This is my first attempt at a novel. It’s bad. I mean embarrassingly bad. But it needed to live somewhere. So here it is in 50 page slideshow installments.

SHORT STORIES

Be Good for Goodness Sake

It was cold and wet out. The winter has been a particularly oppressive one. And while the holiday season brings feelings of toasty good cheer to a lot of people, for me its been a period full of expectations that inevitably won’t be fulfilled.

But that all changed a little when I saw him.

I’ve always admired those self-possessed people. Those people who can walk into a room and effortlessly charm and befriend anyone that they meet. It’s one thing when that person is performative about it, but when it’s a genuine warmth that a person emanates, I’m not just in awe, I’m slightly envious.

That’s how I felt when I saw him enter the bar. People lit up when they saw him and he returned their glow with a totally effortless smile. He wasn’t the best looking man in the world, a bit portly, too. But you’d never detect an ounce of hesitation in him or insecurity. He was truly happy, in a way that seemed almost foreign to me.

“Who is that?” I asked my friend across from me in my booth.

“Who? Oh, George?”

“Is that his name? The smiley guy?”

“That would be George,” my friend said with a knowing smile.

“What’s his deal?”

My friend smiled coyly. “What do you mean?”

“He seems like the most popular guy in this place. He walked in and the seas parted.”

“Yeah, he’s a really great guy. An art teacher… he’s really great with kids.”

“Uh huh. And what’s wrong with him?”

My friend chuckled. “Why does there have to be something wrong with him?”

“I mean, no one is that happy,” I quipped.

“I will tell you a secret about him if you promise to keep it to yourself.”

“Ooo, I’m intrigued.”

“I’m serious though,” my friend’s expression hardening. “Not a soul.”

“He still believes in Santa Claus.”

“What!?” I said, incredulous, this guy was at least in his early 30s. How was this possible.

“I’m serious.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I mean it is and in a weird way, it isn’t, ya know?”

“No I don’t know. How in the world does he not know the truth?”

“Well, when he was a kid he fell for the Santa story hard. He loved everything Christmas related — the tree, caroling, of course the fucking presents. He was never a skeptical kid, he trusted the stories his parents told him. And when he got to be that age where most kids started to figure it out he just.. didn’t. His parents didn’t have the heart to tell him and when other kids would claim he wasn’t real George would just say they were liars.”

“Is he stupid or something?”

“No, he’s more of a creative type. But I wouldn’t call him stupid. I guess he’s sort of… whimsical.”

“But how can he still believe now?”

“His parents sort of made a pact, not to shatter his fantasy. And eventually the rest of the family played along. When George meets people and they find out that he still believes they are embarrassed at first, I know I was, but there’s something about it I kind of love. No one ever gets excited anymore without a little irony. He genuinely loves Santa and believes in the whole supernatural aspect of it.”

“But in all these years… he never like, stayed up to see if an old fat man was coming into his house.”

“Nope. He strictly observes the rules and goes to bed promptly on Christmas Eve. And for years now his parents and friends have placed gifts under his tree overnight that weren’t there before..”

“This is insane. Not to mention a waste of time.”

“I know it all sounds weird, but you have to know George to appreciate it. He really is like a kid on Christmas morning and there’s something so satisfying about how much he gets into it.”

“You’re telling me you have done this yourself?”

“I have…”

“You don’t feel ridiculous, messing with a grown man?”

“He loves it. We love it.”

“And you really don’t think he suspects anything?”

“I don’t know if he does or doesn’t. He seems to really believe Santa comes every year, and that’s enough for me. It’s enough for us.”

I couldn’t help but laugh.

“What’s so funny?” my friend asked.

“I don’t know, all of it.”

“Why? I mean who is he hurting by believing in this?”

“No one I guess. Well, actually, maybe himself?”

“Look at him, does he look troubled to you.”

He doesn’t. He’s big laugher. A big hugger. Everything about him is expansive and enveloping. He spends his time with each individual he talks to. He makes eye contact but not so much that it’s creepy and not so little that it feels perfunctory.

When George moves from one conversation to another he leaves behind someone who appears to be truly touched by the interaction. He is one of those people whose apparent complete lack of artifice is inspirational. Or, at least, it was to me in that moment.

“So he’s just going to keep on thinking Santa is real for the rest of his life?” I asked.

“Hopefully. Unless someone spoils it for him.”

“Jesus. That is a crazy story.”

“He’s really one of a kind.”

“Yeah you can say that again.”

“Would you like to meet him?”

Why did this question make me nervous? It’s not like he’s LeBron James or something. He’s a doughy, banally dressed weirdo who thinks that a magical man comes into the homes of every living soul on Christmas Eve to deliver presents from some fantasy land on the North Pole occupied by elves. Actually, maybe I did want to talk to this guy.

My friend waves George over and he eagerly bounds by. He struggles a bit to squeeze himself in the booth across for me and as soon as he fixes his gaze on me I start to feel uncomfortable. Why was I already feeling guilty?”

“Happy holidays guys,” George said genially. He extended his hand to me, “I’m George, what’s your name.”

Instead of answering, I blurt out, “I hear you believe in Santa Claus.”

“Sure do,” he said, without skipping a beat.”

“You do realize…” I started to say, and then I saw my friend shaking his head no at me. I looked back at George. He had unbelievably kind eyes — they were somehow patient and earnest at the same time.

“I think…”

“Yes?…”

“I think that’s great.”

Nothing But Net 

When we were growing up, we didn’t realize that they were so stall, or, at least, I didn’t. They were Gods to me, don’t get me wrong — but they were also relatively normal-sized men running across my television screen to the dulcet tones of Mr. John Tesh.

Now as I watch them from my seat above the court, as a grown man — deep into middle age — I see these superhuman behemoths who could crush my skull with a single sharp elbow. I know I couldn’t and shouldn’t stand a chance competing with these professionals, but I still daydream of getting buzzed in. 

I wouldn’t be the star necessarily, but I’d effortlessly set pick-and-rolls and nai the occasional corner three. Nothing too flashy but solid. I find myself daydreaming so much about somehow miraculously being on the court that I fail to comprehend that I’ve missed the whole game.

The stadium is emptying out and my friend is looking at me with perfectly understandable impatience. 

“Can we go?” he asks me. “We should have left halfway through the fourth quarter.”

“I think I’ll stay,” I say without thinking. Stay for what?

“Stay for what?!” he asks me.

“I don’t know,” I tell him, because I really don’t know.

He shakes his head and leaves and while I know he’s probably right, something tells me to stay seated and drink in this ritual: the sea of fans slowly descending, some wobblier than others, with excess stadium food sliding off their thighs as they regain their balance.

The players have long gone and the cleaning crews have begun to do their literal dirty work. I somehow have gone undetected and I quietly make my way down to the court. There’s a ball left behind and I run out and grab it. I check to make sure no one’s looking and I chuck it — like a 12 year old — at the basket.

The ball somehow goes right in — swoosh, nothing but net — even if it is the ugliest shot probably anyone has ever seen. 

“Hey, what are you doing over there?” a custodian shouts at me.

“I’m sorry! Listen, can I just take a couple more shots?” I can’t believe how reckless I’m being, this isn’t like me.

Miraculously, the custodian indulges me. I trot out, retrieve the ball, and take it to the foul line. I’d always struggled with free throws. I’d always loved basketball because stars aside, it was still a solid team sport, everyone touches the ball at some point, opportunities are usually created for everyone to score the ball. And every shot has a relative degree of difficulty since you’re almost always attempting them under duress. This creates an unspoken solidarity amongst all players — a sort of ‘we’ve all been there’ understanding when you miss.”

The free throw is something different. In basketball, it is the closest thing to stepping up to the plate in baseball — the most prone to humiliation of all the major sports. Not only are you expected to make it and should make it, but it can often be crucial. Many games come down to a missed basket at the line.

If you can’t already tell, I’m a pretty insecure person, so you can imagine what that kind of pressure would do to someone like me. But here, in this relatively empty stadium, I feel a little bit more at ease. I step up, shoot, drain it.

I quickly retrieve the ball and take another one, this time a little bit of an off-balance fade away. It goes in. I take another one inside the arc. Boom! I can’t miss.

I am starting to get the attention of that custodian now as I find myself nailing three after three. I could always shoot ok with a little practice, but this is crazy. It’s like getting a turkey in bowling, again and again.

“Do you play son?” the custodian asks me.

“No, not really. I mean when I was a little kid, but nothing like this.”

“Try going further out.”

I comply, head nearly to half court. I throw the ball with one hand, basically at the basket. You guessed it, goes right in. The custodian and I are celebrating now. And some of the other staff have started to gather around to watch.

I attempt the infamous mid-court shot — a freebie for real players — but one that frequently breaks the heart of us civilians competing for cash during the half time show.

Nothing but net. Again and again. It is the most incredible run of my life and with each basket I want more. It was an addiction.

By now a small crowd has formed — I should have been escorted out long ago — but I have earned free reign because of the sweaty show I am putting on.

“How many is he up to now?” I heard someone ask.

“108!”

“No, I think it’s 110!”

“Jesus.”

I myself have lost count. I am totally in the ‘zone.’ I’ve started going into the stands now, attempting to haul it in. Like those old commercial with Larry Bird and Michael Jordan but this is real. I literally can’t miss.

I see people taking out their phones and filming me and I don’t stop until my arms can’t take anymore.

The next day my girlfriend wakes me up to inform me that I am a viral sensation. They are debating me on ESPN. There are conspiracy theories about trick photography and a tricked out ball. Some teams are being ask about whether me — little ‘5 ‘8 me — deserves a tryout.

One of the cellar dwelling teams —without a prayer of making the playoffs — agrees to give me one, if for no other reason than to boost fan enthusiasm in what is at best a building season.

And I agree because how could I pass up on the life experience and why not ride this thing out because it makes no rational sense.

I go in and they pair me with one of the assistant coaches, whose face tells me he is not just skeptical but contemptuous about what I am trying to do. He thinks this must be a fluke and he tells me as much, but also tells me to smile for the cameras anyway because the team could use the positive press.

But as I keep sinking every basket he encourages me to take, his hostility melts into downright awe. He's Eric Bogosian’s character Arno at the end of Uncut Gems, furious with Sandler but also truly impressed at his gambling acumen.

Some of the players come out and watch. At first, they whisper little digs at my height and weight as they wrap towels around their necks and rest their arms on each others’ shoulders. But after hundreds of made baskets without a single, even near miss — they turn into full blown diehard fans, screaming my name and slapping each other with shoves of joy.

Later, the head coach watches the tape. He can’t understand it — there must be something wrong with the basket. But the assistant, the one who ‘trained’ me insists.

“I was there. And I am telling you. This kid never missed one.”

“Did you put some real bodies on him?”

He had, and the conclusion was that I couldn’t dribble to save my life, which is no huge demerit. No layman could even begin to dream of having the handles of a real life NBA star. But, it was my lone liability. As long as I attempted a shot, it somehow made its way in.

“This is creepy, right? I mean this is disturbing isn’t it?” the head coach asks.

“Oh God yes,” the assistant says.

So, I am signed to a contract. Quit my day job and everything. The press from around the world descends on the public signing, many still incredulous about what I was doing.

No, I wasn’t a magician or an illusionist. Is there a difference. No, this is not a publicity stunt. No, I was not experiencing some kind of fugue state. I bat away all these questions and more albeit because I have no real answers.

My first game is the highest rated in the history of the NBA. People who profess to “hate sports” nevertheless get caught up in the story and tune in. Polls show that most Americans expect that I will miss when put to the test against real players.

But I prevail — to an extent. Other players have little trouble stripping the ball from me if I don’t shoot quickly enough. I am useless at rebounding (the coach tells me to not even try because I’d risk injuring myself grabbling with far larger, more athletic players). And I just don’t have the same kind of stamina these guys do. I have to take significant breaks on the bench, to catch my breath.

Otherwise, my unprecedented streak continues. I become the first player in NBA history to average 100 pct. from the field. Even when they triple team me, as long as I get the ball in the air, it finds its way into the basket.

In the first game, I score 50 — the other players of the team aren’t about to never get theirs, but it is an unprecedented number, especially for a rookie debut and so my place in history is already solidified.

I get more endorsement deals than I can handle and land on the cover of every major website, newspaper and magazine. The networks start to have a countdown clock keeping track of how many shots I take and made in a row, just waiting for the incredible moment when it will all fall apart, but it never does.

The team starts to do remarkably well, despite the rancor of my teammates when fans insist that I take every single shot for our side at every game. Matter of fact, my teammates hate me. They get a lot of bad pub for not passing to me enough, since I am this freak of nature. But who can blame them?

The games are starting to have a familiar flow — I score at will until I tire out. Other teams begin to strategize around me, figuring out if they can wear me out early there’s a chance they can catch up and win. The strategy proves effective.

We still are a winning team, making runs deep into the playoffs, but we come back down to earth even though I don’t miss a shot in four years.

The public interest in me subsides. The thrill of waiting to see if I will miss is gone. It’s a fact of life — like George Clooney being handsome — I will never miss a shot.

The endorsements keep me wealthy, but the fan support is dwindling fast. Turns out people want their favorite players to be mortal and perfection is dull when you see it day after day.

My knees are taking a beating and I have to start sitting out more games. I am as shocked as anyone at the feat I continue to achieve, even if I am beginning to see that it might mean nothing.

Meanwhile, I undergo a battery of tests —assuming there must be some kind of neurological explanation for what’s happening. Nothing. Scientists are baffled. And the religious aren’t much help either. Their early attempts to claim me, quickly turn sour when I refuse to be claimed.

I will be the first to admit my media persona leaves much to be desired. I am neither cocky nor contrite, which leaves viewers resentful, I neither take my gift too seriously or exploit it for fun.

I don’t play with joy — only fear —I can’t avoid taking a hit now and then — and it takes a toll.

Injuries shorten my NBA career far earlier than anticipated — and when I depart the league with little fanfare and no farewell tour.

Many, many years later, I was at a pick-up game in the park with some youngsters playing a game of two on two. I’m even slower now. The hip is in not what it used to be, and neither is my belly.

I amble on to the court.

“Hey boys can I play?”

It’s clear they don’t recognize me.

“Sure, old man I guess so.”

“Don’t break a hip though, ok?”

I smile but the advice is well taken. I’d stopped shooting years ago. It felt like a trick to pull out at parties now. ‘Look grandpa can never miss a basket’.

But seeing these young guys playing an old school pick-up game brings something out in me.

I step back and shoot a three, it goes in.

I take another one, same result. It looks like the spell, whatever it is, hasn’t been broken.

“Nice shot man.”

“Yeah, you’re pretty good.”

“Wait, don’t you see that I never miss?”

I expect a little more props for my performance.

“I guess,” one says, bored.

“I mean, I don’t like to be the kind of person who does this type of thing, but don’t you realize who I am?”

Blank faces. I pull out my phone, show them some highlight reel videos tucked away in the corners on YouTube.

“That’s you huh?” one of the kids offers wanly.

‘Yes, that’s me! What’s wrong with you kids.”

I’ve over-stepped.

“What’s wrong with us? What’s wrong with you old man?” an annoyed youngster says. “We out here trying to have a casual, friendly game, and you just had to insert yourself into it.”

Apoplectic, I grab the ball and continue to rattle off shots, three in a row, then five…

“See, I can’t miss! C’mon you can’t not see that?”

“Dude, can we just get our ball back!?”

I relent, crestfallen. After exchanging a few uncomfortable looks, the kids go back to playing their game and I recede down a quiet city street, quietly whispering my name to myself under my breath.