Re: Second Coming: A SuperSonics Return
November 14th, 2015
The gift weighed heavily in his hand, not because it was heavy at all but because it was a gift that would never be opened. Another tradition in a long line of traditions I'd rather do without, he thought to himself as he walked up the old driveway, the cracks in it filled with the remains of dead weeds.
Fall was here in full effect and what had once flourished while warmer was now dying: much like the Sonics. Max stopped halfway up the drive and stared at where the old basketball hoop had been, his mind back in the past and just as much in the present.
How many games had he played on this driveway? Hundreds? Thousands? Him and his father, sometimes a few neighborhood friends, but the best games were those played against himself: the games where he hit the buzzer beater to send a crowd into a frenzy, the games where he came away with the crucial free throws to ice the game.
What he had imagined as a child was nowhere near the reality -- the Sonics sat at 4-5, struggling to stay above .500. The last three losses had been blowouts by 15 or more points. The last one, in particular, grated at him ... it was to the 76ers. Joe Johnson destroyed them.
Revenge -- the thing everyone can get up for, he mused. He adjusted his glasses -- a tick, they didn't need adjusting but it made him feel better -- and arrived at the front door.
A doorbell ring later and his mother opened it, a smile on her face. "Maxwell," she said happily, her a bit tense.
Max's eyebrow shot up at the way she sounded. "Mom." He gave her a quick peck on the cheek, then stepped into the house. Something was off ... the air smelled different; not that fake lilac scent she liked. "What's new?"
And that's when his brain caught up to his nose; it wasn't a new scent, it was an old one. A very old one. One he hadn't smelled in years.
Instantly his face darkened as he turned to face her. "You didn't!"
"Maxwell," she began, but she stopped short as he rushed into the living room.
Virtually unchanged since 1993, the living room of his parents house was a basic setup -- one couch before the TV, a large recliner to the right of the couch, and then a loveseat to the far left of the couch, against the wall. Boring. Plain. Effective. The TV was the centerpiece -- it was the place where they all gathered after a long day and, usually, it'd have a game on.
His father was notorious for blocking off entire hours of TV time for "the big game" which happened just about every other day during the fall. You either grew to love it or hate it -- Max had grown to love it, finding the sports displayed before him exciting and something to emulate.
His brother hadn't. He always sat on the loveseat, always laid out on it with his back to the TV. Just like he was now. "Gill," Max half-growled, half-muttered.
His older brother shot him a sidelong glance. "No point being on time anymore after making it big, huh?" Gill loudly shut the book he was reading and swung his long legs off the loveseat. "I can't believe you haven't moved Mom out of here yet."
"Gill," their mother's voice said from behind Max, her tone warning. "We're not talking about that. I've told him I won't go, just like I've told you."
Gill's hazel eyes flashed disbelief. "Yes, I'm sure."
Max could feel himself gritting his teeth. "Mom, can I have a minute?" Not waiting for her answer, he turned around and bullied his way into the kitchen, the old kitchen door swinging loudly from the force.
He set the gift down on the counter, then propped himself up against it, his hands firmly planted on it like he was about to do a pushup -- he could feel the muscles in his arms begin to coil, like he was about to hit something.
And he wanted to hit something.
The pitter-patter of his mother's small feet entered the kitchen. "It's been five years."
He bit his lip, not allowing himself to speak out of anger -- he was going to be calm. He was going to be in-control. "He ... shouldn't be here," he managed, the words forced out. "Why is he here?"
"It's been five years," she repeated, a bit of amusement in her voice. "He's better now, Maxwell. He's been clean for nearly four years and he's doing good works."
Max dropped his head to the point where it was nearly touching the countertop, his hands gripped against the edges. "He was clean for nearly two years five years ago!" He slammed his palms on the counter and turned towards her. "He doesn't need to be here! Not today!"
His mother only shook her head. "You need to forgive, Maxwell. I have. And your father would have, too. He loved you both very much."
It wasn't fair to bring his father up and she knew it. She knew it and he knew it, and yet here he was listening anyway. He took his finger and pointed it out towards the living room. "He made Dad worse. He made him go faster with his stupidity!"
She flashed a sad smirk. "Everyone does stupid things to hurt others. It's a fact of life, a human condition."
"Don't philosophize to me." Max took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, partially because they hurt and partially to protect against the threat of tears. "He shouldn't be here."
"It's your father's birthday; he has every right to be here. Like you." She picked up the gift and opened the bag. "Oh, he would have loved this." She took out a tall coffee mug, one with the new Sonics logos and engraved with all the players names. "Your father always did appreciate the personal touches to your gifts."
This isn't happening. Not. Happening. Max took a steadying breath and put his glasses back on. "I won't do this. I won't be here for this."
"If that's your wish," she said simply, putting the gift back in the bag. "Gill and I have plenty to talk about. He's looking for some administrative people and I still know a few; business is good for him."
"Is it?" Max forced a smile. "Well, good for him. Good to see him not driving drunk and slamming cars into trees, nearly destroying a mini-van full of kids!" He smacked the countertop again. "I suppose he's coaching a soccer team now, too, right? A way to 'make up' for his mistakes, huh?"
His mother took a breath and met his eyes. "You can stay or you can go. But your brother is staying. He will be here now as often as he can -- I will no longer participate in this thing you have with him; you can either accept him for the person he is now, or hate him for the person he was." She opened the fridge and took out a cake wrapped in tinfoil, condensation lightly around it. "But you'll miss out on your father's favorite cake and you have as much of a sweet tooth as he did."
She went over to him and gave him a kiss on the cheek, then left the kitchen, her ultimatum unsaid but apparent: he could either follow her or leave.
Not fifteen seconds later was he out of that house and back in his car, speeding away from his old street and his older brother. He wasn't about forgiveness -- this wasn't a time for forgiveness.
And he honestly wasn't sure if there ever would be.
November 14th, 2015
The gift weighed heavily in his hand, not because it was heavy at all but because it was a gift that would never be opened. Another tradition in a long line of traditions I'd rather do without, he thought to himself as he walked up the old driveway, the cracks in it filled with the remains of dead weeds.
Fall was here in full effect and what had once flourished while warmer was now dying: much like the Sonics. Max stopped halfway up the drive and stared at where the old basketball hoop had been, his mind back in the past and just as much in the present.
How many games had he played on this driveway? Hundreds? Thousands? Him and his father, sometimes a few neighborhood friends, but the best games were those played against himself: the games where he hit the buzzer beater to send a crowd into a frenzy, the games where he came away with the crucial free throws to ice the game.
What he had imagined as a child was nowhere near the reality -- the Sonics sat at 4-5, struggling to stay above .500. The last three losses had been blowouts by 15 or more points. The last one, in particular, grated at him ... it was to the 76ers. Joe Johnson destroyed them.
Revenge -- the thing everyone can get up for, he mused. He adjusted his glasses -- a tick, they didn't need adjusting but it made him feel better -- and arrived at the front door.
A doorbell ring later and his mother opened it, a smile on her face. "Maxwell," she said happily, her a bit tense.
Max's eyebrow shot up at the way she sounded. "Mom." He gave her a quick peck on the cheek, then stepped into the house. Something was off ... the air smelled different; not that fake lilac scent she liked. "What's new?"
And that's when his brain caught up to his nose; it wasn't a new scent, it was an old one. A very old one. One he hadn't smelled in years.
Instantly his face darkened as he turned to face her. "You didn't!"
"Maxwell," she began, but she stopped short as he rushed into the living room.
Virtually unchanged since 1993, the living room of his parents house was a basic setup -- one couch before the TV, a large recliner to the right of the couch, and then a loveseat to the far left of the couch, against the wall. Boring. Plain. Effective. The TV was the centerpiece -- it was the place where they all gathered after a long day and, usually, it'd have a game on.
His father was notorious for blocking off entire hours of TV time for "the big game" which happened just about every other day during the fall. You either grew to love it or hate it -- Max had grown to love it, finding the sports displayed before him exciting and something to emulate.
His brother hadn't. He always sat on the loveseat, always laid out on it with his back to the TV. Just like he was now. "Gill," Max half-growled, half-muttered.
His older brother shot him a sidelong glance. "No point being on time anymore after making it big, huh?" Gill loudly shut the book he was reading and swung his long legs off the loveseat. "I can't believe you haven't moved Mom out of here yet."
"Gill," their mother's voice said from behind Max, her tone warning. "We're not talking about that. I've told him I won't go, just like I've told you."
Gill's hazel eyes flashed disbelief. "Yes, I'm sure."
Max could feel himself gritting his teeth. "Mom, can I have a minute?" Not waiting for her answer, he turned around and bullied his way into the kitchen, the old kitchen door swinging loudly from the force.
He set the gift down on the counter, then propped himself up against it, his hands firmly planted on it like he was about to do a pushup -- he could feel the muscles in his arms begin to coil, like he was about to hit something.
And he wanted to hit something.
The pitter-patter of his mother's small feet entered the kitchen. "It's been five years."
He bit his lip, not allowing himself to speak out of anger -- he was going to be calm. He was going to be in-control. "He ... shouldn't be here," he managed, the words forced out. "Why is he here?"
"It's been five years," she repeated, a bit of amusement in her voice. "He's better now, Maxwell. He's been clean for nearly four years and he's doing good works."
Max dropped his head to the point where it was nearly touching the countertop, his hands gripped against the edges. "He was clean for nearly two years five years ago!" He slammed his palms on the counter and turned towards her. "He doesn't need to be here! Not today!"
His mother only shook her head. "You need to forgive, Maxwell. I have. And your father would have, too. He loved you both very much."
It wasn't fair to bring his father up and she knew it. She knew it and he knew it, and yet here he was listening anyway. He took his finger and pointed it out towards the living room. "He made Dad worse. He made him go faster with his stupidity!"
She flashed a sad smirk. "Everyone does stupid things to hurt others. It's a fact of life, a human condition."
"Don't philosophize to me." Max took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, partially because they hurt and partially to protect against the threat of tears. "He shouldn't be here."
"It's your father's birthday; he has every right to be here. Like you." She picked up the gift and opened the bag. "Oh, he would have loved this." She took out a tall coffee mug, one with the new Sonics logos and engraved with all the players names. "Your father always did appreciate the personal touches to your gifts."
This isn't happening. Not. Happening. Max took a steadying breath and put his glasses back on. "I won't do this. I won't be here for this."
"If that's your wish," she said simply, putting the gift back in the bag. "Gill and I have plenty to talk about. He's looking for some administrative people and I still know a few; business is good for him."
"Is it?" Max forced a smile. "Well, good for him. Good to see him not driving drunk and slamming cars into trees, nearly destroying a mini-van full of kids!" He smacked the countertop again. "I suppose he's coaching a soccer team now, too, right? A way to 'make up' for his mistakes, huh?"
His mother took a breath and met his eyes. "You can stay or you can go. But your brother is staying. He will be here now as often as he can -- I will no longer participate in this thing you have with him; you can either accept him for the person he is now, or hate him for the person he was." She opened the fridge and took out a cake wrapped in tinfoil, condensation lightly around it. "But you'll miss out on your father's favorite cake and you have as much of a sweet tooth as he did."
She went over to him and gave him a kiss on the cheek, then left the kitchen, her ultimatum unsaid but apparent: he could either follow her or leave.
Not fifteen seconds later was he out of that house and back in his car, speeding away from his old street and his older brother. He wasn't about forgiveness -- this wasn't a time for forgiveness.
And he honestly wasn't sure if there ever would be.
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