A second later, he emerged from the bathroom, his IV pole connected to one hand and the sports sections in the other, and said, I thought about it.
I breathed a sigh of relief. Silently. So he wouldn’t feel that I was breathing a sigh of relief. Shoot, I said.
I also have something I want to finish before I go, he said. Like that Shmuel of yours in the workshop.
What?
I want to see Hapoel in the arena. After all the years of standing like ushers in Malcha, don’t we deserve it?
Yalla, let’s go.
Yalla, let’s go.
I’m serious, but Ari—
What?
It’s a bit of a cliché, isn’t it? Taking a sick friend to a game?
Fuck clichés.
Okay. Can you even leave here?
Hell no.
So what…how?
Smuggle me out.
—
I thought he was kidding, but he called me the next day and sounded as strong and sly as the old Ari. He’d thought about it. There was a window of opportunity when the nurses changed shifts, around six in the evening. We’ll pretend we’re taking a stroll and then vanish into the service elevator. You, he told me, have to get two tickets to the next game. And find a car large enough to hold the wheelchair. Ah, yes, and if you can arrange direct access to the field with the wheelchair—that would be huge.
I called my former boss at the ad agency. We hadn’t spoken for almost fifteen years, but I read in the papers that he sat on Hapoel’s board of directors now. I told him the story and he immediately said there was no problem and I didn’t have to buy tickets either. Park in the lot and call me, he said. In the same tone he once used to give me instructions.
—
Halfway up to Jerusalem, Ari talked constantly about other journeys we’d made together. Remember how we ran after the plane in Ecuador? Remember that crazy girl who bit my ear in Bolivia? Remember Oren from Hadera? But when we hit the turns on the road before the entrance to Jerusalem, he turned pale and withdrew into himself. I asked him what was wrong, and he asked whose car it was. When I told him it was rented, he said, Then there’s no problem if I vomit on the upholstery, right? That scared me, and I asked whether he wanted to go back to the hospital, but he shook his head and said in a weak voice, Drive, just drive.
My former boss turned out to be a real prince. One of the managing directors was waiting for us at the gate and took us through the side entrances directly to the court, not far from Hapoel’s basket. Hand over the scarf, you jerk, Ari said with a smile. I unwound if from my neck and wound it around his. We have love, and love conquers all. We looked at the stands, which were filling up. The die-hard fans sat together at one of the gates and I saw some familiar faces among them. I didn’t recognize anyone else in the stands. TVs hung from the ceiling like in America, broadcasting pictures and commercials. There were more stands higher up than the others, and people—incredibly—rode an escalator to reach them. It’s like Yad Eliayhu here, I said. And Ari shook his head and said, Much more beautiful.
—
Hapoel played badly. Lost balls, missed shots, scandalous defense. Everything they’re famous for. That was the only thing I hadn’t taken care of, I thought. I should have gone into the locker room and told the players to give it their all. For Ari. Actually, they’re all Americans, or British. Please, I should have said in English, put the ball in the hoop. Do it for my friend. Maybe it’s his last chance.
Ari himself waved his hands and cursed every missed shot in Spanish. He always curses in his native language when he’s really pissed off. Hijo de puta. La concha de tu madre. Burro. And then suddenly, he said to me in Hebrew: I haven’t been this angry in ages. What a blast!
His bald head glistened with sweat.
We were so close to the parquet that we could hear the players’ shoes squeaking. And so close to Hapoel’s bench that we could hear the coach spurring his players on during the time-out.
The management guy suddenly appeared with two bottles of water, looked at Ari, and asked him if everything was okay.
I remember that when Ari drank his water, some spilled on his red shirt. And I remember, right before halftime, Yotam Halperin scored a three-pointer out of nowhere, which made Ari rise out of his wheelchair and stretch the scarf between his hands, in the air, and the speakers blared out at the spectators: Now’s the time, let’s make some NOISE! And I remember that I knew, though we hadn’t said a word to each other, that the announcement annoyed Ari too and made him miss the mumbled announcements at Malcha as much as I did.
After the halftime whistle, I put my hand on his shoulder and asked if he wanted anything from the cafeteria. He said, No, let’s split, bro.
Are you sure? I asked, Hapoel is always better after the break—
I don’t feel well, he said, putting his hand on his stomach.
—
The enormous, silent parking lot looked like a field planted with cars.
We were silent on the way back. Ari closed his eyes, but it was obvious to me that he was awake. Every once in a while, he grimaced in pain. And his hands clenched into fists.
We listened to radio updates on the game.
Hapoel lost. And the analysts agreed it was clear now that this was a crisis.
Then suddenly, Ari opened his eyes and said: This is a humiliating disease, you know? A damn humiliating disease.
After we drove into the hospital parking lot, he turned his entire body around to me and said, Thanks for taking me to the arena. Now I can close up shop.
What? I said, alarmed.
He pulled the scarf
