make matters worse, Big Burt Wesson, the Bullets’ 270-pound enforcer, crashed into Michael on the play. Michael’s foot remained firmly planted on the floor. His knee did not. It bent the wrong way — backward in fact. There was a snapping sound, and Michael’s scream filled the stadium.
Out of basketball for more than a year.
The cast on his leg had been enormous and about as comfortable as wearing a jockstrap made of tweed. He hobbled around for months, listening to Sara tease him. “Stop imitating my limp. It’s not a very nice thing to do.”
“Great. I married a comedienne.”
“We can be a comedy team,” Sara had enthused. “The Gimpy Couple. We’ll limp our way to laughter. We’ll be as funny as a rubber crutch.”
“Awful. Horrendous. Not even remotely funny. Stop.”
“Not funny? Then we’ll become a dance team. Limp to your left. Limp to your right. We can switch leg braces during a tango.”
“Stop. Help. Police. Somebody shoot.”
Michael and Sara had both recognized that he might not be able to come back; they were prepared for it. Michael had never been a stupid jock who thought that a basketball career would last forever. There was talk in the Republican Party about running him for Congress when he retired. But Michael was not ready to call it quits. Not yet anyway. He worked hard for a full, painful year with the therapist Harvey had found for him and rebuilt his shattered knee.
Now he was trying to get himself back into playing condition at the Knicks’ preseason camp. But while the knee felt okay in its viselike brace, his stomach was slowing him down. He had promised Harvey last night that he would swing by the clinic before three o’clock for a complete checkup. With a little luck, Harv would take a few tests, see it was just some stupid bug again, give him a shot of antibiotics, and send him on his way.
Harvey. Jesus Christ, what was going on? Michael and Sara had gotten little sleep last night. They drove home, made love again in a tangle of party clothes, then sat up and analyzed what Harvey had told them. If what Harvey said last night was true, if he had indeed found a treatment for the AIDS virus…
One of Michael’s teammates set a pick for him. Michael used the screen and ran from the left side of the court to the right. He caught a glimpse of the wall clock and saw it was ten. Another hour, and then he would go uptown and see Harvey. At the Clinic. Capital C in his mind.
Michael was not looking forward to that visit. Immature to say but the place gave him the creeps. He was not sure if it was the magnitude of the disease or his not-solatent homophobia, but the place intimidated him. Terrified him actually.
To be honest, Michael had never been all that comfortable with gays. Yes, he believed that homosexuals should be treated like everyone else, that their private lives were their own business, that discrimination against someone because of his sexual preference was wrong. He recognized that Sanders and his gang of mentally malnourished bigots were deranged and dangerous people. But still, Michael found himself making the occasional gay joke, referring to someone effeminate as “that big fag,” keeping away from someone who was a “blatant fruit.” He remembered when his teammate Tim Hiller, a good friend and apparently a ladies’ man, shocked the sports world by admitting he was gay. Michael had stood beside him, supported him, defended him, but at the same time, he distanced himself from Tim. Their friendship did not crumble; Michael just let it slowly slide away. He felt bad about that.
Back on the court the ball was passed to Reece Porter, Michael’s closest friend on the team and the only Knick besides Michael who was over thirty. Reece spotted Michael and tossed him the ball.
“Do it, Mikey,” Reece cried.
Michael made a beautiful fake on the rookie Holloway, dribbled down the middle of the key, and laid up a soft shot. As Michael watched the ball float gently toward the basket, Jerome Holloway came flying into view. The rookie smacked the ball with his palm, sending the orange sphere off the court and into the seats. A clean block.
Again the rookie grinned.
Michael held up his hand. “Don’t say it. Faced again, right?”
The cocky grin strengthened. “The word
Michael heard the laughter. It was coming from Reece Porter. “What the hell are you laughing at?”
Reece could barely control himself. “Old dude,” he managed between cackles. “You going to take that shit, Mikey?”
Michael turned back toward Holloway. “Take the ball out of bounds, hotshot, and dribble up while I cover you.”
“One-on-one?” the kid asked in disbelief.
“You got it.”
“I’ll blow by you so fast you’ll wonder if I was ever there.”
Michael grinned. “Yeah, right. Come on, hotshot.”
Jerome Holloway caught the ball. He took two dribbles and began to accelerate toward Michael. He was six feet past him when he realized that he no longer had the ball. “What the—?”
Holloway spun in time to see Michael making an uncontested layup. Now it was Michael’s turn to smile.
Jerome Holloway laughed. “I know, I know. In my face, right?”
Reece whooped and hooted like a lottery winner. “Bet your sweet ass, brother. You’ve been faced something awful.”
“Guess so,” Holloway agreed. “You know something, Michael? You’re a smart old dude. I bet I can learn a lot watching you.”
Old dude. Michael sighed heavily. “Thanks, Jerome.”
A whistle blew. “Take five,” Coach Crenshaw shouted. “Get a quick drink and then I want everyone to take fifty foul shots.”
The players jogged toward the water fountain — all save Michael. He stayed where he was, bent forward, his hands leaning on his knees. Richie Crenshaw walked over. “I’ve seen you look better, Michael.”
Michael continued to draw in deep breaths. “Appreciate the pep talk, Coach.”
“Well, it’s true. You wouldn’t want me to lie to you, would you?”
“Maybe a little.”
“The knee giving you problems?”
Michael shook his head.
“You look like something’s bothering you.”
“I’m—” The next word never came out. A surge of white-hot pain pierced right through Michael’s abdomen. He let loose a loud, short cry and clutched his belly below the rib cage.
“Michael!”
The shout came from Jerome Holloway. Wide-eyed with fear, the rookie sprinted back on the court. Reece Porter quickly followed.
“Mikey,” Reece asked while kneeling beside him, “what is it?”
Michael did not answer. He collapsed to the floor, writhing in agony. It felt like something was raking at his insides with sharpened claws.
“Call an ambulance!” Reece shouted. “Now!”
Dr. Carol Simpson escorted Sara to the waiting area in the Atchley Pavilion. Located next to Columbia Presbyterian’s main building, the Atchley Pavilion housed the private offices of the medical center’s many physicians. When Harvey had taken Michael and Sara on a tour of Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center last year, Sara remembered being awestruck by the size of the center, to say nothing of its reputation. There was Babies Hospital, the well-known pediatric hospital, and the Harkness Pavilion, where the private patients stayed. The Neurological Institute and the Psychiatric Institute, both housed in their own buildings, were considered the best in their field anywhere in the world, not to mention the Harkness Eye Institute, New York Orthopedic Hospital, Sloane Hospital, Squier Urological Clinic, Vanderbilt Clinic, and the massive, newly completed Milstein Hospital Building.
