[Brackets]

[
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Copyright © 2012 by David Sloan

All Rights Reserved

ISBN
-13: 978-1479187904

Cover design by David Sloan

F
or Naomi,

With whom things have

been even better than predicted.

-[Selection Sunday]-

[
Selection Sunday
:
March 15, 2015]

The office of Boston College’s basketball coach was sparsely decorated. There were a few pictures of past glories, a framed jersey, but little else. After all, his job was really on the court. Offices were for short, to-the-point conversations. Like the one he was about to have.

There was a knock at the door. The coach barely looked up.

“Come in, Williams,” he said.

The team’s back-up shooting guard, one of two players with the last name of Williams, walked through the door. He moved with the distinctive glide of all talented basketball players, effortless and smooth despite his size. But he kept his eyes down as he slouched into the chair opposite the coach’s desk, and when he eventually looked up, his face hardened. On the wall to his right, a projector beamed an enlarged still of some game film from the ACC finals that they had lost two days before. Williams recognized it instantly. It had been a highlight on all the sports shows, repeated
over and over
all day, mostly because of
his error
. He looked over at his coach in anticipation of what was coming next.

“How you doing?” asked the coach.

Williams shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Fine.”

The coach raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to have to do better than just ‘fine’. Your team is going to need you at your best this week. Are you up to it?”

“It don’t matter,” said the player, looking away. “I’m just the ‘other’ Williams anyways, right?”

“Hey,” the coach half-rose, pointing his finger
toward
Williams’ chest. “Don’t you ever say that again. You are not a lesser part of this team unless you act like a lesser part of this team. You earned a place here, and no one—not the media, not the fans, not the bloggers—can take that away from you. It wouldn’t matter if all of your teammates had the same last name, you are still an important part of this team. Got that?”

“Yes, coach,” said Williams softly.

The coach paused for a long moment, examining his player. Then he turned to the wall with the projected image. “Okay, then,”
he said. “I want to talk about something on this video. I want you to watch it and tell me what you see.”

He pressed a button on the remote and the play unfolded. North Carolina had the ball. Williams was on defense at the top of the key, knees bent, arms wide, face just a few feet from his opponent, who was dribbling in place. The others were scrambling around under the basket and on the wings, trying to make something happen. Second half, the Tar Heels up by three, one minute to go. With eight seconds left on the shot clock, the other North Carolina guard ran up to the man that Williams was guarding and took the ball. Williams immediately left his man and started to double team the other player. Shouts of a countdown came from the crowd as the North Carolina center ran up behind Williams to set a pick, and Williams’ man took a stance outside the three-point line. The other guard passed the ball over Williams’ head. Williams suddenly realized his mistake. Spinning around to reacquire his man, he slammed his shoulder into the North Carolina center and reached out desperately. His attempted block missed and the shot went up, but Williams’ hand had tapped the shooter’s forearm. The basket was good, the foul was called, and the coach signaled for a time-out. In just a few seconds, North Carolina had gone up by six. And it was Williams’ fault.

“Now,” said the coach at his desk, “what do you think I want to talk with you about?”

Williams shrugged. It seemed obvious. “I shouldn’t have left my man. I shouldn’t have doubled.”

“You’re right, that’s true,” said the coach. “But that isn’t what most concerns me.” He rewound to the moment just after the time-out was called. The camera angle had shifted so that there was a good shot of Williams’ face as he made his way off the court. The coach froze the image.

“How would you describe your facial expression there?” he asked the player. Williams studied the face for a moment and half-heartedly relived it.

“I’m mad,” he said.

“Maybe,” said the coach. “But I remember distinctly what you looked like right then. I’ve seen that look before. It isn’t anger, it isn’t embarrassment. People look that way when they lose control in
a big moment. That right there is
panic
.”

The player looked at the still image of his face again. The eyes were wide, the corners of his open mouth drawn down. It was the agonizing expression of someone who couldn’t breathe in a room full of air.

“Williams,” said the coach, leaning forward and drawing t
he player’s gaze from the video. “W
e are about to enter the most competitive, intense, and insane tournament experience in the nation. We will be watched not just by our school or our conference, but by the country. You haven’t gone through this yet, but I have. The pressure all the way up to the championship is going to be intense, more so because we’re a one-seed. There is no room for mental meltdowns like the one you had there. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

The player shifted uncomfortably in the chair. The coach felt that he wasn’t getting his point across an
d was about to explain further when
Williams spoke up.

“Control is the goal, but roll with the whole, right?”

The coach mulled over the unexpected bit of wit. It took him a second to realize which spelling of “whole” had been used.

“That’s interesting. Who said that?”

“It’s something my uncle used to say to me in high school because I would get into trouble, get mad at other kids, stuff like that. He said that I had to try and keep my head in things, that when things got crazy I should just try to stay calm and go with it without worrying if I couldn’t control it. It would work out.”

“Good advice,” said the coach. “I didn’t know you had an uncle.”

Williams shrugged. “He ain’t really my uncle. We just called him that ‘cause he would stop in sometimes and take care of us. He knew my dad. I didn’t exactly listen to him much.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” said Williams, uncomfortable with this sudden discussion about his personal life, “the guy who was friends with your drug dealer dad isn’t the guy you should be trusting.”

The coach shook his head and tried to get back to his point. “But he was
right
. And I want you to take that advice, starting now. The ACC tournament is over, and you can’t change what happened.
Roll with it. But now we have a new opportunity. Focus, maintain, stay in the game, just like I always tell you, right? So when it gets crazy again—and they don’t call it March Madness for nothing—I expect to see a different look on your face.”

“Yes, coach,” Williams nodded.

The coach stood up and walked his player out of the office.

“You go out now and be with your teammates. You’re a part of a number one-seeded team in the Big Dance. That’s something to be proud of. Go out, enjoy the moment, call to brag to your mom and your uncle, then get some sleep. You have four days to figure out just what you can give this team during this tournament. We’ll talk about it later, OK?”

“OK,” said Williams. The coach patted his back as he left, then closed the door and walked back to his desk. On the way, he looked up at the frozen image of Williams walking to the bench. In the background, slightly blurry, the coach saw himself, standing with his arms folded, pacing away from the players. The memory of exactly what he felt during that moment came back to him, and he sat at his desk to think about
listening to
his own counsel.

-[East Division]-

[
East Division
: Play-in Game]

[Tuesday, March 17]

Late in the evening, in a cramped and cluttered apartment in Bridgeport, Connecticut, a massive man sat hunched in front of an outdated computer monitor. Methodically, he clicked through an online satellite map of a street of interest. He marveled at the divine providence that allowed him to observe
locations
from miles awa
y
. Not that he could be stopped if anyone found out what he was planning; he knew their limitations and he knew his strengths. But the freedom of the Web allowed him to operate in anonymity, provided that he was careful, and to do more without the distra
ction of weak, mortal reprisals. He could
fulfill his purpose as intended. After taking a few hand-written notes, he shut down the computer and removed the ethernet cable, just in case.

He put on a thick, dark coat with full pockets,
locked
the apartment,
walked down the many flights of stairs to the street, and stepped into the bitter evening air. No one else was outside, which was good. It wasn’t a safe neighborhood for most people. That suited him. The cold and the fear were his allies, allowing him to practice in privacy.

He stepped into an empty lot near the back of the building. Aided only by lights from the street, he walked over to the faded gray brick wall that bordered the lot on one side. Snow drifts had accumulated on the plywood sheet that he had hidden. He brushed off the wet snow so that the red, round object nailed to the target’s center was clean and visible, then leaned the wood against the wall so it was stable. Once satisfied with its position, he walked twenty paces back to a shallow mound of frozen, exposed dirt.

He adjusted his glasses and looked toward the target. From his pocket, he took out the leather and hemp sling that he himself had woven together and a rough chunk of concrete the size of a chestnut that he had found near the wall. He gazed unblinking at the object nailed to the wood, accumulating enough internal hatred for the thing so that all of his energy would be channeled toward obliterating it. His great, bull
ish
breaths quivered as he recited a tense prayer.

The Lord is my shepherd. I am the rock and the staff…

The tendons in his wrist contracted as he curled his fingers in succession.

I am the hot, cleansing fire, the purger of false prophecy from the green pastures…

He placed the cement in the pocket of the sling, began to whirl it, and raised his leg like a pitcher.

Though I walk in the valley of death, I cannot fear...

The full weight of his body thrust forward explosively as he released the sling.

…
and I cannot be stopped
.

The brittle projectile hit the poker chip in the dead center; it shattered into several tiny pieces against the target. The collision caused a thud, sharp but thick, followed by the sprinkled i
mpacts of tiny clumps of debris
echoing against the buildings in the otherwise quiet night. He adjusted his glasses and looked around to see if anyone heard, if anyone cared. No one came. Satisfied with his first attempt, he took out a
larger chunk from his pocket, drew
a deep breath, and aimed again.

His mind churned as he practiced. The next place was a good one, a sure target, but somehow it was unsatisfying. He knew that his targets were right. The wicked were becoming as stubble. His success proved the justice of his
cause
. But something was missing. There was a larger purpose that he had not yet found, a target toward which all of his previous work was building. He knew that if he
remained vigilant
,
he would recognize it when he saw it, when he
felt
it. It would be unusual and glorious, logical and difficult, the manifest end to his inspired mission.