Page 14 of The Session

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mark asked. “I wasn’t meant for this?”

“No, no, that’s not what I’m saying,” she said. “It’s just that there’s a difference between ambition and wanting things.”

“Are you saying I just want things and I’m not ambitious?” Mark asked, his cheeks heating.

“No. I’m saying being a hard worker is not enough,” Holly replied. “You have to be strategic. It’s not just what you do; it’s where you do it, who for, and how. It’s great that Coach Stevenson was willing to write an email for you, but you know that’s one guy—a retired coach.”

“I’m sorry my parents didn’t run in the same circles as yours do, and I couldn’t get recommendation letters from the CEO of Microsoft or the governor of Georgia. We all work with what we got.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Holly insisted as she took the interstate exit. “You’re a good guy. You’re a really good guy. You treat people the way they want to be treated. And I don’t think I’ve ever caught you saying so much as a half-truth, let alone a lie. But there are a lot of different rooms in the world, and sometimes you’ve got to push your way into them.”

“Easier said than done, especially from somebody who was born with an invite to all of them.”

“Hey, that’s not fair. Yes, I’ve been very lucky, but I’ve worked hard, and I put myself out there.”

“I’m sorry,” Mark said. He hated it when he pulled the I’m just a poor kid pulling myself up by my bootstraps routine. Holly’s words hurt because there was a boulder-size grain of truth in them. He could be assertive on the field, but once he stepped off the turf, he had a hard time pushing for the things he wanted. He could see this in his fundraising for the athletic foundation; he had talked people past the sale more times than he could remember when it came to donating. Getting them on the hook and wanting to commit wasn’t the problem. It was that once he realized the gas station owner or pizza parlor manager might be better off putting the money into their own business, Mark felt guilty and made a less convincing pitch than he could have.

Holly had offered to introduce him to some of her parents’ friends who could have funded the foundation with the cost of wine service for one dinner out, but his pride wouldn’t let him.

While their strong opinions sometimes led to arguments, they tried not to let them linger.

“It’s okay, baby,” she said, reaching over to pat his arm. “You turned an $80 discount airline ticket into $10,000—that’s something! I’m proud of you, although I’m beginning to wonder if these Summit Strategies people might be a front for the CIA,” she joked.

“How’s he been?” Mark asked the nurse leading him down the hallway at Tall Oaks Assisted Living Facility toward Coach Stevenson’s room.

“More bad days than good days this week, unfortunately. But this morning he seemed pretty chipper. I think it’s because he knows you’re coming, and it’s game day.” She knocked on the door, and a booming voice came from inside.

“Is that Marky boy?”

“Thank you,” Mark said as she opened the door for him. Tall Oaks was at the upper end of assisted living facilities. Coach Stevenson had a small living room where he could meet guests, a bedroom, and a bathroom. It looked like a nice condo with a view of the lake and the trees beyond the grounds.

Coach clasped Mark’s hand in his thick, leathery grip and practically yanked him over to the recliners, where the two watched games on the big-screen TV.

“Can you get that piece of crap working for me?” he asked, pointing to an iPad sitting on the table between the two chairs. He had already set out two beers and a bowl of Doritos Cool Ranch chips—Coach’s game-day ritual and the only vices his doctors allowed.

“Sure, I’ll take a look,” Mark said as he picked up the iPad. “Do you remember your code?”

“I’ve got it written down somewhere,” Coach said, leaning over to riffle through a magazine rack on the other side of the recliner.

“Don’t worry, I got it,” Mark said, typing it in. “If you want, I’ll put it on a Post-it note for you.” He unlocked the iPad and handed it back to Coach.

“Thanks,” the older man said. “I want to see what those idiots at Barstool are saying now.”

“What are we watching this week?” Mark asked as he picked up the controller.

“49ers versus Seahawks. Gotta find out what those two nitwit coaches are up to.”

Mark hesitated. “That was last week. The 49ers won, twenty-four to twelve.”

“Oh, right, right, right. I forgot,” Coach said. “I don’t know. You pick whatever’s on.”

Mark flipped through the schedule. “How about the Dolphins versus the Patriots?”

“Fine, fine,” Coach Stevenson said. “Although that Marino would rather take a knee than pass the ball.”

Mark’s heart sank. The coach usually had one or two lapses of memory, but now he was recalling a quarterback who hadn’t been relevant since the last century.

Mark didn’t say anything. In his experience, it was better to let the game play and hope it jogged the coach’s memory. The saddest part was when Coach brought up upcoming appearances on sports shows that were never going to materialize. He had been a frequent commenter on ESPN, but as his health and memory declined, those opportunities went away. Mark knew some small sports podcasters that he’d been able to get to interview Coach, which always made him happy.