Homecourt Advantage (34 page)

“Excuse me, sir, would you mind autographing my hat?” a freckle-faced man wearing a New York Flyers hat asked him. As he removed the cap, he revealed a full head of red hair.

Well, he was almost relaxed. He and Phil would probably have to run away to a remote island to have complete privacy. Still, the man’s gesture touched him. He hadn’t forgotten that it was the fans who supported the Flyers—well, sometimes, at least.

“Sure,” he began, smiling at Phil, who was still inspecting the tomatoes. “Do you have a pen I can use?”

“Oh, yeah, just let me find it.” The man began searching in the pockets of his plaid pants and then opened up his large tote bag and pulled out a felt-tip pen. “Here you go.”

He grasped the pen and signed his name and playing number on the hat.

“Thank you so much; I’m going to give this hat to my son,” the man said excitedly as he walked away, leaving him feeling as if he’d done his good deed for the day.

“How come he didn’t want my autograph?” Phil laughed.

“He probably doesn’t watch your show,” he said.

“Yeah, my popularity has declined since I got this new coanchor.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah, the network forced him on me. Somebody high up must have thought he was cute, but, man, have the ratings plummeted since he’s come aboard.” Phil shook his head back and forth.

For the past two weeks, the two of them had been enjoying quiet evenings at Phil’s apartment, depending on his woman’s schedule. Of late, each conversation he had with her became more strained than the last. After the obligatory niceties, their talks were plagued by awkward pauses. They both knew something was amiss, but neither wanted to acknowledge anything.

“Now, here’s a ripe one,” Phil said, holding up a shiny red tomato and then tossing it to him. “See the difference.”

As he caught the tomato, he punctured it with his fingers and tomato juice and seeds began oozing down his hand. “No, actually, I can feel the difference, shithead.”

“I’m not paying for that one.” Phil laughed as he quickly walked away, pretending they weren’t together.

Each moment he spent with Phil felt more right than the last. They were completely at ease with one another, whether they were at Phil’s apartment hanging out, at work on their postgame broadcast, or simply grocery shopping together. The chemistry that flowed between them worked like magic. More than anything, what tugged at his heart the most was the joy he felt just being in Phil’s company; it was also what scared him. This relationship was not some sexual fling that he could shake like a cold. The feelings he had for Phil were the real deal.

He knew that time was running out. He could not continue to deceive his woman. He cared about her enough to tell her the truth. Hell, he cared enough about being truthful with anyone. The lying had gone on long enough.

“Hey, need a towel?” Phil said, returning with some napkins for him. “Sorry about the mess.”

“Sure you are,” he said, wiping the tomato from his hand.

As he watched Phil walk toward the peppers and begin to sift through them, he began picking through the tomatoes, looking for the softest he could find. Ah—victory! Finding a particularly mushy tomato, he put it behind his back and headed for Phil. He looked to his left and then to his right; no one was watching. He bit his lip to keep from laughing as he inched up behind Phil and stood there for a couple of seconds, planning his attack. Not giving Phil an opportunity to defend himself, he lifted up his lover’s sweater and smeared the tomato all over his stomach.

“You …” Phil began, but stopped in midsentence as light suddenly flashed in their faces.

Before either of them had a chance to react, the redheaded man with the plaid pants and New York Flyers baseball cap shocked them both again with the flashing bulb of a camera.

“What the hell?” he said, clearly startled.

By the time he regained his composure, the man was moving fast out the front door of Dean & DeLuca.

He and Phil looked at each other, startled; it wasn’t difficult to figure out how this scenario would play itself out.

“What the hell!” Phil said as he held his sweater away from his stomach.

“Shit!” he said, blinking his eyes, trying to regain full vision after the bulb had flashed in his face.

“You and your fans. I don’t think I’m going to be seeing you anymore after tonight. You’re too much trouble.” Phil giggled, an obvious attempt to lighten the mood. “Let me have one of those napkins I gave you.”

He handed Phil the rest of the napkins, and Phil began to clean his tight stomach.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said, suddenly nervous.

“What about the groceries?”

“I think I might need to get home,” he said as they headed for the door.

The two men walked down the street side by side, suddenly careful not to brush bodies too closely.

The sauna’s intense dry heat had become a necessity
for Paul over the last couple of years as the tendinitis in his knees worsened. He leaned his head back against the hot cedar wall and looked over Brent’s shoulder as he finished the article in the
Post.

Brent closed the paper and looked at the cover photograph for the third time, a mixture of disbelief and disgust flashing across his face.

“What is this shit all about?” Brent said as he continued to study the picture on the cover of the
New York Post.

Paul had seen the paper that morning at the bagel shop. Not that he had to actually see it for himself. The whole city was talking about the article. Collin DuMott and Phil Johnson, the Flyers’ pride power forward and the Mecca’s guru of sports commentating, Collin’s body pressed against Phil’s from behind, his hand up the front of Phil’s sweater. Unfortunately, they looked like a picture of bliss.

“ ‘Lovers at Play?’ “ Brent said reading aloud the paper’s headline.

Paul looked at Brent through the sauna’s haze.

“Can you believe this? I just can’t believe it!” Brent said, shaking his head. “No way. I don’t believe Collin’s gay. Do you believe this crap?”

Paul did not respond for a few seconds as Brent opened the paper again and started reading the article.

“I mean, this is crazy. It says that Collin and Phil have been seen nuzzling each other on line at Dean and DeLuca, and holding hands and caressing at a neighboring coffee shop, gazing into each other’s eyes. What’s that all about?” Brent asked incredulously.

“You can’t believe everything you read,” Paul said, trying to defuse the article even though he wondered if he should just tell Brent the truth about Collin anyway.

“Yeah, but, Paul, it’s so out there. Look at this—it refers to them as lovers, that they’ve also been spotted taking cozy walks together in Central Park. It’s so hard for me to believe this. I mean, Remy’s one of the finest women I’ve ever seen. Why would Collin want some man flexing beside him?” Brent said, setting the paper down next to him.

“Come on, Brent; if Collin is really gay, then I guess a woman’s tits and ass wouldn’t matter.”

“But you don’t think he’s gay, do you?”

Paul would not betray Collin’s trust, but it was difficult to look Brent in the eyes and outright lie to him. “I … I don’t know. What if he is? Should it make a difference?” Paul asked, flipping it back to Brent.

“No. I mean yeah,” Brent began, clearly flustered. “You mean to tell me it wouldn’t make a difference to you? I mean, you of all people don’t think it’s sacrilegious? I don’t know. It’s just something I would have liked to know about one of my own teammates, that’s all.”

“Just because he’s your teammate doesn’t mean that he would tell you he’s gay, especially if he thought you or anyone else might have a negative reaction. It’s not like the two of you were ever that close,” Paul said, feeling defensive for Collin.

“Yeah, I know, but Casey and Remy are pretty tight. We’ve been out together lots of times—never noticed anything strange. I guess it just seems like something I should have known. It’s so damn shocking,” Brent said, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

“How could you really know unless he told you himself? It’s not like he’d be wearing a gay badge.” Even as Paul said this, he remembered how flabbergasted he had been when Collin confided in him.

The two of them sat in silent contemplation as the heat penetrated Paul’s worn-down body. The smallest guy on the team felt as if the weight of the world were coming down on him: between worrying about Lorraine and the team, he didn’t know if he could take another complication.

As a gust of cold air swept into the sauna, Paul shook himself from his private worries. Paul and Brent both sat forward as Coach stormed in with a copy of the
Post
article under one arm. Taking a seat on the upper bench, Coach grimly shook his head as he looked back and forth between the two of them.

In all the years Paul had known Coach, he had never seen him look so angry. He seemed to have lost all of his composure. His hair was in complete disarray; he had a five-o’clock shadow on his face and it was only eight-thirty in the morning. He hadn’t even bothered to cover his nakedness with a towel. Not like the oh-so-refined Mr. Mitchell at all.

“Would somebody please … please tell me what the hell is going on around here?” Coach said, taking the newspaper and slamming himself down on the sauna seat. Comically, the hot bench burned his privates, and Paul saw Brent look away quickly to cover his smile.

“First Rick is hunted down by half the pit bosses in Atlantic City for gambling debts up the wazoo; then Steve gets plastered all over the papers with assault charges; and now the
Post
is claiming Collin is a queer!” Coach threw the paper against the wall.

Belleville’s gambling problem was a very well kept secret within the team, and Paul was surprised Coach mentioned it now. What was the point of busting the guy’s privacy and further demoralizing him? Somebody needed to give Mitchell some sensitivity training. That was for sure. And maybe when the championship was theirs, he’d go to Hal and say so.

“Not the best timing for all this to be going down,” Brent said.

“That’s a fucking understatement! We may have made it to the finals, but this team is the shame of the NBA!” Coach fumed.

“Is there some sort of damage control that the publicity department can put into action?” Paul asked hopefully.

“Or maybe the legal department could demand some sort of retraction statement from the
Post,”
Brent suggested.

“Damage control? Retraction statements? Hell, we’d have to get injunctions against damn near every radio station and Associated Press paper in the country. This story has spread like wildfire.” Coach began shaking his head. “Not good, not good at all, guys!”

The three of them sat pensively in the blistering heat.

“Well, for starters, we can’t let this distract us from the game tonight. We’ve got to get another win before we head out to the Forum,” Paul said.

“That’s easier said than done,” Coach countered.

“Look, Coach. We’ve come this far and we’re not going to let some snow job in the
Post
stop us from getting what we’ve been working for all season long. It’s as simple as that,” Brent said.

Paul nodded his head. “I agree with Brent. We’ve got to take this by the horns and keep moving forward. I think the rest of the team should be briefed on how to comment to the media, and other than that, we need to practice our asses off today and concentrate on winning tonight. What else can we do?” Paul said, but Coach was shaking his head.

“Negative. Feeding into this with the rest of the team would only make matters worse. We just gotta play like we’ve never played before, period. You guys really don’t understand the full implications of this, do you?” Coach began as he ran his fingers through his curly grayish blond hair. “I’ve got Commissioner McDeavitt breathing down my neck, and every owner in the NBA pressuring me to …” Coach began.

“To what?” Paul asked.

“To act on this,” Coach solemnly said.

“To act on it how?” Brent asked.

“Listen. The NBA has an image to protect. The league already has a bad rap for the fighting, the trash talking, the drug-possession charges of certain players, domestic-abuse issues … The list goes on. Commissioner McDeavitt wants the league’s image squeaky clean. That’s why Hightower would be a perfect owner in his eyes—no wife beaters, substance abusers, gamblers, faggots, whatever, are allowed on his teams.”

“Yeah, only racists and supremacists. Now, there’s a step up for the sport’s image!” Brent stood, his face revealing the same spectrum of anxiety, fear, pressure, fury, and hopelessness that Paul felt—play your heart out and ruin your body, and in the end somebody’s opinion or value judgment, right or wrong, could screw you.

“Forget the speeches, Mr. Big Man—right now what we’ve got is a reputation as a league filled with thugs and degenerates. If you want to know what I think, I think the value of this league is going to go straight down—and that, my children, means money.”

“Coach,” Paul said, “I think we’d all agree that we care about the game as much as the commissioner, probably more. Those incidents you mentioned involve only a handful of players, and they’re the exception rather than the norm. You know how the media blows these incidents way out of proportion. There’s nothing we can do about that.”

“Unfortunately for us, the majority of that handful happens to be on this team,” Coach said in disgust.

“Coach Mitchell.” Paul felt using his proper name might make Coach feel respected. “Everything you say may be true, but we need to think about solutions. We already know what the problems are.” Paul massaged his swollen knees.

“That’s why I wanted to tell you guys this first so you won’t be surprised tonight. But … I’ve been forced to make some tough judgment calls.” Coach avoided eye contact with Paul and Brent. “If we want this game to be run fairly and not by the referees, I’m going to be forced to have a few of the guys who are normally in the rotation sit out for a while.”

“Bench a few of the guys?” Paul said, standing up in the middle of the sauna as his sweat dripped to the floor.