Late night thoughts

Triumph

Short story about professional sports:

There is only a single other person in the room with me - when you forget the big black camera behind his back that is set up to record my face. They're trying to give me a feeling of intimacy when there is none. The interview will be up in a few hours and the reactions won't be pretty. Of course they will praise me but aside of the obvious fandom I have witnessed the past few years there will be disappointment and anger and lost opportunities. I look down to my knee which is held by a big cast. I can barely feel it after all the pain killers I've taken in the past few weeks.

"So let's start", says the man who sits on the chair across from me. He wears thick black glasses and spots a moustache on his face. I wonder how he ever got into sports as skinny and weak as he looks.

"We've met today to talk about a not so nice topic." He stops and his eyes tell me that he expects me to explain the reason I sit alone in a room full of old furniture. Well, that will be fun.

"Alright", I say and look straight in the camera, facing my fear like I did a hundred times on the court except this time it's not a strong defender or 20 point deficit. And then I start to recite the words that were lain into my mouth by some PR person who I've never seen in my life. I tell them how I wrecked my knee doing what I love. How it held up way longer than it was supposed to and how it finally burst into a hundred pieces during a training session a few weeks ago. When I finally finish my mouth is dry and my eyes even more so. I'm way over the point of sadness about what happened. I knew it was gonna happen eventually. At least my knee gave me and my team one last championship to bring back home. I take a zip of my water and the guy in front of me starts going down the list of my accomplishments. When he gives me my next question it's not really what I was expecting. Usually I get questions like "what has been the favourite game of your career" or "How does it feel to lift one of the most prestigious trophies in the world?" But he asks me:

"What would you say is your biggest strength?"

Someone warned me that the skinny kid asks odd questions. Of course I could tell him that it's my athleticism but who cares about that once you can barely walk. I think for a few more silent seconds in which I can hear the clock on the wall ticking in a nice soothing rhythm. And then I lastly know what it is.

"I'm a triumph" is what I answer. And it is true. When people look at me they don't see beyond my body and my championships. They don't see the 18 year-old crying in his bedroom because he can't handle the pressure or the 25 year-old crying in a hotel room after the toughest loss of his career or the 34 year-old crying in an Emergency Room when he realized he will never put a foot on the courts that had held him captive all his life again. But he is a triumph. That's for sure.

The next thing that shoots into my head is: But what comes next? What happens when all the triumphing is done? When the last basket has been scored and you made it into the Hall of fame. The answer is simple. You keep on living without triumphing. Without your biggest strength. So you have to look where your second biggest strength can lead you. I haven't quite figured out that part of moving on yet. And for the first time in 20 years I'm feeling lost. Without a clear target.

This time my eyes don't stay dry but I don't allow myself a tear even though they could cut it out and start the interview again. I don't believe in second chances!