Marcus Cole sat alone at the back of a small bar called The Rusty Hoop. The place smelled of old wood, fried food, and beer. The lights were dim. The walls were covered with pictures of old winning teams. None of the faces on those walls were his. Once, people had wanted to see his face everywhere. Now they had forgotten him.
He held a glass of beer and stared at it. The cold drops on the glass ran over his fingers. It felt like the drink was the only thing he still held on to.
Three years ago, Marcus was one of the best basketball players in the city. Crowds would shout his name the moment he touched the ball. He moved with ease and could trick defenders without even thinking. Many people called him a natural talent.
That all ended one night. It was the championship final. The game was tied. Only a few seconds were left on the clock. Marcus had the ball. One good pass could have won the game. But his pass was too slow. An opponent stole it and scored before the buzzer. The other team won. The crowd went silent. His teammates walked away without a word.
The next day the newspapers wrote about his mistake. People stopped calling him a hero. His phone stopped ringing. The game that had been his life felt far away.
Now he spent his days in this bar. The only sound he heard was the door opening and closing.
Rick, the bartender, came over with another drink. "On the house," Rick said. He was used to seeing Marcus in the same seat every day.
"Trying to make me fat?" Marcus asked without looking up.
"You already look thin enough," Rick said. "This is to keep you standing."
Before Marcus could answer, the door opened again. An old man walked in. His coat was wet from the rain. He looked around until his eyes stopped on Marcus. The man walked slowly, using a cane.
"You are Marcus Cole," the old man said when he reached the table.
"Still am," Marcus replied.
"You were a great player," the man said. "Now you are wasting it."
Marcus gave a short laugh. "Are you a reporter?"
The man shook his head. "Name's Walt. I coach a local team. We are not big. We are not rich. But the players work hard. We could use someone like you."
"You have the wrong guy," Marcus said.
"I have the right one," Walt said. "He is just lost."
He placed a folded paper on the table. "We train on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Seven in the evening. You can come if you want. If not, I will not ask again."
Marcus looked at the paper but did not touch it. It read: Hawks – Season Schedule.
Walt stood, tipped his cap, and left. He did not look back.
Marcus sat there for a long time. The paper stayed on the table. He told himself he would throw it away. But when he left the bar later that night, he slipped it into his pocket. He told himself it did not mean anything.
But somewhere inside, a small spark lit up. One he thought was gone forever.