Austin James: Playing For His Life (Entry 26)

June 6, 2009

There’s only so much television to watch, so many magazines to read or
board games to play. Nervous energy is the most exhausting kind, and
Austin was ready for bed…at 3 p.m.

He’d looked at the same paragraph in Sports Illustrated for about 10
minutes before finally casting it aside. He strummed his acoustic
guitar mindlessly for a while, worked out a bit, but mostly he just
waited. Hours had passed with no call, no nothing. But he knew he
wasn’t going early in the day…that would have been asking too much.
Blanchard would see to getting him picked late, a throw in who nobody
else was interested in. The financial impact on the Mets would be less
that way, and in the end that was Grant’s real concern, right?

Dad worked a half-day at his construction company, checking out a few
jobs before calling it a day. Luxury of being a supervisor. He wanted
to be there when the call came…assuming it did.

The two were down in the basement shooting pool when Margaret came home
from the school. Philip was always an excellent shooter, and Austin
picked up the skill at an early age. Margaret went downstairs soon
after coming in.

“No word yet?” she asked.

“They called,” Philip said smiling, “we’re just keeping it from you.”

Austin smiled, preparing to break their tiebreaking 5th game of 8-ball.

Margaret playfully whacked Philip on the butt as she passed, eschewing
his kiss attempt to hug and kiss Austin sweetly on the cheek. Philip
laughed heartily.

A clean break bagged the 11 and 12, and Austin was off to a good start.
With a clear path to the 14, sitting near the pocket lip in the corner,
Austin prepared, visualizing ahead, hoping to run the table. As his
stick shot forward, the phone rang, Austin’s resulting spasm sending
the cue ball off the table and careening into the concrete walls of the
basement.

He and Philip looked at each other, Margaret stampeding down the stairs to them.

“Go ahead, Dukes,” Philip said. “It’s your call.”

Austin grabbed the basement phone off the hook, bringing it slowly to
his ear. Philip and Margaret stood arms around each other’s waists,
side by side, watching with a flurry of emotions.

“James residence,” Austin answered as though he were gasping for air.

“Yes, this is him.”

There was a pause before a look that could not be described in a million years.

“H…hi…um….Mr. Sloan.”

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