I stared around at the reporters. They had surrounded me in a semicircle as the players stretched and loosened up before heading out to the court. I had made my decision, which all of them had heard about, but they needed to hear it from me. One finally spoke up. It was Red, a curly haired Irishman from the daily paper.
“You going to start him, Doc?”
“But he’s your best player.”
I looked at the others- Sage, a slim, pretty African American girl from the cable channel, Rachel, a blonde from local TV, and Rick, a fat guy from a national magazine.
Sage spoke next, “So he’s going to play, Doc?”
They stared at me.
“You’re going to sit him,” Rachel asked, “in a game seven? For all the marbles?”
Rick chimed in, “He’ll fire you, you know.”
“Maybe,” I said.
The rule was, if you miss the bus, you don’t play, I thought. I told them that on day 1. It might get me fired, like he said. But if you don’t stand for something, then you don’t stand for anything. The rule is the rule. Be on time, I told them, and we won’t have a problem.
Go ahead and fire me, I thought. I’d rather be fishing anyway.