The One & Only(135)
“Yes, sir. Because I went there. But also because I’m … sort of having a … relationship with Coach Carr.”
“A relationship?” He spit out the word, his face changing color.
“Yes, sir. I mean … sort of, yes.”
“Oh, hell, Rigsby. Don’t sir me now. You’re dating someone my age.”
I resisted the urge to tell him he was much older than Coach and instead said, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”
“Sooner?” he barked at me. “How long has this been going on?”
“Not very long.”
Smiley stared at me, then mumbled something that sounded like Well, fuck me drunk in the middle of a snowstorm.
“I’m sorry. You took a chance on me and have been fair and good to me and you didn’t deserve this. I told you I could be objective, and I can’t. Because I really want my team to win. And that’s how I will always think of them. As my team. And I hate the NCAA for tainting this season. Or trying to. And I would do anything in my power to protect our program because I believe it to be a really good, decent program led by a really good, decent man. So … how many minutes do we have left?”
“Just enough for me to fire your ass.”
“That’s what I thought,” I said, turning toward the door. “I’ll clean out my desk.”
Smiley shook his head and said, “Wait. Not so fast. I have something to say to you. In response to your lofty confession.”
I raised my eyebrows, waiting.
“There is no such thing as an objective sportswriter. Anyone in this business loves the game and was a fan first. And whether you’re covering a team you love or a team you hate or a team you’re indifferent to, you always have a bias because that team’s performance always has an impact on your team, at least indirectly. And even when you watch a game that doesn’t matter to you whatsoever, because there are zero implications for your team, you still care!” He slammed his open hand onto the desk, and I winced, both from the noise and because it had to hurt. “You may say you don’t care, but within seconds, you do care. You go with the underdog. Or the old quarterback making a comeback. Or the young point guard who got over a torn ACL. Or the coach whose wife just died of cancer! You somehow find yourself caring even when you don’t give a bloody damn!”
Smiley was shouting now, and, as I glanced away, I caught Gordon and a half dozen colleagues staring at us through the glass wall.
Then, calming down a little, he said, “Bottom line, every contest matters—and it should. Somebody is going to win and somebody is going to lose and that matters to the people playing the game so it should matter to us. It matters. Didn’t you tell me this very thing when I first met you back at Bob’s? That a good reporter will make you care about a random Russian Olympian?”
I stared at him, now thoroughly confused. “Are you saying that nobody can really be deep-down objective?”
“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“And that’s okay?”
“Yes.”
“So I can keep my job?”
“No. You’re definitely fired. Because you, Rigsby, can no longer even pretend to be an objective professional. The one thing I asked of you. I told you to keep your mouth shut in the press box and pretend to be objective.”
“I know,” I said, thinking that even if I didn’t have feelings for Coach Carr, I was always one unbridled cheer away from losing my job.
Smiley looked at me and said, “I heard you were dating Ryan James. That wasn’t true?”
“Yes, sir. It was true,” I said. “We were dating. But we’re not anymore.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” he said. “Burning a lot of journalistic bridges in the state of Texas, aren’t you?”
“I guess so,” I said. It occurred to me to defend myself, explain that both relationships had unfolded naturally and not because I have a thing for famous sports figures, but I decided it wasn’t really pertinent at the moment. Instead I said, “I’ll go clean out my desk now.”
Smiley said, “Well, look on the bright side.”
“What’s that?”
“You can put that awful teal bumper sticker back on your car.”
That evening, I considered all the constructive things I could do. I could start looking for a new job. I could clean my apartment. I could go work out. Instead I called Miller and asked him to meet me at the Third Rail for a beer. He immediately agreed, and, although I was grateful for his friendship, any friendship, it made me realize just how alone I was without Lucy. The loss was more than a void; it was a gaping hole in my heart and life.