[29th February 2000 – 7:30 AM, James Sr. Household, Forest Hills, New York]
The smell of fresh coffee and toasted bread filled the wide, sunlit kitchen of the James estate. Morning light poured through the floor-to-ceiling glass wall that overlooked their garden, a quiet sanctuary in the middle of Forest Hills. Dew shimmered on manicured hedges, and the crown jewel stood at the centre: a cherry blossom tree whose pale petals were just beginning to bloom despite the late winter chill.
Cassius had imported it as a sapling from Japan years ago, insisting that he wanted his parents to have a bit of the world in their home. At the dining table, Amara James moved with grace, plating eggs Benedict with a bright smile. The years had softened her face, but not her presence, as even at sixty-two, she was a force of nature.
"Simone, you're up early," Amara said without looking up as her daughter descended the staircase, her steps lazy but soft.
"Barely," Simone muttered, tugging her cardigan tighter around her shoulders. Her curls were still damp from the shower, the scent of citrus shampoo trailing faintly behind her. "I couldn't sleep. Figured I might as well grab breakfast before heading back to Philly."
Willy James sat at the head of the long oak table, glasses perched halfway down his nose, eyes fixed on the morning edition of The Voice. He read each page with keen interest, his salt-and-pepper hair framing a face marked by decades.
"Coffee's hot," Amara said, setting down the last plate before finally taking her seat. "Do you really have to go back to Philly? I'm sure you could do your art from here as well?"
"Yeah, well," Simone said, reaching for the orange juice, "I've made a life there, the city, the culture and my friends, it's like we're on this journey together to achieve our dreams."
Willy hummed faintly behind his paper, unwilling to get dragged into the conversation that felt like a minefield ready to explode. The faint clink of silverware and the quiet hiss of the kettle filled the otherwise peaceful morning. Amara smiled faintly, her tone teasing as she poured herself a cup of tea. "Dreams are wonderful things, my dear, but so is health insurance."
"Well, health insurance costs an arm and a leg each. This struggling artist prefers her freedom." Simone groaned, smirking as she buttered a piece of toast. "Don't worry, when I sell my first piece, I'll be sure to get health insurance."
"Freedom doesn't pay rent," Willy murmured from behind the newspaper, his voice muffled but calm, like the rumble of an old engine.
Amara laughed softly. "Let the girl be, Willy. You were living in a rented apartment and chasing stories through war zones at her age."
"Difference is," he said, lowering the paper, "my stories paid."
Simone grinned. "Touché."
The banter continued, easing the atmosphere, as everything came from a place of love. The cherry blossom branches swayed gently in the morning light, their buds catching the wind. Willy turned the page, scanning the financial section. He liked to read The Voice every morning, not because he didn't already know its contents, but because it was a routine.
Even after forty years as a reporter, ten of them as Editor-in-Chief, he still believed in feeling the paper between his fingers and smelling the ink. Information had to breathe to be alive, after all, people in history had bled and shed their lives just so people could have access to knowledge. As he flipped another page, his wife finally sat down, resisting the urge to adjust the angle of the flowers in the crystal vase.
"What are they saying in the markets today? Still pretending the dot-coms will never crash?"
Willy chuckled quietly. "You know investors. They'd sell their souls for paper profits. Good thing Cassios had a bottom line." There was a silence following his words, only to be shattered by Simone's exclamation.
"Wait—what?!" Simone's voice sliced through the calm like a broken glass.
Both her parents stared. Amara froze mid-motion with her cup of tea halfway to her lips, and Willy's eyes blinked over the rim of his bifocals.
"What is it?" Amara asked, frowning as she leaned forward.
Simone had already snatched the newspaper from her father's hands, nearly spilling the marmalade jar in the process. "Oh my Days," she muttered, her eyes darting across the front page. "You guys didn't see this?"
Willy adjusted his glasses again, confusion turning to curiosity as Amara rose slightly in her chair.
On the front page, printed boldly above the fold, was a photograph of the New York Tigers' logo superimposed over an aerial shot of the Hofstra facility. The headline screamed in capital letters:
"NEW YORK TIGERS SOLD FOR RECORD $700 MILLION."
Below it, the subheading read:
"Apex Ventures, led by twenty-year-old Xavier Isaiah James, finalises the most expensive franchise acquisition in NFL history, becoming the first black owner in league history."
Simone's jaw dropped open. "That's— that's Xavier!" she blurted, slapping the newspaper down on the table. "Our Xavier! He— he just bought an NFL team?"
"What nonsense are you talking about?" Amara said skeptically, leaning over to read. But as soon as she saw the name printed under the photograph, her tone changed to a soft gasp. "Dear Lord…"
Willy leaned forward, lips tightening as he read over the article, wondering how he could have missed this. "The boy did say he wanted something tangible," he muttered, the words carrying both disbelief and pride. "But this breaks so many barriers, it's unbelievable."
Simone flipped the paper over, and her eyes widened even more. The back page was entirely blank, resembling a contract letterhead far more luxurious than most of the paper. Except there was only a single message in bold black lettering:
"Dear New York Tigers, You're Welcome."
In the bottom left corner was an elegant signature — Xavier Isaiah James — written in a confident flourish. The team's logo sat opposite in the bottom right.
"Someone pinch me, please… ouch, you actually," Simone whispered, blinking as if to confirm it was real. "He actually signed off the entire back page of your paper just to announce his arrival?"
Amara covered her mouth, laughter and disbelief merging. "Oh, Cassius' son indeed," she said, shaking her head slowly. "The audacity… my word, won't hear the end of this for at least a week at the country club."
Willy took the paper back, his auburn eyes flicking over every inch of it; the journalist in him wanted to wring the neck of his sports editor. However, the grandfather in him was proud, remembering how his son had struggled for years to gain entry to that boys' club, to no avail. He figured his grandson had done something to gain entry, probably leveraging a connection to put pressure. "No," he said softly, "not audacity. Vision."
He leaned back in his chair, the morning light catching the silver in his hair. "Cassius always said the world only listens when you make enough noise to wake it up. Looks like Xavier found his microphone."
Amara sat back slowly, her eyes glassy for a moment before she masked it with composure. "Good to see that he managed to put some of his plans into action."
Willy folded the paper neatly and set it beside his plate. "The Times will run it by noon. CNBC will pick it up before lunch. By tomorrow morning, everyone from Wall Street to Hollywood will be asking the same question."
He met both women's eyes, the corners of his mouth lifting with pride that refused to hide beneath his usual restraint. "Who is Xavier James?"
~~~
[13:35, Tigers HQ, Hofstra University, Hempstead, N.Y]
"Hello, Ladies and Gentlemen, it is my great honour to be standing before you in the brain of this magnificent franchise," Savier stated, standing at the front of the board room, dressed in light grey suit pants and a Vest, emanating an easy charisma. "I have a lot to learn, but I also have a vision for what I want this franchise to become, so all I ask of you is nothing but your best."
A tense silence lingered as the men and women above the age of 40 looked at the boy who couldn't even legally drink or speak in front of them. They had been caught off guard by the sale to such a young man, a black one, whom they never even considered a possibility. They weren't racists per se, but they knew the league after surviving its politics for decades.
"I want us to build a Tigers First mentality both on and off the field," He said, not at all bothered by their unsure glances. "What this means is that I want us to scout the next big thing before the player even knows he has that potential. The front office needs to make us matter in newyork again, not just an afterthought behind the Bills and Giants."
"Anyone unable to give me that is welcome to walk. If you can't accept working under me, you're welcome to walk. If you feel you can't buy into this vision of our culture, you are welcome to walk." His words were like a rock into an already boiling pond, instantly grating the feelings of the people who could barely accept the situation. Xavier did not care, though, as he continued his address. "The Tigers need generals, warriors and executioners who will get the job done, not sink the ship over ego plays and pride"
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To Be Continued...