Marcus Cole sat alone at the back of a small bar called The Rusty Hoop. The place smelled of old wood fried food and beer. The lights were dim. The walls were covered with pictures of old winning teams. None of the faces on those walls were his. Once people had wanted to see his face everywhere. Now they had forgotten him.
He held a glass of beer and stared at it. Cold drops slid down the glass and over his fingers. It felt like the drink was the only thing he still held on to.
Three years ago Marcus had been one of the best basketball players in the city. Crowds shouted his name the moment he touched the ball. He moved with ease and slipped past defenders without even thinking. People called him a natural talent as if the game had chosen him.
That all ended one night.
It was the championship final. The game was tied. Only a few seconds were left on the clock. Marcus had the ball. One good pass could have won it. But his pass came a heartbeat too late. An opponent stole it and scored just before the buzzer. The other team won. The crowd went silent. His teammates walked away without a word.
The next day the newspapers wrote about his mistake. People stopped calling him a hero. His phone stopped ringing. The game that had been his whole life suddenly felt far away.
Now he spent his days in this bar. The only sound he noticed was the door opening and closing.
Rick the bartender came over with another drink. "On the house" he said. He was used to seeing Marcus in the same seat every day.
"Trying to make me fat?" Marcus asked without looking up.
"You already look thin enough" Rick said. "This is to keep you standing."
Before Marcus could answer the door opened again. An old man walked in. His coat was wet from the rain. He looked around the room until his eyes settled on Marcus. Then he walked over slowly leaning on a cane.
"You are Marcus Cole" the old man said when he reached the table.
"Still am" Marcus replied.
"You were a great player" the man said. "Now you are wasting it."
Marcus gave a short laugh. "Are you a reporter?"
The man shook his head. "Name's Walt. I coach a local team. We are not big. We are not rich. But the players work hard. We could use someone like you."
"You have the wrong guy" Marcus said.
"I have the right one" Walt replied. "He is just lost."
He placed a folded paper on the table. "We train on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Seven in the evening. You can come if you want. If not I will not ask again."
Marcus looked at the paper but did not touch it. It read: Hawks Season Schedule.
Walt stood tipped his cap and left. He did not look back.
Marcus stayed there for a long time. The paper remained on the table. He told himself he would throw it away. But when he finally left the bar that night he slipped it into his pocket. He told himself it did not mean anything.
But somewhere inside him a small spark lit up. One he had thought was gone forever.