Stillman Wanted a Championship

Written By: TMC

Posted on February 9, 2007

Stillman had spent a lifetime waiting for a championship, and when it finally came, he barely noticed because he was too busy dying. When the first baseman— his first baseman, the one whose jersey he’d worn for years, the one whose trading card was worth hundreds of dollars, the one he’d loved as desperately as he’d ever loved anyone—gloved a slow grounder and trotted to the bag to record the final out, the city erupted as one, a simultaneous civic orgasm.

Stillman didn’t feel the city’s collective shudder because he sat slumped against his bathroom wall, his head dangling limply over the toilet, a thin line of vomit stretching from his lip into the water. Without furniture or a TV—almost everything was either repossessed or broken—his apartment felt cavernous in the silence; the sound of his retching echoed through the rooms. While the team mobbed each other on the field, Stillman cried from the pain—his tongue burning from the bile and his stomach twisted like a rag being squeezed dry. Tears plopped into the toilet and swirled downward when he tried to flush the smell away.

Outside, neighbors banged pans together and howled at the moon. They hugged strangers and gave each other beers. They toasted their heroes and re-affirmed their faith in god. Outside, somewhere, was his son.

Stillman hoped Irving was okay, but had no way of knowing. They hadn’t spoken in 5 years, not since the divorce. He probably had the tumors back then, but, of course, he hadn’t known. No one knew until years later when he passed out at work, fell off the back of the garbage truck and cracked his head on the street. Then it was a blur of CAT scans, blood tests, surgeries, radiation, chemo. All it did was make him feel worse. The tumors in his throat were never the problem; it was knowing about them that was the problem. It had only been a few months since, and he felt like he’d been dead the whole time.

The bathroom smelled as badly as anything he’d ever encountered at work, but he was too tired to stand. Maybe he would take a quick nap on the floor and regain the strength. Phones rang through the building, but most went unanswered; everyone was in the streets. Fireworks screamed upward and burst so loudly that it felt like they were exploding inside his head. Neighbors cheered the explosions, and cranked their radios to hear the award ceremony. The players, just miles down the road, would be leaping on each other’s backs, dousing themselves in champagne, dancing under the stars like they’d just conquered an enemy nation.

Fans would be begging to touch them, frantically snapping photos so that they could preserve the night. Most of them, Stillman knew, weren’t real fans, hadn’t been through the years of struggling, the painful losses, the fluke home runs and regrettable errors. They were there for the reward, but never put the effort in. Guys like Stillman, like Stillman’s father, they had put in all the legwork, all the cheering, all the money into this, and now they didn’t even get to enjoy it. He hoped his son would celebrate for him. He’d earned it. He’d been there.

Prior to the divorce, Stillman had taken Irving to at least ten games every year, even a few playoff games (all losses). It had cost him far more than he could afford, but it would have been worth it to be there with Irving when they got that final out, to show him that it’s not all bad, that it all pays off in the end. But when Stillman was caught screwing with the waitress from the bar around the corner, Irving severed the relationship. No more games, no more talk. Not even a friendly birthday card. Two years later, Irving graduated from college, but didn’t say a word to Stillman after the ceremony. They probably wouldn’t see each other again.

Irving pulled himself up onto his feet, his arms shaking as they gripped the towel rack on the wall. He shuffled toward the bedroom. If this had happened a year ago, he would have crawled out of his apartment and down the stairs to be outside for the celebration. But today, he couldn’t care. Down the street, the players danced and drank, and next year half of them would be gone. Five years later, they’d all be gone. None of them knew him or his past. None of them would pay his hospital bills. And they wouldn’t miss him when he died.

His mattress lay on the floor with no box spring. As he folded himself into bed, he thought he heard gunshots, and he hoped Irving wouldn’t be caught in any riots. He closed his eyes and prayed that his son would be safe. It hurt to breathe, like a stack of sandbags had been laid on his chest. His hands were icy and his feet were swollen, his mouth agape as he wished the pain away.

Stillman awoke to the ringing of the phone next to his mattress. Outside, the celebration still raged. Who knew how long the ringing had been going on—it could have been hours before he noticed in all this noise. He turned on his side and reached for the phone.

“Hello?” His voice was rough, his throat torn by sickness.

“We won!” Irving. He was somewhere crowded. Sirens swirled in the background.

“Are you safe?”

“Dad, I’m fine,” he said. “Where are you?”

“Home.”

“Dad, we finally did it. We did it, we did it. We’re champions!”

“I know,” Stillman said.

“Then why the hell aren’t you celebrating?”

“I’m dying.”

“I know.” Irving cleared his throat and then swallowed something loudly. “Mom told me.”

“Oh.” Stillman felt like he’d just swallowed an apple.

“Hey, at least we got the Series, right? Like you always wanted.” He was shouting, like stupid people do when talking to a deaf person. Stillman nodded, but couldn’t force any words out. “Well, I guess I should go. Kinda loud here. I’ll call tomorrow sometime, talk about the game,” Irving said.

“Take care of yourself,” Stillman said, dropping the phone. All this time he’d been waiting, and it had been for the wrong thing. He closed his eyes, and for the first time in months, he looked forward to opening them again in the morning.

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