The League of Berries and Laurels — Ch. 4 (Pt. III)

“There it is, right in the man’s ear, papa, our diamond.” After knocking down a jumper from fifteen feet, the camera follows Michael Jordan, who flashes no smile, but the stone does all the work for him, catching the dim light inside the Chicago Stadium, which yet appears fantastic within the facets, and glints on the screens of millions in the Chicago area. “They call that maneuver a jumper, how about that?” The cases contain pieces in the traditional style, and there is a vacuity, yet to be filled, that resulted from Jordan’s recent visit. “Who would have dreamed of this in Prague?”

“You have calls to make,” his father says, still standing immovably while his contemporaries, those figures diminished by the change to a full-court shot, flow through sequences, the consequences of these sequences generally falling in the Bulls’ favor.

“Yes, yes, I make them, just after I see what is the score.” His father, unnerved, by what exactly not even he could presently express, kicks away the dilapidated box of felt bags, on which a pair of sneakers, sneakers that should be at work, are rested.

“Stop it with this childishness,” In contrary motion to the descent of his new-bought shoes, his son, his feet now under him, is forced to sit the more upright.

“Papa,” he says, collecting himself, cognizant of his responsibilities, and of one matter more. “I have money on this game,” his son says, standing. He is taller than his father, thinner, too, with ample hair, of the kind that, on his father’s head, there remains only suggestions. “Believe me I know what calls I am to make.” In his old world way, his father pounds mightily and once, at his son’s collar, a familiar gesture that has lost none of its influence, if though the physical effect is, in present day, now as nothing. Still, though, he recoils. “Father, what is it? It is only two-hundred and fifty dollars. It is as nothing.”