Medium Rare, page 5
—You’re on TV, too, Phil, called Miles, who understood the assignment and casually grabbed a chicken wing.
Raleigh looked up anxiously.
—Now it’s you, Cassandra! She said, brightening with relief.
—What? Phil looked up. Why would they be showing her?
—Phil! Raleigh chastised him in horror.
I was chuffed enough by her defense to support it:
—You know I won “best eyes” in high school.
—Really? said Phil.
—Why on earth would she make up something like that? Raleigh said.
Phil’s own eyes completed their arcing roll just before the camera panned back to him.
—A lot of celebrities in DC tonight, Jim Nantz was saying in closed captioning on the suite’s TV. Including our new favorite, the man with the perfect bracket: Phil Fayeton. He’s picked Michigan State in this one. And that’s Michigan Senator Sheila Campau next to him—she’s having a good night too, obviously.
Sheila was actually a Wolverine, and it had sort of pained her to don the green jersey, but I imagined this would be adequate compensation for the indignity.
—Maria Muñoz there on Senator Campau’s other side, added Grant Hill, before they turned back to the game.
* * *
—
Neither of the early ones were close. Michigan State routed LSU, while five-seeded Auburn—who, having made it past the twelve, became one of Phil’s “upset specials”—knocked off North Carolina out in Kansas City. Before Duke–Virginia Tech got underway in the DaedaDome, Tracy Wolfson came to talk to Phil, pulling Raleigh in at the end—a bit to both of their surprise—to ask what she was making of all this.
—I’m just really proud of him, Raleigh said beatifically.
It was so simple, touching. Borne less of actual pride than of knowing this was exactly what he would have wanted her to say—though as she said it, it was also clearly true. Phil’s gratitude and relief, his sudden total forgiveness, passed for spousal reverence. And perhaps there was a pinch of reverence in it. Tracy looked to be on the verge of tearing.
—Well congratulations to you both, she said. On the bracket—and on the baby.
* * *
—
The segment would go viral, was destined to, but no one realized to what extent until after the game, because it was an absolute thriller—and everyone save Raleigh got very, very drunk. Duke ultimately triumphed, though, with Tech failing to convert on three last-ditch opportunities.
The stadium started clearing out, but the janitorial staff, recognizing Phil, allowed us to stay in the suite to watch the final few minutes of Kentucky–Houston. With a little obligatory hesitation, they even paused their work at our prompting, cheering for Kentucky, for Phil—exchanging high fives when the Wildcats won. It’s the ultimate display of superiority, I thought, as we left the box and they resumed cleaning up: temporarily elevating someone to be your equal.
* * *
If you just count the rounds, the culmination of the Sweet Sixteen is the tournament’s halfway point, but these first three comprise nearly 90 percent of the games, with only seven left in the remaining rounds combined. Phil had picked fifty-six consecutive—the odds of this one in some seventy-two quadrillion by Phil’s coin-flip calculations, and still astonishingly unlikely factoring in asymmetric probabilities. Eight games more than Nigel Gregory had predicted, itself an achievement nine games over the previous record of thirty-nine. This is why Phil would have balked at the mere suggestion it could have been anything aside from his mathematical feat catapulting him overnight from passing sensation to household name, plastering the Fayetons’ faces on every corner of Instagram and Twitter, every sports blog in the country, NCAA.com and ESPN and Sports Illustrated, the Washington Post and San Francisco Chronicle. The goddamn New York Times.
But it was Raleigh. Raleigh, with her shy poise, with her platinum hair almost halo-like; Raleigh with her full, basketballic body, brimming with life—larger than life, towering over Tracy Wolfson. What had looked almost like stage makeup to me in the DaedaDome played wonderfully on camera, in the photo. She looked dewy, even radiant. The most beautiful I’d ever seen her, her beauty enhanced by her sweetness, the naturalism of her manner offsetting the extremity of her aesthetic artifice. As if the softness of her blinks might have rendered false lashes real.
* * *
—
You could see the shoulder of Sheila’s jacket in the corner, a little red sliver, but her face had been cropped out.
ELITE EIGHT
VIRGINIA (1) VS. PURDUE (3)
Phil flew back to Louisville the next morning, again thanks to Buick, going straight from the plane to the stadium for a one-on-one studio interview with Sunny. They’d invited Raleigh too this time, but she didn’t want to fly so late in her pregnancy. Besides, she had a shift at the hospital. Phil didn’t push her.
Raleigh did agree to be the guest of honor at the UVa club of Washington DC’s watch party, however, with the caveat she would be a little late on account of her shift. They’d rebooked at the last minute to get a larger space, a colossal Mexican restaurant in Navy Yard. Still, it was already so packed before the Texas Tech–Gonzaga game, I almost regretted attending. But then, Miles was in his element, and managed to get us prime seats, and when they turned the sound on, I changed my mind. Everyone was rooting for the Red Raiders on Phil’s behalf, and when his pretaped interview started airing, positively erupted. The network had slated it for halftime, while his bracket was still guaranteed to be perfect, but as the euphoric bar grew quiet, then silent, rapt, our attention infinite, I knew they needn’t have hedged. I could feel the narrative envelope me, how I would tell it, the words of this very paragraph, like the story itself was alive. And yet, my sureness did nothing to lessen the prickling tension, as I watched Phil watch Sunny, the long, slow-motion shots of them strolling across the court—if anything, it heightened it. What alone is the province of lesser works. Truly incredible ones are propelled by how, to say nothing of why.
—We’ve talked a lot about basketball, said Sunny, but now I want to ask you a personal question.
—Shoot, Phil said gamely, in a line that had to have been scripted for him.
—We learned yesterday that your wife, Raleigh, is having a baby in just a few short weeks. How do you feel about becoming a dad?
The network didn’t edit out the pause, more pregnant than Raleigh. I think they mistook Phil’s unpreparedness for overwhelm. They saw what they wanted to see, instead of what was there. The truth was he hadn’t thought about it, at least not recently.
—Um, he said, forgetting his media training, it’s…truly incredible.
—Aw, said Sunny, breaking into an orthodontic smile worthy of KRE that also somehow encased a pout, her expression hovering somewhere between humanistic empathy and mooning.
The bar was with her. A few of the drunk young alumnae started to cry—softly, genuinely at first, then almost competitively. I heard one of them say Phil was “kind of hot,” to nods from the others. Raleigh heard this too, having entered the bar largely unnoticed, in the shadow of her husband, of Sunny.
—Is there anything you want to say to Raleigh? Sunny continued.
—Just…I love you, babe.
* * *
—
Sunny had been explicit with the question, and it was technically the right thing to say—and yet there was a directional ambiguity to this statement, a faint sense that Phil was attempting double entendre, to say just the right thing and, to Sunny alone, convey a secret overture. Raleigh was mortified, but it would have been impossible for her to complain. It’s the sort of complaint that never works out well for women, that invariably gets us branded sensitive and ridiculous; nervous, neurotic, and neurasthenic; irrational, crazy, hysterical. Mad. I should know. Her intuition was dead-on, but the facts didn’t support the truth.
—Raleigh! someone said.
The cheer for her was deafening; her disquiet interpreted as sheer surprise. She was that, too, and by the time she found her way to some friends or acquaintances I knew by sight but not name, managed to forge a smile that ushered in its own sincerity. Gonzaga kept things exciting into the final twenty seconds, and Raleigh cheered along with everyone else as Texas Tech made their free throws in the end game—until it was over, sending Sunny back to Phil. Raleigh fell ashen.
—Congratulations on another win, Phil, said Sunny, beaming. The Red Raiders have been red-hot all tournament, and you have them going all the way to the championship. How did you foresee their success thus far, and why do you like them heading into their first-ever appearance in Final Four?
—Yeah, Sunny, said Phil casually, hand-hipped, as if such interviews were now old hat, I thought Texas Tech was really underrated as a three-seed. They topped the Zags big time on strength of schedule, with two of their losses coming to Duke and Kansas. I love their intangibles and—
* * *
—
Raleigh made it through the interview, but excused herself to the bathroom as Sunny closed the segment, the second it wouldn’t seem flagrantly unsupportive.
—His dad went to Texas Tech, Raleigh whispered in my ear a few minutes later.
It was such a banal statement of fact that I almost second-guessed my clear impression of its intimacy, that it formed if not a half-admission of my ancient warning’s truth, then at least unspoken forgiveness in its good faith. I raised my eyebrows at her.
—I knew you’d understand, she said.
—Here, Raleigh, take my seat, said Miles. What can I get you ladies to drink?
—Coverage of the NCAA men’s basketball tournament is sponsored by: Daedalus Cloud: the official cloud of the NCAA, Buick: yep, that’s a Buick; Oracle ERP: unbreakable, and by Taco Bell: sometimes you gotta Live Más.
Someone had turned up the surround sound, giving the announcer’s voice the aura of a higher power. A reverent hush filled the bar as Brian Anderson took over:
—The stage is set, and the players are ready. Two storied programs, ready to write the next chapter. Tonight we’re in the heart of it, folks. We’ll find out who can go from Sweet to Elite, and who will go home sour. On top of it all: a still-perfect bracket rides on the outcome.
An abstracted color-block image of Phil filled the screen, prompting nostalgic Obamaesque cheers of hope.
—It’s the South Regional final: Purdue versus Virginia. Live from Louisville, Kentucky: bring on the Madness!
—Mad-ness! Mad-ness! someone chanted, then the whole bar. Mad-ness! Mad-ness!
—Wow, look at the scene here, Chris. We’re set for an epic clash, and just about ready to tip it off. But first: On Friday, Sunny Sanders asked Phil Fayeton, the man with the perfect bracket, what he loves about his Virginia Cavaliers. He said defense, and that’s what she’s talking here tonight.
—Shh! Everyone shut up!
—Good evening, Brian and Chris! If this Virginia team is known for one thing, it’s its smothering pack-line defense, holding some of the country’s top offenses to only thirty-eight percent accuracy. Now, what we mean by “pack-line” is to consolidate protection in the paint, making strong inside shots rare. The four players who aren’t guarding the ball all bunch together in an unmarked area starting sixteen feet from the basket. To render the invisible visible, though, Tony Bennett tapes this area off in practice, the team growing so familiar with it that his players tell me they can see it even when it isn’t there.
The enhanced tape of Virginia sped and slowed, with mesmerizing graphic overlays.
—So how do you beat the pack line? You have to convert on lower-probability shots. This is where you need to remember Purdue is averaging nearly ten three-pointers a game. Against Tennessee last round? They had fifteen. I checked in with Phil earlier, and he’s still feeling confident in his Cavaliers, though.
They showed him in the stands, and confident is not exactly the word I would have used to describe him. Mortal terror comes closer. The Elite Eight was great and all, but it’s the Final Four everyone remembers, the Final Four that the road leads to, that has become utterly synonymous with the NCAA’s branding, with college basketball itself. Elite was a solid performance, an honor—a privilege—an exclusive membership and an arena lined with envy. But Final was enduring fame, end game. Final was history.
Phil was discovering for the first time all the horrors of success. That with every basket you make, the rim shifts up a bit, and every next shot gives you something more to lose. You’ll need to jump higher this time, then higher—and higher. And the higher you jump, the closer you fly to perfection, to that sunny precipice: the greater your fear of falling. It’s all gravy as an underdog, a David; easy enough to lick your wounds, to scratch your innocent ass on a tree. But for Goliath? A number-one seed? A fall from such great heights is deadly.
—All right, it’s time to fly—tip’s up, up, and away!
Purdue got the ball.
—You’ve been in these high-pressure situations, Chris, said Brian, kindly eliding that Chris had spectacularly lost the biggest one on a phantom timeout in the 1993 championship. There’s so much emotion in the lead-up, that anticipatory high—what should these players do to try and settle into the game?
Ryan Cline nailed a three.
—That, said Chris.
Diakite responded with a jumper in the paint, his arm extending, but Purdue countered, then banked another three. Virginia stayed in it for a while before losing ground, Purdue going on an 11–0 run that devolved Phil into a visible wreck, peeking through his fingers and pouring sweat. Half the bar mirrored him, booing loudly when, with Purdue leading 25–16 and eight minutes left in the first half, the network cut to a pretaped segment on their seven-foot-three center Matt Haarm’s hair. He touched it grotesquely, and Raleigh’s hands fell away from her own locks to her belly.
* * *
—
Virginia clawed back to within a point a few times, but Edwards seemed to hit another three against every burst of momentum. And with 2:09 to halftime: Kyle Guy, writhing on the court, grabbing his right ankle.
—Let’s go, Kyle! a fan screamed, as he hobbled to the sideline.
Guy returned in the last two seconds before half, perhaps as a symbol of hope for the fans. There was reason enough for it—hope, that is—UVa having winnowed Purdue’s lead to one.
—A tortoise comeback, Clark Kellogg called it. Slow and steady wins the race.
Sir Charles still liked Virginia, too.
—My buddy Phil’s gonna get that billion dollars, he said.
—He’s gonna sweat for it first! said Kenny the Jet, laughing, the guys having fun with a still of Phil peering between his fingers that would go on to become the top panel in a viral escalation meme.
It was ridiculous in one sense, the implication that any of this either required or would be influenced by some sort of physical labor on Phil’s part. And yet, as Guy inbounded the ball to start the second half, apparently okay, I felt it myself for the first time: the little beads budding under my arms, my breath, my heart rate quickening. Before the gates of excellence, I thought, the high gods have placed sweat. It had been the unofficial motto of my prep school, ludicrously replete with protestant meritocracy even in situations of no personal control. It felt as if I had some then, though, a height I knew I didn’t; as if my powers here extended beyond just foresight, a second heat upon the Muses’ anvil: that I, Cassandra, could, from a cavernous bar in our nation’s capital, will the Cavaliers to victory.
Kyle Guy hit an open three, claiming Virginia’s first lead. Then, he hit another, as if the tweaked ankle had flipped a switch, not for the worse but the better. It was hard to say who was more excited, the bar, or Phil, whom the network caught in jubilation, redoubling our fervor in the bar.
Purdue stuck with it, though; Kenny was right. Sweat the gods required and sweat they would have—it was not just under my arms now, but behind my neck, my knees. I twirled my curls into a bun and felt it spread steadily across my hairline into a little wet crown as Edwards, Jerome, Edwards, traded threes. Guy hit his third, fourth, fifth—but Edwards with him; at seven minutes left, he already has thirty points, though as a team, Virginia’s up one—now four, Jerome with another three. At five minutes: Edwards. At four: Purdue takes the lead. It’s Virginia. Purdue. Virginia. Clark gets a steal, but Guy misses; a partial block by Haarms of the hair. An offensive board for Diakite, for Clarke—fifteen offensive rebounds total by Virginia in the game.
—Here’s Edwards for the lead—oh! Brian Anderson is basically screaming. And he banks it! Ex-cuse me! That’s ten threes for Carsen Edwards! Purdue up two!
—We’ll see how Virginia responds to this tempo, Brian. It’s not how they like to play.
—Kyle Guy lets one rip—short—but gets his own offensive board. Wait, did he step on the baseline, though? Oh my goodness, he stepped on the baseline! It’s Purdue ball!
—Whooh, sometimes you have to be lucky, says Chris—
Phil’s head in his hands.
—and sometimes your luck runs out.
—Could be the game right here: Edwards steps up for three—off the mark—but offensive rebound! No more shot clock! Virginia has no choice. They have to foul—
They split the screen as Ryan Cline goes to the line, showing Phil, sodden. When Cline banks the first, I worry Phil’s going to need an ambulance. It’s 70–67, Purdue. The second free throw would all but seal it; a two-possession game.
