Feeling lonely, Sara strapped on her Walkman and began to sing a little ditty by the Police. When her voice grew too loud (“Don’t stand so . . . Don’t stand so . . . Don’t stand so close to me!”), the nurse came in, gave her a scolding glare, and told her to quiet down.
“Sorry.”
She took off the headset and flicked on the television. She was immediately greeted by a sportscaster’s voice. “Great move by Michael Silverman. What a game he’s having, Tom.”
“Sure is, Brent. Twenty-two points, ten rebounds, nine assists. He’s playing like a man possessed.”
“And Seattle calls time out. The score in this fourth game off the NBA Championship Series—New York 87, the Sonics 85. We’ll be back at Madison Square Garden in New York City in just a moment.”
Though not much of a sports fan, Sara watched the remainder of the game. The Knicks won by five points, tying up the NBA finals at two games apiece. The series would now move to Seattle for the next two games and then back to New York if a seventh and final game was needed. She continued to watch as the inane sportscasters spewed out as many clichés as they could come up with while reviewing the game highlights. After that there were interviews with numerous players and coaches, which lasted for another hour or so.
“Looking for me?”
Sara turned quickly toward the door. “Who—?”
Michael stepped forward from the shadows. His hair was still wet from his postgame shower. “Miss Nancy Levin,” he said simply.
“What?”
“You asked about my piano teacher. Miss Nancy Levin. She was the music teacher at Burnet Hill Elementary School.”
Sara swallowed, not sure what to say. “It’s past visiting hours.”
“I know,” he said. “I promised the security guard two tickets to a game if he looked the other way. One of the advantages of fame. Mind if I take a seat?”
Sara tried to speak but had to settle for a shake of the head.
“Thanks,” he said. “I called your office this morning and your editor told me you had pneumonia. He said you get it pretty frequently.”
She shrugged.
“So I thought I’d pay you a visit. I hope I’m not keeping you awake.”
“Not at all,” she replied, finding her voice at last, “but shouldn’t you be celebrating with your teammates?”
“We don’t celebrate until we win four games. We’ve only won two so far.”
“Didn’t the reporters want to interview you after the game?”
He nodded, smiling. “But as you well know, I don’t really like interviews.”
“Not even postgame victory ones?”
“Actually, I like those.”
“So?”
“So I wanted to come here and see you, okay?”
She turned away from his steady gaze, summoning some inner strength before turning back to face him. “How much does this championship series mean to you, Michael?”
“Do you always ask so many questions?”
“Occupational hazard.”
“Well, how can I put it? It means everything to me. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve dreamed about hitting the winning shot in the NBA finals. Since I was a little kid, winning the NBA finals has been my dream. Does that answer your question?”
“Yes.”
“So how are you feeling?”
“Fine,” she said.
“Tired?”
“No.”
“Want to talk?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Under one condition,” he said. “It’s all off the record. We’re just chatting now. None of this can be used in a story. I want your word.”
“You have it.”
He stood and paced. “What do you know about me?”
“The file is on the night table,” she said. “Read it.”
He lifted the folder and opened it. Sara watched his eyes grow large and pained as they moved across the page.
“Is it true?” she asked him.
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
“Yes.”
And so they talked for the next hour until the nurse, a large black woman who was no basketball fan, found Michael in Sara’s room, reprimanded him for being there after visiting hours, and threw him out.
The Knicks and the Sonics split the next two games, putting both teams at three wins apiece and setting up Game Seven at Madison Square Garden in New York. Game Seven—mystical words for sports fans. Twenty-four teams playing eighty-two regular season games each and four rounds of play-offs had come down to one final game to decide the championship.
Sara watched the game from her hospital room. She found herself cheering for the Knicks fiercely, for Michael most especially. With three seconds left and the Knicks down 102–101, the ball was passed to Michael. Sara felt her heart leap into her throat as Michael drove the lane and lofted a hook shot high over the outstretched hand of Seattle’s seven-foot center. The buzzer sounded. The ball bounced on the rim twice, hit the backboard, and then dropped in for two points. The game was over.
New York Knicks 103, Seattle Supersonics 102.
New York City went crazy. Michael’s teammates, led by Reece Porter, mobbed Michael. Madison Square Garden rocked in a frenzied celebration. Sara heard herself crying out with joy, her hands pounding the bed in excitement.
He had done it. Michael had done it.
“Yahoo!” she shouted.
The same nurse peeked her head through the doorway. “Miss Lowell . . .”
“Sorry.”
She watched the locker room scene, the champagne being poured on everyone’s head, the rare joy of winning the NBA championship. The Knick players and coaches were hooting and shouting and hugging one another in one of adult life’s few moments of uninhibited, unashamed happiness. Sara tried to find Michael in the rejoicing horde, but there was too much confusion. Several Knicks were interviewed by the sportscasters, all singing Michael’s praises, but the game’s superstar was nowhere to be found. Some time later Sara heard footsteps approach her room.
“Hi,” Michael said.
“What are you doing here?”
Sara’s voice was angry. A hurt look crossed Michael’s face.
“What are you doing here?” she repeated, her tone no softer. “You’re supposed to be celebrating the greatest moment of your life, right? So what the hell are you doing here?”
Tears glistened in the corners of his eyes. “I don’t know,” he said.