Though, of course, today is different. He’s alone, just like he’s been most every day for the past year whenever he comes in the shop, coming in for a bagel and a muffin to take with him in the car rather than eat on the spot, gobbling up those good carbs he’ll burn up once he gets to where he’s going. To see the other guys, the team, and take their five or so laps before practice.

In some ways this is his favorite part of the day, standing here, waiting, for his bagel, standing at the counter watching the men in the white smocks as they bring out tray after tray, the hot circles separated, then rattling in the baskets like a ball through a net. It makes him feel part of the business of the morning, the coffee rush of the morning. Though he never drinks coffee, doesn’t want to wear down his body. And doesn’t really need it. Especially on a day like this.

He stands there now, looking at them, thinking how busy they are, how focused, almost like a column of ants. Like soldiers going to battle. Teammates. And he smiles. Then feels sorry for them. This is their lives.

“Jon?”

He turns and sees the face of Mrs. Itzkoff, his mother’s friend from down the block. Mrs. Itzkoff’s son Joey is in the grade below and plays occasionally in the games. Not a bad player, but also not the best. Still, he’s young. And he does his part. Jon smiles at her trying to be nice.

“Hi.”
“So, you boys … I can’t believe you made the playoffs!”
“Yeah. Me either.”
“Well good luck.”

And as she leaves, the man behind the counter passes Jon his order, the whole exchange of hello and bag and purchase like a smooth play, a well-executed handoff.

“Oh, I’m in a zone,” Jon thinks smiling as he heads for the door. “We’re going to go out there and do it. We’re going to play well. Whether we win or not.”

In the car, driving down Deerfield Avenue toward the high school, Jon reaches with his free hand into the bag, digging out a bite of bagel, then a bite of muffin. Then bagel. Then muffin. Liking the mixture of the two tastes.

He’s smiling, thinking about the smile on Mrs. Itzkoff’s face, and the feeling he had as he stood at the counter. It’s a cool feeling, a completely awesome feeling.

Then suddenly he feels almost sick.

What if they screw up?

“No, can’t think that way,” he says aloud to himself. “That’s not going to help. You have to focus. You’ve got to focus on your goal.”

He smiles again remembering how Coach Winiecki said almost those exact same words to him, to him and the rest of the team just the week before when they were going into the game before this. The one that got them to the play offs.

“Focus. It doesn’t make any sense to look at something other than what you want. Why look back when you’re going ahead. It’s completely ridiculous. And you’re not ridiculous, are you? Well? Weeelll?!”

The guys had laughed then, all together, as a team, and Jon remembering it now laughs again, suddenly feeling lighter in his chest. He feels lighter. Just as he had that day in the locker room. Coach knew how to defuse a situation. He knew how to make them relax. Yet focus.

“Focus,” Jon says again to himself, passing a car in front of him, making the light at the last moment.

“Touch down,” he laughs turning into the school parking lot, seeing the guys standing in a circle, seeing them suited up, standing by the bus, waiting for the day to begin. And for him. Their captain...

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