and he spends the next hour or two—he’s not sure how long really; he no longer wears a watch—scrounging for loose change in the pockets of an old winter coat, digging beneath the ragged cushions of a sofa, reaching behind the silent refrigerator (it no longer hums; the electricity was shut off weeks ago), looking under a throw rug, behind the toilet, inside the broom closet, his fingers creeping spider-like into every dark recess and mite-infested alcove, and, though he pities himself for doing something so obviously futile, beneath the piss-and-sweat-stained mattress where, instead of money, he unearths an assortment of dirty magazines, hardened tissues, a sports page with a photograph of his players lined up in front of the Jesuit high school like an invincible Roman legion in battle formation. The team has been described as “an unstoppable juggernaut, a ravening beast,” and at the center of this hundred-headed hydra stands the proud coach, grim-faced, steely-eyed, Herculean. The fading letters at the top of the newspaper read more like a benediction than a byline:
May the Good Lord—and this Coaching Genius—Lead These Boys to Victory
.
Kaliher sighs. It’s no use. There isn’t a single dollar to be found anywhere. With mounting frustration, he crumples the newspaper into a ball and flings it across the apartment. He goes to the bedroom window, both hands buried deep in his empty pockets, and presses his forehead against the cold panes of glass. At this time of year premature darkness bears down on the city like a firm hand closing the lid on a musty Bible box, but in the distance, through the soughing trees, he can make out the hulking structure of the Jesuit school. A yellow blaze of artificial light transforms the building into a scumbled painting of Pandemonium, the bricks glinting with quartz, the spires illumined by lightning storms and lava flows. A dark blur of golden-eyed grackles rockets across the sky. They circle the crenellated parapet of the gothic tower and roost on its narrow ledges. By closely observing the birds, Kaliher hopes to detect some kind of favorable augury. In fact, he looks for signs everywhere, just to be sure—in the appearance of a black cat, in the passage of a comet, in the arrangement of Tarot cards and tea leaves and coffee grounds, anything that might hint at the outcome of tomorrow’s game.
Some say he is superstitious, but strictly speaking he doesn’t believe in luck; he believes in a sure thing and, up until a few months ago, he always had an uncanny ability for making correct predictions. Lately, however, his instincts have failed him. He can no longer see the future as he once could. Fate shrouds the world in mystery and refuses to give up her secrets. Even now a sharp tingle like static electricity shoots up his spine: an ominous premonition, but one that comes much too late.
Suddenly there is a loud knock at the door, three solid raps with a pause between each one, a very serious-sounding knock, a knock that says he is in deep shit, the deepest in a long time, and here he is, caught without a pair of boots to wade through it. Using the tough-guy voice he has perfected from a decade of coaching belligerent prep school boys, he shouts, “Go away!” because no one ever knocks at his door except for the obvious reason: money. His ex-wife and her attorneys, his bookie, even old friends and neighbors,they all line up at his door, looking to hit him up and suck him dry, but he knows perfectly well who is out there—it can only be one person—and although his instincts tell him to flee, to scramble down the fire escape, he understands that sooner or later he must face the fire-breathing dragon, not out of choice exactly—what kind of hero yearns for his own gruesome immolation?—but because escape is no longer an option. The entrance to the cave is blocked, the bridge burned to cinders.
Kaliher looks at his ghostly reflection in the window, tests out a smile,
May the Good Lord—and this Coaching Genius—Lead These Boys to Victory
.
Kaliher sighs. It’s no use. There isn’t a single dollar to be found anywhere. With mounting frustration, he crumples the newspaper into a ball and flings it across the apartment. He goes to the bedroom window, both hands buried deep in his empty pockets, and presses his forehead against the cold panes of glass. At this time of year premature darkness bears down on the city like a firm hand closing the lid on a musty Bible box, but in the distance, through the soughing trees, he can make out the hulking structure of the Jesuit school. A yellow blaze of artificial light transforms the building into a scumbled painting of Pandemonium, the bricks glinting with quartz, the spires illumined by lightning storms and lava flows. A dark blur of golden-eyed grackles rockets across the sky. They circle the crenellated parapet of the gothic tower and roost on its narrow ledges. By closely observing the birds, Kaliher hopes to detect some kind of favorable augury. In fact, he looks for signs everywhere, just to be sure—in the appearance of a black cat, in the passage of a comet, in the arrangement of Tarot cards and tea leaves and coffee grounds, anything that might hint at the outcome of tomorrow’s game.
Some say he is superstitious, but strictly speaking he doesn’t believe in luck; he believes in a sure thing and, up until a few months ago, he always had an uncanny ability for making correct predictions. Lately, however, his instincts have failed him. He can no longer see the future as he once could. Fate shrouds the world in mystery and refuses to give up her secrets. Even now a sharp tingle like static electricity shoots up his spine: an ominous premonition, but one that comes much too late.
Suddenly there is a loud knock at the door, three solid raps with a pause between each one, a very serious-sounding knock, a knock that says he is in deep shit, the deepest in a long time, and here he is, caught without a pair of boots to wade through it. Using the tough-guy voice he has perfected from a decade of coaching belligerent prep school boys, he shouts, “Go away!” because no one ever knocks at his door except for the obvious reason: money. His ex-wife and her attorneys, his bookie, even old friends and neighbors,they all line up at his door, looking to hit him up and suck him dry, but he knows perfectly well who is out there—it can only be one person—and although his instincts tell him to flee, to scramble down the fire escape, he understands that sooner or later he must face the fire-breathing dragon, not out of choice exactly—what kind of hero yearns for his own gruesome immolation?—but because escape is no longer an option. The entrance to the cave is blocked, the bridge burned to cinders.
Kaliher looks at his ghostly reflection in the window, tests out a smile,
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