Sincerely, Carter
Page 10
“Nope. It felt normal, but when you kiss Rachel, just count to yourself and not out loud.”
“Got it.” I grabbed her books and handed them to her. I unlocked the door and twisted the doorknob, but it opened before I could push it forward.
“What the!” The school janitor, the man who made us help him clean up sometime during detention, looked back and forth between me and Ari. “You know what? When it comes to the two of you, I don’t even want to know. Get out. Now.”
“We weren’t doing anything!” Ari snapped.
“Then hurry up and get out of my closet before I tell everyone that you did.”
We both rushed out of there and went our separate ways—her to Dawson and me to Rachel for our very first kisses…
Track 4. Sad Beautiful Tragic (4:13)
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the dean of Political Science spoke into the mic, “please welcome our last honoree of the night, Carter James!”
There was a loud applause as I walked onto the small stage and accepted my award—a silver plaque with “Student of the Year,” etched across its front.
Tonight was the private post-graduation ceremony for the top students in my major. For whatever reason, the officials thought it would be a great idea to have it several days after all the other departmental graduations. They also thought it was smart to have it on the roof of a famous hotel, so those of us who got bored could easily stare at the beach in the background and look like we were paying attention.
“Thank you all so much for coming out to honor the top twenty students in our department,” the speaker continued. “We’ll also have you know that each of the students we honored tonight has scored a 177 or higher out of a perfect 180 on the LSAT.”
More applause.
I looked at my watch.
“Help yourself to plenty of the gourmet dessert before you leave, and please be sure to keep in contact with us as you start your exciting careers in the law!”
When another round of applause began, I stood up and headed toward the dessert bar—to say goodbye to the few classmates I actually talked to during undergrad.
“Well, if it isn’t Carter James…” A grey-haired man stepped in front of me, blocking my way. “What an interesting transition you made, huh?”
“Excuse me?”
“Superstar athlete to superstar student.” He smiled, looking at my right leg. “It’s too bad you got injured. I think the team definitely would have gone places if you’d never gotten hurt. Supposedly…”
I clenched my fists, somewhat grateful that I was wearing a suit; the fabric was less than forgiving if I needed to punch someone.
The man didn’t wait for a verbal response, he continued talking—confirming what I’m sure every sorry ass fanatic on this campus wondered from time to time. “You don’t think you should’ve gone to another doctor for a second opinion? The doctor you went to wasn’t the best one. The school even offered to send you to New York to get tested. They also offered you rehabilitation, didn’t they?”
“They did.”
“I mean, don’t get me wrong. Making the Dean’s List every semester and scoring a 177 or higher on the LSAT—”
“I scored a 180.”
“Right.” He cleared his throat. “Well, that’s impressive, son, but you could’ve gone places. Michael Jordan played in a pivotal playoff game with the flu. Hell, Willis Reed—one of the greatest centers of all time—played with a broken thigh bone. Broken. Plenty of players come back from the type of injury you had, so I just don’t understand why you couldn’t give it a try.”
“Are you done now?” I kept my fists low.
“What did your parents think about your decision?” He wouldn’t stop. “Did you ever talk to them about it? I’m sure your father would’ve never—”
“Fuck you.” I spat. “You don’t know shit about me, and I don’t care whether you don’t understand a decision I made regarding my own life. Live your own.”
“I’m just saying…”
“You won’t be saying much of anything else if you continue,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him. “Don’t let this suit fool you.”
He looked at me in utter shock.
“And for the record,” I said, stepping back—giving myself some space, “Michael Jordan was a goddamn professional athlete when he played with the flu, I wasn’t. Yes, Willis Reed was one of the greatest centers of all time, but he retired because he couldn’t stop getting hurt, correct?”
He said nothing—just stared at me, so I walked away. I didn’t bother addressing any of my classmates or stopping by the dessert bar. I needed to get home so I could be with people I actually wanted to be around.
I slipped into my car and turned the music all the way up, trying hard to put that asshole and his opinions out of my mind, but it was no use. Everything began to play in front of me like an antique film reel—frame dissolving into frame.
Five years ago, I didn’t have to think about taking the LSATs or picking an academic track at all; I was being scouted as one of the top high school basketball recruits in the country. I was the “unexpected phenom” and “unbelievable talent” who’d only started playing basketball during my junior year of high school.
From the outside looking in, I really looked like I was passionate about it. I spoke to coaches from colleges all over the country, led my already-talented team to a state championship my senior year, but I was only using the attention as a deflection from my pain. Pain I hid all too well.
I spent extra hours every day at practice because I didn’t want to think about anything, not because I wanted to improve my game. I pretended to be crushed and disappointed when we lost or when I missed a critical shot, but I didn’t really give a damn.
I even felt slightly guilty about accepting a full athletic scholarship to South Beach University—knowing that I didn’t want to play, and the media attention I was getting reached an all-time high freshman year.
Yet, four games into the season, I tore my ACL and my coping mechanism was ripped away from me within seconds. The media attention that was sudden and swift when it started, seemed to come to an abrupt stop.
Yes, the doctor had told me that I could play again with extensive rehab, that I could take six to eight months to heal and be just fine, but I asked him to write me a “should probably never play competitively again” diagnosis instead; I couldn’t bear to live the life of a college athlete for another day. I had to force myself to find new ways to cope.
Since I had no family to call anymore—only memories could bring them to life every now and again, I relied on my friends.
Just friends.
There was Josh—my closest male friend, current roommate, and fraternity culture obsessed confidante who had an excuse for almost everything. There was my former teammate Dwayne—soon to be a professional athlete and first round draft pick, who still got me tickets to every campus basketball game. And of course, there was Arizona who’d stuck by me through it all—never letting me read what the papers were saying about the “Questionable Diagnosis,” always there when everyone else had left me behind; she was my best friend—the ultimate person I could count on no matter what. And, for whatever reason, she was the only one who was standing in my kitchen when I finally made it home from the awards ceremony.
“Got it.” I grabbed her books and handed them to her. I unlocked the door and twisted the doorknob, but it opened before I could push it forward.
“What the!” The school janitor, the man who made us help him clean up sometime during detention, looked back and forth between me and Ari. “You know what? When it comes to the two of you, I don’t even want to know. Get out. Now.”
“We weren’t doing anything!” Ari snapped.
“Then hurry up and get out of my closet before I tell everyone that you did.”
We both rushed out of there and went our separate ways—her to Dawson and me to Rachel for our very first kisses…
Track 4. Sad Beautiful Tragic (4:13)
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the dean of Political Science spoke into the mic, “please welcome our last honoree of the night, Carter James!”
There was a loud applause as I walked onto the small stage and accepted my award—a silver plaque with “Student of the Year,” etched across its front.
Tonight was the private post-graduation ceremony for the top students in my major. For whatever reason, the officials thought it would be a great idea to have it several days after all the other departmental graduations. They also thought it was smart to have it on the roof of a famous hotel, so those of us who got bored could easily stare at the beach in the background and look like we were paying attention.
“Thank you all so much for coming out to honor the top twenty students in our department,” the speaker continued. “We’ll also have you know that each of the students we honored tonight has scored a 177 or higher out of a perfect 180 on the LSAT.”
More applause.
I looked at my watch.
“Help yourself to plenty of the gourmet dessert before you leave, and please be sure to keep in contact with us as you start your exciting careers in the law!”
When another round of applause began, I stood up and headed toward the dessert bar—to say goodbye to the few classmates I actually talked to during undergrad.
“Well, if it isn’t Carter James…” A grey-haired man stepped in front of me, blocking my way. “What an interesting transition you made, huh?”
“Excuse me?”
“Superstar athlete to superstar student.” He smiled, looking at my right leg. “It’s too bad you got injured. I think the team definitely would have gone places if you’d never gotten hurt. Supposedly…”
I clenched my fists, somewhat grateful that I was wearing a suit; the fabric was less than forgiving if I needed to punch someone.
The man didn’t wait for a verbal response, he continued talking—confirming what I’m sure every sorry ass fanatic on this campus wondered from time to time. “You don’t think you should’ve gone to another doctor for a second opinion? The doctor you went to wasn’t the best one. The school even offered to send you to New York to get tested. They also offered you rehabilitation, didn’t they?”
“They did.”
“I mean, don’t get me wrong. Making the Dean’s List every semester and scoring a 177 or higher on the LSAT—”
“I scored a 180.”
“Right.” He cleared his throat. “Well, that’s impressive, son, but you could’ve gone places. Michael Jordan played in a pivotal playoff game with the flu. Hell, Willis Reed—one of the greatest centers of all time—played with a broken thigh bone. Broken. Plenty of players come back from the type of injury you had, so I just don’t understand why you couldn’t give it a try.”
“Are you done now?” I kept my fists low.
“What did your parents think about your decision?” He wouldn’t stop. “Did you ever talk to them about it? I’m sure your father would’ve never—”
“Fuck you.” I spat. “You don’t know shit about me, and I don’t care whether you don’t understand a decision I made regarding my own life. Live your own.”
“I’m just saying…”
“You won’t be saying much of anything else if you continue,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him. “Don’t let this suit fool you.”
He looked at me in utter shock.
“And for the record,” I said, stepping back—giving myself some space, “Michael Jordan was a goddamn professional athlete when he played with the flu, I wasn’t. Yes, Willis Reed was one of the greatest centers of all time, but he retired because he couldn’t stop getting hurt, correct?”
He said nothing—just stared at me, so I walked away. I didn’t bother addressing any of my classmates or stopping by the dessert bar. I needed to get home so I could be with people I actually wanted to be around.
I slipped into my car and turned the music all the way up, trying hard to put that asshole and his opinions out of my mind, but it was no use. Everything began to play in front of me like an antique film reel—frame dissolving into frame.
Five years ago, I didn’t have to think about taking the LSATs or picking an academic track at all; I was being scouted as one of the top high school basketball recruits in the country. I was the “unexpected phenom” and “unbelievable talent” who’d only started playing basketball during my junior year of high school.
From the outside looking in, I really looked like I was passionate about it. I spoke to coaches from colleges all over the country, led my already-talented team to a state championship my senior year, but I was only using the attention as a deflection from my pain. Pain I hid all too well.
I spent extra hours every day at practice because I didn’t want to think about anything, not because I wanted to improve my game. I pretended to be crushed and disappointed when we lost or when I missed a critical shot, but I didn’t really give a damn.
I even felt slightly guilty about accepting a full athletic scholarship to South Beach University—knowing that I didn’t want to play, and the media attention I was getting reached an all-time high freshman year.
Yet, four games into the season, I tore my ACL and my coping mechanism was ripped away from me within seconds. The media attention that was sudden and swift when it started, seemed to come to an abrupt stop.
Yes, the doctor had told me that I could play again with extensive rehab, that I could take six to eight months to heal and be just fine, but I asked him to write me a “should probably never play competitively again” diagnosis instead; I couldn’t bear to live the life of a college athlete for another day. I had to force myself to find new ways to cope.
Since I had no family to call anymore—only memories could bring them to life every now and again, I relied on my friends.
Just friends.
There was Josh—my closest male friend, current roommate, and fraternity culture obsessed confidante who had an excuse for almost everything. There was my former teammate Dwayne—soon to be a professional athlete and first round draft pick, who still got me tickets to every campus basketball game. And of course, there was Arizona who’d stuck by me through it all—never letting me read what the papers were saying about the “Questionable Diagnosis,” always there when everyone else had left me behind; she was my best friend—the ultimate person I could count on no matter what. And, for whatever reason, she was the only one who was standing in my kitchen when I finally made it home from the awards ceremony.
