She walked into the sports bar, head up, eyes down. No one
would recognize her. It had been two years and minus fifty pounds. George had
been a regular. So had she, but even no one had remembered her name.
“Catherine, with a C,” she’d uttered every Sunday. C was also for Communion,
the reason for today’s visit. C was also for Convent, the safe place she’d left
a few hours ago.
Sister Teresa knew all along she didn’t belong. Ironic the
very stubbornness that made her stay drove her away. After her bags were packed
Sister suggested she return to a place from her past to find communion with
souls she had once dismissed as unworthy. Looking back at those painful years
with George had brought her clarity. She wasn’t a vengeful person. She needed
closure, another C word. Some of her happiest memories were with George, not of
George, but of the energy, exhilaration, and yes, envy, of watching football
with the regulars at Kettles of Fish, just off Sheridan Square.
Catherine lifted her gaze and let her eyes adjust to the
dim, surprisingly smoke-free light. She looked at the TV screen over the bar.
Golf. She turned and looked from screen to screen. No football. She looked back
to the bar and noticed the bartender staring at her. Familiar bubbles erupted
in her stomach. The same brown eyes, dark chocolate with caramel running
through them (back then everything reminded her of food), a straight strong
nose, wisps of licorice black hair hanging over his forehead. She approached
the bar, “White wine, please.”
Pandemonium erupted behind her. “You’re freaking kidding me,”
a familiar voice yelled. “Doesn’t he realize that leaves us a team short in the
league?” His foot kicked at the brass foot rest of a nearby barstool, as he
brushed past her. He slammed his hand down in front of Chaz, she finally
remembered the bartender’s name, looked beyond him into the Fat Tire mirror behind
the bar. He scowled at his reflection and ran his fingers through the heaviness
of his hair. He seemed to be watching his buddies behind him, then scanned the
room and locked eyes with her. “You. What are you doing here?”
“Catherine, with a ‘C,’” she answered instinctively.
“I don’t care what your name is. Are you in for Fantasy
Football?”
Her hand pulled the fabric together around the top button of
her blouse. She’d heard of lingerie football and wondered if that was what he
was talking about.
“Don’t I know you?” he turned full circle and stared her
down.
She thought about George, could feel his hot breath on her
ear as he’d ridiculed Dave’s knowledge of football, felt heat rush to her face,
and felt a tug at the corners of her mouth. “I don’t think so.”
“Well, are you in?
Alastair is holding up our draft, of course I blame George for letting him in,
but a lot of good that’ll do me since George bagged us with some flimsy excuse
as well.”
The wine tasted good, although she realized it could be very
bad since she hadn’t had wine for years. She remembered Sister’s advice to find
peace with her past. “I’m in.”
The rules and rankings they handed her made no sense, but
she chose players with decent rankings and her team wasn’t ranked last. The commissioner,
a smart, well-dressed young man, ranked Dave’s team dead-last. He apparently
shared George’s opinion of Dave.
Catherine returned to Kettles of Fish for the opening
Thursday night game, Denver vs. Super Bowl-champion Baltimore. Peyton Manning
was her team’s quarterback, one of the few players she remembered from before.
Even her mother loved Pey-Pey. She sat outside, facing the window, ordered a
kettle of shrimp and a glass of Pinot Grigio and watched the big screen through
the window. That boy sure could pass the ball. The crowd’s cheers grew louder
with each of the seven touchdown passes he threw and she hoped that was good
news for her team. She sat quietly and finished her second glass of wine,
waiting for the crowd to clear before venturing into the bar to check the
Captain’s League scoreboard posted next to the dartboard. 53 points – she was
in the lead! Most teams still had zeros, some had a few points, but she was
definitely beating Insane Clown Posse. Her face felt hot and beads of
perspiration ebbed down her forehead. She wouldn’t gloat, it was a sin. Sunday
and Monday night were spent in the bar. The guys remembered her name and even high-fived
her. They seemed pleased she’d beat ICP. Winning felt good, exciting,
exhilarating, intoxicating. She couldn’t wait for week two.
The four big screen TVs lit up Kettles of Fish when
Catherine strode in on Thursday night. None of her players were in the game
that night, but her team versed Dave’s Rank This and she knew most of the guys
and the other woman in the league would be there. Cheryl had kicked butt the
week before and had quickly become Catherine’s idol. Catherine found an empty
stool at the bar, waved Chaz over and ordered a glass of Kim Crawford Sauvignon
Blanc. The room filled up fast. Cheryl joined her at the bar and the two ladies
enjoyed the tension-filled smack talk flying through the air. Rank This was up,
but one by one, members of the Captain’s League filtered past Catherine, each
voiced their confidence and expectation that she take the 1-0 Dave down.
Saying the rosary before Mass, Catherine found her prayers
focused on Peyton, Ray, Chris, Andre, Jordy, Antonio, Torrey, Sebastian, and
the Bengals’ defense, even though they didn’t play until Monday night. Sure God
didn’t play favorites, but she could still pray that he keep each man in the
palm of his hand and guide them down the field to success. Keep them safe,
uninjured, focused on the jobs they were paid millions to do.
By the time Catherine arrived at Kettles of Fish, Rank This
had more points than her and was favored to win. She ordered a Bloody Mary and
settled in. Back and forth, back and forth, the points flew. Someone was
smoking in the corner and Chaz turned a blind eye. She moved closer to the
smoke, inhaled the thick poison, let it settle in her lungs, and ordered a
second Bloody. Dave’s team gained 6 points, lost 2, gained 4. “Damn him,” she
heard herself say. Someone set a shot of tequila in front of her and she
instinctively shook salt on her finger, licked it, slammed the shot, and sucked
on the lime. The burn in her throat matched the burn in her head as she watched
Dave strut around the pool table, pretending he wasn’t paying attention to the
game. The stench of his arrogant confidence rose above the smoke, smelled like
a sweaty sock soaked in urine. She walked home and fell into bed on an empty
stomach.
It was up to her defense. She thought about the gun George
kept in the drawer next to his bed. Good thing she didn’t own weapons. She
pictured herself, shotgun in hand, standing before the team in the locker room
before the game, explaining her predicament, pleading, threatening them to earn
enough points to beat Dave. No, that wouldn’t do.
She arrived early that evening, ordered 2 shots with a beer
chaser before the game started. Thirteen points. It all came down to that. The
game started with a generous 10. Catherine was up, down, up, down, tied, up.
The shots were flying. The league was cheering her on, demanding she take Dave
down. Up, down, tied. Tied. Her stomach was in knots, but relieved to tie in
the end. The usually upbeat Commissioner set his hand on her back, “Tough break
kid. You lost tonight, but you don’t have to like it.”
“What? Lost? It was a tie.”
“Bench points. Ties are settled through bench points and
Dave’s bench out-scored yours.”
Catherine didn’t remember anything after that, other than
more dreams involving George’s gun, which she later learned he’d given to Dave.
She woke with Sister Teresa’s soft, strong voice massaging her hangover, “Seek
Communion.” Catherine sat up, said three Hail Mary’s and heading to confession.
Week Three we will be serving Catherine of Sheridan Square,
but Catherine will be sticking to Chardonnay and keeping her religion.
1 ½ oz dark rum
½ oz Tia Maria coffee liquor
1 oz light cream
4 oz cold coffee
Crushed ice
Pour all of the ingredients into an Irish coffee glass
filled with crushed ice. Stir well.
Cheers.
Lindy
No comments:
Post a Comment