Page 7

Chapter 6

Lia

I pinch myself to make sure I’m indeed awake. The pain is a welcome reminder I’m standing in the broadcast booth as the Jersey Jags are about to tip off.

“I know this is kind of bonkers, getting a rundown of the functions and places in the arena on your first night, especially during a game,” Megan chuckles, smiling in a way that I know she means it.

I’m familiar with this set up because I’m basically standing on the edge of a dream. I went to college for journalism and broadcasting, trying to find a way to get my hands on any and every opportunity to cover sports. This booth is the endgame, and I know this media team job is the first step in that direction.

“I know you’ve got some experience with this, so no need to tell you much more than this is where it is. You’re welcome to hang in the back during games you’re not working, as long as it’s not too crowded.”

I do my best to hide my Pennywise-like grin, brimming with excitement that starts at my core and reaches my bones. The idea of being able to attend these games for free? I’ve died and went to heaven. Being allowed in the booth? I’m going to pass out.

When Megan looks to me, she says, “Actually, there isn’t anything that’s off limits. Besides the training room when there’s a new injury, and the locker room before we get the ‘all clear.’ ”

Maybe the terrible date with Randall moved my karma in the right direction. Honestly, it’s the least he, or the universe, could do after that disaster.

Megan moves to the window, taking in the entire court and arena. Something happens and the feel of the crowd cheering starts at my feet, the ground almost rumbling, and travels up my body.

We look at the Jumbotron and see Brooks. My stomach bottoms out and I do what I can to not let the look he’s wearing push me back on my heels. Well, technically my sneakers. I’m wearing a pair of newly thrifted black wide-leg pants paired with a lilac chiffon button-up. I wouldn’t say it’s Jaguar colors, but this is what you get when you have short notice and no budget to find business casual attire. I’m wearing my trusty black and white Nike Dunks, the pair I found at a consignment store a few months ago.

The Jumbotron cuts from Brooks to one of the suites and back again.

“Oh, I forgot Zack Andersen was coming tonight. We’ll have to pop in and get some photos of them tonight.” Megan looks at me, like she needs me to remember, and I nod.

Zack Andersen—long snapper for the Upstate Cosmos—is Brooks’ half-brother. The story broke probably six months ago. Part of me almost asked about it when we were on our date, but it felt too personal.

“The plan is for you to watch the first half of the game tonight—consider it part of your signing bonus—then I’ll come get you for the second half and post-game coverage,” Megan explains while turning and leading us out of the booth. “I’ll show you to the staff hospitality suite and let you get settled.”

I don’t say anything because I sort of can’t believe this is happening.

“You good?” she asks.

“Ugh, erm.. yes! Totally good. Just taking it in. ”

A smile spreads on Megan’s bold and red lips, the kind that feels genuine, and she stops for a moment. “I knew you were a fan, but I love that you’re a fan . I have a feeling we’re going to have a blast working together.”

She shows me to the suite and tells me to take whatever seat I’d like. There’s food, drinks, and a spectacular view of the arena.

I sink into one of the deep leather theater seats and try to relax my body. I didn’t know what to expect from a game day orientation, but this quite literally feels like a dream come true. Cracking open a Dr. Pepper, my go-to beverage, I lean back and let the bubbles hit my tongue.

I’m thankful no one is around to watch when I kick my feet like a toddler as they announce the starting line ups.

The energy is electric, enough to almost be recharging me. I can’t remember a time when I felt more awake or excited to be at work. I follow Megan around as she introduces me to some of the entertainment staff who I’ll work with from time to time, and everyone seems kind and respectful. She has this air of confidence that follows her throughout the arena, no matter who she’s talking to. Staff, and team members, address her by name. It’s obvious they respect her and it’s a breath of fresh air.

Five years ago, most professional sports teams were ahead of the curve if they had thirty percent of women on their staff. The trend is heading in the right direction but there’s still a ton of work to do. It’s not just about being let in the room, but looking to women for contributions, making impactful decisions, and leading key projects .

It’s wild that I’ve watched the first woman call an NBA Finals game in my lifetime. Doris Burke, also the first female analyst to work in the booth, is out here blazing a trail—one I’m hoping has enough room for me.

I walk behind Megan as we head to the court, pushing down the wave of emotion about to make me cry. One, it’s still not hitting me that I’m getting paid to step on a place I damn-near view as sacred. Two, watching Megan walk in like she’s meant to be here, she’s earned her place in this organization, has me wanting to fist pump.

We’re standing in the corner but are on the floor—a place I’ve dreamt of getting tickets for, but this is as close as I’ve ever come. It’s the fourth quarter and there’s only a minute left. The Jags are down by one and there’s not a single fan who is sitting in their seat.

“Jalen, pick up the pace!” Megan screams through her hands as the point guard dribbles the ball up the floor.

She looks at me, only for a second, and offers a smirk—one that says “you’re not the only fan here.” Jalen passes the ball and it’s like watching a choreographed dance where each person is hitting their marks. Each player on the court touches the ball as they try to set the best play.

Brooks gets the ball near the free throw line and jukes his defender, throwing him off and providing enough space to take it right to the basket. He could’ve shot a layup but instead he dunks it, and it’s like the arena has grown legs and is about to launch us into space.

I clap like I would if I were watching the game at home, leaving out the list of expletives I’d use—I’m not sure of the vibe quite yet.

Jags lead by one and the team has the ball, bringing it up the court toward us. This is one of the best teams in the NBA and if the Jags can pull off this win, it’d be a great sign for the season.

The Knights try to get the ball in the paint, but the Jags keep double teaming, and the center can’t get a shot off. There’s about ten seconds left in the game and the shot clock is about to expire. The center heaves a desperation pass to a guard in the corner, ready to shoot a three, but Brooks steps out of his defensive position and is in the perfect place to steal the ball.

When the ball hits Brooks in the hands, it somehow gets louder than the previous play. There’s only eight seconds left—a two-point basket basically seals the game or gives the opposing team a chance to send it to overtime, while a Jags three pointer would mean a win.

Instead of going into the paint and hitting the easy layup, which is enough insurance to add a win to the record, he stops at the three-point line and shoots. The arena holds a collective breath, fans from both sides, and I swear I can hear the ball swish through the net.

Jags are now up by four. All they have to do is play the ‘don’t foul’ game and Brooks’ comeback will end in a win.

Jalen runs over and hits Brooks in the chest as the rest of the Jags players crowd around them. The coaching staff and bench are pure chaos in the best way, like the game is over even though there are technically four seconds left. The referees get everyone back in position, eager to get the rest of the game played and end the celebration early.

The Knights are out of timeouts when they try to inbound the ball, and they’re unsuccessful as Jalen steals it and dribbles out the end of the game. Everyone’s watching him, but the person I’m watching is Brooks.

He’s near the corner of the court, where they’ll run into the tunnel in a few minutes. His hands are resting on top of his head and he takes shallow breaths—I can see his chest moving from here. When he rests his hands on his knees, he wipes his face. Drops of sweat or tears? No one will know.

I swallow past the lump in my throat and look up, stopping my own tears.

Brooks Pittman really is something.