“You can’t laugh me off your back, old man,” rasps Matision. “Sooner or later, I’m gonna spread your guts all over a sidewalk.” Drawing his index finger across the general area of T.K.’s midsection, he wheels, and swaggers off into the crowd.

“He can’t be serious,” gasps Sarah, her eyes two shocked round disks.

“He is. Deadly serious. He’s made no secret of it for quite some time.”

“Why?”

“Because he thinks he’s better than I am.”

“Is he?”

T.K. doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his words are low, barely audible. “He’s younger, that’s for sure.

Before Sarah can follow up with another question, the loudspeaker blares out the names of Murado, Ibsem, Matision and Mann, asking them to report to the first tee.

T.K. tosses down his drink. “Coming?”

“No. I don’t feel up to hassling the crowd. I’ll watch in here on TV.”

“O.K. Look, I usually get into Atlanta a couple of times during the season. Can I see you next time? For dinner, maybe?”

“I’d like that. Buzz me up. I’m in the book. Good luck with your match.”

“Thanks. I’ll be in touch.” T.K. picks up his clubs at the door and goes out.

As soon as he’s gone, Sarah reaches inside her shoulder bag and turns off her tape recorder. She pops out the thumbnail-sized cassette, tosses it up and down several times in her palm as if weighing the import of the words it contains, and drops it into a side pocket.

She walks outside and removes her rented bicycle from its locked parking rack. She mounts and pedals off, tossing her sports book and T.K.’s autographed napkin into the first garbage pail she rides by.

Saturday, February 20, 2010

The jazz band barely drowns out the sound of the TV over the bar. “…almost came to blows,” says the sportscaster, showing a hole-by-hole replay of the bitter golfing battle waged that day between T.K. and Matision. “Harv Matision went on to win both that personal contest and, together with his partner, Jose Murado, the tournament itself. To this newsman, it was a symbolic victory. Coming as it does on top of Matision’s stunning Killerbowl performance, it firmly solidifies his position as the top athlete in the nation, the man to beat not only in football, but in total ability and guts as well.”

T.K. sits in with the band, playing drums, the staccato rhythms of cymbal and snare covering up not only the sportscaster’s commentary but also the bitter drone of defeat that still echoes inside his brain.

No doubt about it, this hasn’t been his day.