Monday, August 14, 2006
New Beginning 72
The Lost Season
He entered the vast sports complex through the players’ entrance.
A security guard glanced up from his magazine. "Working late, Mr. Pollard?"
The man didn't answer. He raised his hand briefly and entered the elevator that led to the executive offices above the corporate boxes. He watched the numbered lights and counted the levels upward as they blinked with agonizing slowness.
Once inside his office, he leaned against the door and realized he hadn't taken a proper breath since he had entered the building. He inhaled deeply and moved toward the filing cabinet against the wall. The drawer handle slipped from his sweating fingers and he tried again. This time the drawer opened. He searched with his fingers behind the hanging file folders and pulled out a handgun. After he slipped it into his trouser pocket, he left his office and made his way to the nearest doorway that provided access to the stands.
He had seen all those disgruntled fans waving signs begging his office to fire the coach. Oh, he had seen them all right, all through the longest losing streak in league history. Only I'll go them one better, he thought, as he reached into his pocket for a swig from his hip flask to steady his nerves.
Fire the coach? No. Fire at the coach, he would. And he would not miss.