Fumble Recovery

The cold football slipped from numb fingers, dropping to a blanket of snow just inches from the goal line. The stadium fell silent, eighty thousand people holding their breath, as the final seconds of the game clock ticked to zero, closing out the world championship. And then eighty thousand ecstatic fans erupted into pandemonium. Everybody clapped and shouted, except the beaten California Wildcats and Melanie Smith. She stared as hundreds of people took the field, rushing to congratulate the New York Bulldogs and ignore the losers as they slunk into the locker room.

Melanie fought her way to the stairs, pushing through the celebrations to break free from the stadium. A light snow began to fall as she trundled to the parking lot, and all she could see was that ball, that moment, when a storybook season came to a devastating close. It had been an impossible dream, of course. Her favorite team had always been the underdog, but she had believed. She had believed to the bottom of her heart that the Wildcats would show the world that it was wrong to underestimate them.

Four points. Four tiny points made the difference between defeat and victory. Four points, one touchdown, one bad call, one fumble, one mistake that could have made all the difference. It didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. It was just a game, and the Wildcats was just a football team, and the next morning she would go to work and her life would continue as though nothing had changed. And nothing had changed. Except, she was heartbroken.

It took over an hour to navigate the parking lot, and another forty-five minutes to follow the slow flow of traffic to the freeway. The snow picked up, the wind howling as if it was also mourning the loss of a dream. Just a block from the onramp, Melanie changed her mind about going home. The Goal would still be open, and despite the general sense of celebration sweeping the city, Melanie knew it would likely be empty. She needed a drink. More than one. She could take a taxi home.

Snowdrifts were already forming in the parking lot when she reached the small bar, but there were only a few cars. She found a spot near the door, the flashing red and blue lights of the OPEN sign beckoning her.

“Weren’t you at the game?” Harold greeted, as she pushed the door open.

Melanie grunted in response and stomped her feet until the snow fell from her boots. The air was warm and smelled of peanuts and beer and the faint hint of cigarettes. She inhaled deeply, slightly comforted by the familiar aroma of her favorite bar.

“That was some game, wasn’t it?”

Melanie grunted again, and settled at the bar. “Just give me the usual, will ya?” She glanced up at the television, watching the crowds singing and partying in the streets surrounding the stadium. Streamers flew through the air with the snow, sirens and horns blasted over the noise of the crowd, and the footage was cut with the shot of the Bulldogs’ quarterback accepting the large trophy that commemorated his third championship.

Melanie sighed. “Will you turn this off? You don’t even care about the game.”

Harold shrugged. “I thought somebody in here would want to see it.”

Melanie looked around. There was only one other person in the bar, and he wasn’t paying any attention to the television. In fact, he looked fascinated by the golden amber at the bottom of his glass.

“Nobody in here wants to see it.”

“No problem,” Harold said, and the screen went black. “There’s always next season, right?”

A sound from the end of the bar caught her attention. The man might have been coughing, or maybe laughing. He lifted his head and gestured for another drink, long hair flopping over his eye, but it wasn’t long enough to disguise his familiar features. Melanie caught her breath. She would know his face anywhere.

“Harold,” Melanie hissed, reaching over the bar to grab his arm.

“What?”

“I want to buy his drink.”

“What?”

“Tell him I’m buying his drink.”

“Why don’t you just tell him yourself?”

Melanie bit her bottom lip, torn. On the one hand, she didn’t want to impose. On the other hand, when would she get another chance like this?

“Fine. Give it to me.”

Harold handed her the pint of beer. “I don’t think he wants company,” he said softly.

Melanie didn’t blame him. “I just want to meet him. I’ll leave him alone.”

She slid off her stool and walked down to the end of the bar, a beer in each hand. She slid the full glass in front of him, settling on the seat beside him.