“Ten
points on North Carolina,” he said, smiling during mid-afternoon, Monday, April
4, 2016.
He
stood beside a strengthen-your-back machine at the Gold’s Gym located seven
minutes from my Southern Pines home. His large-wheeled walker (with 6-inch
wheels) featuring a seat and a “ruby red finish” stood near the exercise machine.
He moved his legs slowly, stiffly. His feet dragged. He appeared to be in his
early 60s.
“What’d
you say?” I asked, scooting off a nearby machine and moving three feet in order
to stand beside the trim, graying African-American man who evidenced a serious physical
handicap.
“Ten
points on North Carolina,” he repeated.
The
National Collegiate Athletic Association (NCAA) championship basketball game was
slated for that evening in Houston, Texas: the University of North Carolina vs.
Villanova University.
“I’m
rooting for UNC, too,” I said. “They may win by more than ten points.”
“Yep,”
the man said. “They might.”
“UNC
has some really good big men,” I noted.
I’d
met this man before but forgotten his name.
“I’m
Steve,” I said, reaching for his right hand.
“I’m
William,” he said.
I
don’t know if he remembered me. I felt bad for not recalling his name. “The
road to hell is paved with good intentions,” someone said. Many times I’ve
vowed to remember a person’s name (either a moniker or a surname) and within an
hour or two forgotten. I felt glad that William reached out to me with his
comment about UNC. In the Gold’s Gym I frequent, people often pass within a few
feet of each other and seem to pretend that the humans they’re near are
invisible.
“They’re
there [in Gold’s Gym] on business,” a friend told me. “They don’t have time to
talk to strangers. They’re trying to maintain their spaces. That’s just the way
it is.”
“How
about just a nod of a head or a meeting of eyes,” I’d thought, remembering that
now-overused summation: “Ain’t nobody got time for that.”
“I’ll
be watching the game, tonight, while you are,” I told William.
“I
think they’ll win,” he said.
“It’s
good to see you in here,” I said, glancing at his walker.
“I
have a spinal-disconnect injury,” he said. “I need to exercise. I feel better
when I do, and then I can go home and sleep.”
“Great
to see you,” I said.
“Yep,”
he replied, as he moved on to another machine.
That
night, as I watched the game via TV, I remembered William’s words: “Ten points
on North Carolina.”
The
Tar Heels led by five points (39-34) at halftime but shot poorly during the
second half.
UNC
came back from 10 points down with five-and-a-half minutes left and from six
points down with 1:52 to play. UNC’s Marcus Paige
bucketed an outstanding 3-point shot from long distance to tie the game at
74-74. With 4.7 seconds left, Villanova’s Ryan Arcidiacono worked the ball
upcourt and passed it off to teammate Kris Jenkins, who swished it from about
two steps behind the 3-point line. Game over. The Villanova folk went wild.
I
thought of William, probably sitting near his big-wheeled walker, watching the
game end. I hoped he wasn’t too disappointed.
“Ten
points on North Carolina,” he’d said, earlier that day.
