Fiction Competition Winner: the Deal
| Publication year | 2020 |
| Pages | 0036 |
| Citation | Vol. 25 No. 6 Pg. 0036 |
The Deal
The Editorial Board of the Georgia Bar Journal is proud to present ''The Deal,'' by Joe Cargile of Thomasville, as the winner of the Journal's 29th Annual Fiction Writing Competition.
BY JOE CARGILE
The purposes of the Fiction Writing Competition are to enhance interest in the Journal, to encourage excellence in writing by members of the Bar and to provide an innovative vehicle for the illustration of the life and work of lawyers. As in years past, this year's entries reflected a wide range of topics and literary styles. In accordance with the competition's rules, the Editorial Board selected the winning story through a process of reading each story without knowledge of the author's identity and then scoring each entry. The story with the highest cumulative score was selected as the winner. The Editorial Board congratulates Cargile and all of the other entrants for their participation and excellent writing.
He closed his eyes. Breathing in and out, he counted each breath. His heart rate began to slow as he worked to calm his mind. His thoughts wandered. They went to his hearing yesterday in Calhoun County. His client's testimony on the stand.
''It was bad,'' he thought to himself. ''I should have prepared him better.'' He breathed deeply through his nose and out of his mouth.
He thought about his bank account. ''Checking has about a thousand or so,'' he guessed. ''I hope we can make payroll next week.''
Back to the breath he went. The hum from the silence grew with each passing second. He could hear his counselor's words in that calming voice say, ''When something pops into your mind, bring yourself back to your breath.'' His thoughts wandered to Coach Weeks.
The obituary appeared in the newspaper that morning. He mulled the first three lines of the tribute over in his head. It was a quote that appeared in bold italics under a photograph of the coach. The quote was from an interview in 2002. The Panthers had just beaten Brooks County in the second round of the playoffs the night of Feb. 15. A reporter from the Americus Times-Recorder caught Coach walking off the court from the Panthers' second-round win. The reporter miscounted the number of steals Jake had that night but did not misquote Coach Weeks.
''No one at 18 years old is yet certain who they are. This team of 12 young men is no different. If they figure out who they want to be before the en' of the season, then I accomplished what I came here to 'o.”
— Melvin Weeks, 2002
Jake leaned back in his chair and put his feet on the desk. He opened his eyes for a moment and looked at the minute hand on his watch. Three more minutes were left in the exercise. He closed his eyes, and instead of trying to clear his mind, he tried to remember the last time he saw the coach. It had been at least a year.
When Jake went back to his hometown, he avoided eating out. He would visit his mother and check in with a few old friends. He chose to leave on Sundays before church began and had not set foot in his old high school's basketball gym since 2003. The county school and Americus High merged in 2004 to become Americus-Sumter County High School. The legendary career of his old coach, and the Panthers' tradition, continued in the merger. New banners hung from the rafters. New players joined the roster. Jake wanted nothing to do with it.
He remembered the last time he saw his coach. It was at a Walmart in Camilla last Christmas. The coach must have been in Mitchell County visiting his daughter and grandkids. Jake was stopping in on his way home from a hearing in Thomasville. The evening encounter was mere happenstance. Jake hurried through the packed store in one of his best suits. Hustling down an aisle with a bag of dog food slung over his shoulder, Jake nearly ran straight into the coach. They talked for 10 minutes, and Jake had to run.
''Been busy, Coach,'' he remembered saying.
''Busy doing what?'' Coach huffed.
''Busy lawyering until the Lakers decide to pick me up,'' he replied.
''Those boys in LA don't need another showboater on their roster,'' Coach said with a laugh.
''I'm more of a defensive player now, Coach,'' he said.
''I'm sure you are, counselor. Stop by next time you are in town,'' Coach said as he walked away.
They did not talk about how Jake's career was going. He did not ask about how Jake's knee was doing. That 2002 Panthers' team that went on to win state never came up. The coach asked about Jake's mom and talked about his granddaughter's new dog. Jake had no idea Coach was sick. They shook hands and parted ways. It was the last time Jake Collins would see his old coach.
The funeral was that afternoon. Jake would attend, as would many of his former teammates. He thought about their days playing for Coach. It felt like yesterday. They were the heralded 2002 team. With his eyes closed, he could hear the sounds of the crowd in his old high school gym. He laced his shoes up. He looked at the faces of his teammates. He felt the butterflies in his stomach. He heard the stomping of the feet on the bleachers and the cheerleaders chanting. The smell of popcorn seeped into the locker room as they huddled around Coach for a pregame speech.
''Come to terms with the fact that you are a team of scrappers,'' he would say.
Coach would get in a player's face and yell, ''Get out of this locker room if that bothers you.''
''You scrap and you claw all night, you hear me!''
''Nobody wants to play this team because we fight, scratch and hustle all four quarters!''
''They may be bigger, but you have more heart.''
''They may be faster, but you worked harder this offseason.''
''They may hit you out of the gate, but you won't back down.''
''You will not quit.'' Then Coach would say, ''Bring it in men,'' and he would pray.
There was a rigid dichotomy between the way Coach would motivate a team and the way he would pray with it. He would dog cuss you for a missed assignment in practice. He allowed skirmishes between teammates until punches to the face were thrown. He encouraged heated on-court rivalries as long as a handshake followed the competition. He was ruthless in his criticism and a terror to play for. Then before dismissing the team each day, he would direct everyone to take a knee so that he could remind everyone that they have one purpose on this earth.
''The heart of man plans his way, but the Lord establishes his steps,'' Coach would say as he brought the team in for a huddle. He ministered to his players with all of his soul, and then would break the huddle with, ''Panthers on three!''
Jake Collins loved basketball. He was a slashing guard-excellent ball control, quick feet and equally talented at passing with either hand. He ran the court like a wild man and took the ball to the hoop as much as possible. If you stepped in the lane to stop him, Jake would kick it out to a teammate. If you did not honor his ability to take the ball in with the tall trees, Jake would cut you two points at a time. He started at point guard for the Panthers his sophomore year and never looked back. Teams all over Georgia knew Jake Collins before he was done with his time in high school. At 35, he still held the records for career points, assists and steals.
He breathed those memories in deep, and the silence surrounded him. He felt calm. The desk phone rang.
''Jesus Christ,'' he murmured, before pressing the microphone button.
''Mr. Collins?'' said the receptionist.
''Yes?'' he replied.
''Tim Brown with First National Bank, line two,'' she said.
''Tell him I'll call him back,'' he said with a sigh.
''You've got it,'' she replied.
The funeral was at 2 p.m. He would leave for Americus around lunch. He picked up his cellphone and checked his bank account. It was lower than he thought. He then clicked open his Outlook calendar to review the remainder of his morning's appointments.
-2-
The man walked into the lobby right at 11 a.m. He carried a collapsible folder and
In Jake's experience, there are generally two kinds of conversations that kick off the client consultation. The first is the kind you would expect in the South . . . . The second kind of conversation is when the client has come prepared to talk to Jake. well, about Jake.
wore a black backpack. A lady sat in an armchair reading a newspaper, and a little boy played on a tablet. The music from the boy's device sang and pinged. The woman glanced up at him as he walked to the receptionist's desk, but the boy did not take his eyes away from his game.
''I am here to see Mr. Collins,'' the man said to the receptionist.
''Can I get your name, please?'' she replied.
''It is Will Felt, and I have an 11 a.m. appointment scheduled.''
''Can you remind me what it is about so I can let him know?'' she inquired.
''I want to talk to him about a contract.''
The receptionist, Claire Bond, was in her late twenties. She wore a blue blouse, and her gold bracelets bounced as she worked the mouse and the phone. Her dark hair and eyes shined from behind the desk. From what Will could see, he wanted to keep looking.
''I'll see if he is ready for you,'' she said, initially not looking up from her computer. When she did, she realized Will had been gazing a little longer than was acceptable.
''Go ahead and grab a seat, and we will be right out there to get you,'' she added with a smile.
''I'll grab a seat then, and thank you,'' Will said, with an awkward smile.
Ten minutes passed, and Will watched the lady in the armchair. She now had some paperwork and a clipboard. She wore her hair in a bun and had a scarf around her neck. She looked weathered, and she rubbed her forehead as one does, frustrated. The boy still sat quietly next to her, consumed by the game.
...
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