life.”

“I’m not ‘stomping around’.”

“The shattered picture frames and screaming say otherwise.”

“You should leave.”

“Why aren’t you going out and finding something to get your life back on track Jake?”

“Oh, like play for Washington? That’s out of the question.”

“What makes you think that’s all you have going for you?”

“It’s all I ever had. And now I’m hobbling around like a war veteran.” 

“Veterans find stuff to do too”

“You don’t know what it was like, Nick. I used to stand in the middle of Lincoln with the floodlights washing over me like sunlight man! You weren’t out there on the turf on those game nights when the lights literally put me in the spotlight and made everyone’s eyes focus on me. Me. Jake Cannon. Hometown hero. Football flyer. You don’t know the feeling of knowing that when another team steps onto that field for the first time and they already fell defeated because they locked eyes with me. The feeling of being paraded of the field like I was the trophy the team won. I was the shit Nick.”

“Yeah yeah I know the story you idiot, I was there. I was one of the people supporting you and praying for your ass to go all the way. You know what I also prayed for?” Nick stood up and stomped towards the pantry that Nick hadn’t realized his brother had held open with the textbook. He saw him rummage around the pantry, but couldn’t tell what he was doing. “That you would take advantage of this at some point!” He threw a trophy with a gold book on top at Jake, who dodged out of the way just as it shattered against the wall behind him.

“What the hell are you doing!”

“Or take advantage of this!” Another trophy, with a fish this time, soared overhead and broke on the floor.

“Stop it dude!” 

“To take advantage of literally any of the other skills you have.” He grabbed another trophy and as Jake readied himself to dodge, he saw his brother simply walk out with it and slam it on the table in front of him. “You know what ‘Athlete of the Year’ actually means? It means not only did you excel in sports, but you kept all your grades up and were excelling in all that shit too. Why are you acting like your stupid brain is only wired for sports? You put all your eggs in one football-shaped basket as if there wasn't another one that might've worked better."

            “You don’t see authors on TV for writing books dumbass!”

            “Who cares if you’re on TV?”

            “Who cares about me if I’m not?”

            “I do! Mom and dad do! Your damn therapist does! All your friends! Jesus, Jake. I could go all day. Why do you think anyone cares if you make it as a concussion-riddled ballplayer? All any of us want for you is to be okay.”

            Jake looked at his brother in silence. His mouth was agape, ready to say something, but he couldn’t find the words. His mind is a whirlwind of anger, sadness, and something else he can’t quite figure. 

            “You’re so caught up in this dream of playing for the Seahawks or some shit that you don’t see that there are other routes for your smartass to take! You could be a teacher, an author, or even a god damn cashier the rest of your life! As long as you’re okay, we’ll be supporting you. It’s not like we won’t remember you if you work retail until you die.” 

            He still couldn’t speak. The jigsaw of thoughts and feelings were still piecing themselves together in his mind. 

            “You know, I came just to drop this off for you, and now I’m livid, thanks.” He stood up and walked over to the couch that was lit under the static image of the football game radiating from the TV. He reached over the back and grabbed a small box off of the seat before returning to the table and throwing it down next to the trophy. “These are all letters from West Valley hoping you’re doing okay. Family, friends, even acquaintances. Just because you’re a town away now doesn’t mean people forget about you.” Nick sighs. “I’m gonna go. I love you and hate you.” He walks towards the front door without looking back. “Call me if you need anything. Seriously.” He opens the door and leaves Jake by himself with the box.

            His mind is spinning, all the emotions he can’t quite figure dancing through his brain. He looks at the small box and quickly grabs it, pouring its contents out onto the table and throwing the box to the floor as Heisman hops into it without a second thought. 

            Before him is a countless pile of notes, and without thinking, he grabs one from the middle of the pile and opens it. 

            Hey man! Long time no see. It’s Eugene from physics, you know, the guy who cheated off you a lot. Hoping you’re doing okay and wanted to thank you for helping me not flunk out of that really bad class. I saw that you hurt yourself in that game against LSU a couple years ago, I hope you’ve recovered quick and are still kicking ass! I was rereading that essay you sent to me to proofread from Mr. Giles’ class about Grapes of Wrath, and it reminded me that you were thinking of writing a book or something. Hope that’s going well too!

            He found himself smiling at the note, he’d forgotten about the book. 

            Curiosity. That was the other feeling. He’d forgotten about that one too.