Don't Forget to Write

Zero Tolerance

 The next day, Thursday, Bruno and I trudged through the light misty rain and early morning darkness to campus once more. Coach Armando had said that the committee had finally reached a verdict on his actions, and I had to break the news to coach and the team. He brought his duffel bag, uncertain of what the verdict would be on his suspension. I wore street clothes. Making this hike without the burden of a duffel bag and a backpack felt like cheating. My teammates all greeted me warmly with gentle embraces, rubbing my back as if I was a frail child, like if they squeezed too hard my skull might shatter again. Roberto pulled up in his van and got out of the vehicle. "Peter," he called, "come here my son." He pulled me aside so the others couldn't hear. "Is everything alright?" I explained to him that my injuries were not terrible, but I couldn't play for the rest of the season. He tried to look into my eyes, but his eyes kept drifting upwards towards my bandages. He put an arm around me, "I'm sorry Petey, thank God you're alright. You had us worried. What are you gonna do now?"

"I guess I should find a job,"

"I might have one for you. Coach Mustafa runs a coaching program for young kids. You've coached before, right?"

"Yeah, high school kids,"

"High schoolers," he laughed, "that's practically your age."

"I've been told that I am wise beyond my years."

"Ha! That's a good one," he rubbed his big belly as if what I said was truly a good joke, like one of Bruno's bits. "Well these kids are significantly younger. It's not full-time, but it's a start. You interested?"

"Definitely."

"Great, I'll have Moose send the information your way." He turned to walk away, then turned back. "Come to our games. You will always be welcome on the bench. Your spot on the team is as good as reserved for next season, just stay healthy."

"Thanks, coach." He shook my hand and motioned for me to leave while he waved to get Bruno's attention. I walked towards my teammates and wished them all luck with the rest of the season. They filled me in on what happened at NYU after I passed out. Sammy said that Bruno "Attacked with tha swiftness and tha strength of a bahbarian. I pulled him off tha otha playa within secunds, but he had done his damage. Blood everywhere." We went on to lose the game 4-0.

Everybody piled into the van and waved a solemn goodbye to me and Bruno through the window.

"You're not able to join yet?"

"I'm not able to join at all. There's a new 'Zero Tolerance' Policy. My season is over."

I didn't know what to say, so I just apologized, and we watched the van's taillights disappear into the night before heading back towards the apartment. The mist had stopped. We walked through the wealthy block of brownstones with the expensive cars and big windows. Every one of those big ass T.V.s shone through the windows and displayed the morning news. Middle-aged white men put on suits and ties and their wives kissed them goodbye while their kids ate a full breakfast. On 145th street all of the fruit stands were up and the morning hustle had begun. I brushed shoulders with all types of people, older men with glasses and expensive suits, teens in jeans and hoodies with backpacks on, people wearing red bandanas and red sweatshirts. Bruno was looking down at his feet the whole time. When we got back to the apartment he walked directly into his bedroom without saying a word to either me or Milo.

I went to class that night, ignoring the advice of Dr. Lawson. Naturally, the whole lesson went right over my head. The concussion made it difficult to focus on anything for longer than five seconds, much less actually understand any of it.

Bruno's bedroom door was still shut when I returned home for the night. I quietly showered and got ready for bed, removing my bandages for the first time since leaving the hospital. There was a long, red scar on the top corner of my forehead. I really do look like Harry Potter, I thought before putting fresh bandages on. When my thumbs deactivated the 4:30 AM alarm on my phone, there was a joy in knowing that I could sleep in, overwhelmingly overshadowed by the pain that neither I nor Bruno would be playing the game we loved anymore. A replay of a soccer game played from my laptop, illuminating my face as I fell asleep to the conversations of the British commentators and to thoughts and dreams of what could have been this season.