Half-Watching the Team USA FIBA Scrimmage Late Night August 1, 2014

Tonight I hold on as long as I can. On the couch curled in Michael’s lap, I’m awake. Barely. Four years of marriage carried on in between hours where I’m drifting off and he’s just getting started. I want to go to bed early, wake up around four, but a few weeks ago I sold my car to take my students to Philadelphia for a poetry festival. Now he’ll drive me around or wait when I’m late to pick him up outside the building where he works like the last kid left after school. And, there are our kids. Our losses. One girl. One boy. Two full amniotic sacs burst. My cervix twice cracking sudden like a neck. Two perfect, translucent bodies. Twin tiny, white boxes of dust. I owe him these few hours, but my head pressed into his belly and thighs is too comfortable. I fight to keep my eyes open. He sighs.

In the background there is the familiar squeak of tennis shoes. The high tones of commentators working the offseason. Playoffs over. Staples Centers and Madison Square Gardens dark. This game still matters to a few of us. It matters to Michael. It matters to me. It matters to Shaun, Michael’s brother, who texts Michael to see if he is watching. In December Shaun and his wife Heather will have a baby girl, Maya. It’s the name of my friend who officiated our wedding ceremony. A name I’d like (but now can’t have) if I could take a little more. Play through. Lie open again for doctors to plunge their fingers and probes in.

In basketball there’s always a next year. And for our team next year, next game is the only thing we’ve got going. Rehab. Possibility. Training camp. Speculation. Preseason. We hang on it all. But, for me, the filler play can be a bit much. The pull to stay committed. Fully in it. Not a fairweather. But, each game is an emotional investment. Risk. This is a summer exhibition between USA blue and USA white. This isn’t for Detroit or Cleveland or Indiana. I’m tired. I turn my face to Michael’s stomach. Close my eyes. Let this one go. Michael shifts. His new angle is uncomfortable, but I don’t move. Fade.

Michael grabs me awake. I grab back before I know why. Ashley this is bad. The squeaking, the high tones stop. Don’t turn around. Paul George. Paul George? Paul George, Paul George just broke his leg bad. Paul George? Oh my God. I’ll be surprised if. Man. Michael, what are you, what? It’s bad. Don’t look it’s bad. He came down wrong. Michael, I can’t. It’s bad it’s bad babe.

Now, I’m awake and choking on tears for Paul George. A man I don’t know. An injury I won’t turn around to see. If it’s bad for PG it’s bad for me. Bad for the Pacers. Two consecutive Eastern Conference finals. Two losses. We got so fucking close, but this was supposed to be our year. Another year and who’s to say he’ll heal right. It’s bad for Bankers Life Fieldhouse. The economy of downtown Indianapolis. The whole goddamn state of Indiana. Bad for my mom, my Aunt Sherrill, my cousin Telease. If she’s watching this she’s sick. Sick and in DC alone. I need my phone. I leave Michael, go into the bedroom.

Telease. Ashley, did you see? I didn’t I couldn’t, but Michael told me. I can’t. My God, I mean, girl. Of all people? I know. It was horrible, Jesus. Don’t cry. I just. I know. Don’t you cry. I know, but this is us. We were just finally getting somewhere. You know? I know, but don’t cry. Where is Michael?