If you want to make God laugh, make plans.
I had been single for most of my adult life. The 42 candles on my most recent yellow cake with chocolate icing, baked by my flour-thumbed brother, were enough evidence for me. His decorated decadence was his annual ritual on my behalf. Even so, I blamed my fickle and shallow self for my relationship status.
I didn’t know who or what the perfect person was, but connecting with a woman long-term never worked out.
My last real relationship, which people would bear witness to, was three years ago to an earthy, artsy, sleep-butt-naked, walk-barefooted, eclectic, finger-painting Alabama belle named Sarina. She was 26 and sold art in a rented corner of a larger space on South Street in Philadelphia, which featured Nigerian carvings, rain sticks, and furniture.
She loved her Kush and her finger paintings. She painted, photographed, and displayed pictures of her nudity at a Temple University exhibit. I loved her free spirit, but my brother advised me that our family members would never accept Sarina.
My traveling sportswriter occupation contributed to my singlehood, as I was never in one place long enough to establish a meaningful rapport with anyone. I took assignments from various media outlets, and I became a hustler to craft the job. Relationships took a back-of-the-bus perspective.
I flew to California to cover the Sixers’ West Coast stint against the Clippers, Lakers, Kings, and Warriors. This was my first trip to California since Kobe’s death. Traveling to Cali was the highlight of my job, but this would be a weird trip not seeing Kobe and Gianna courtside. The wound was still fresh, and my emotions were on an endless rollercoaster ride. It was still too new, but I had a job to do. The weather was also a great deterrent.
I had a few friends in LA, not to mention a specific ballerina named Tracy who enjoyed my occupational visits because they routinely led to sexual trysts, twists, and turns, which would leave me in a euphoric state of elation. I would ask myself, Is she the one?” We both had busy schedules, and her love for California, combined with a contract with the Los Angeles Ballet, would keep her stationary. I was not a fan of the LA scene, and many of our conversations were superficial; most of her themes were based on her role with the LAB.
Philly played the Clippers, and Shake Milton lost his mind with 39 points. Though the Sixers lost the game, I received four additional writing assignments due to Shake’s performance. It was a great story to cover, and Shake embraced the newfound attention. Ben Simmons’ injury and Joel Embiid’s absence allowed Milton to perform, and fans were intrigued.
I had a day to myself before Philly faced LeBron and the Lakers, so I reached out to Tracy. I hoped she would be available for lunch, centering on something. Her excitement to see me left me thinking, “Could she be the one?”
We visited the California African American Museum in Exposition Park, and the featured artist, Sula Bermudez-Silverman, was a fan of Tracy’s performances. They took pride in their Afro-Puerto Rican heritage. The exhibit showcased molds of Sula’s childhood dollhouse, created in casts of sugar that was historically traded and used as a commodity by her ancestors.
It was challenging to digest lunch at the Greenleaf Chop Shop in USC village. The additional information about Tracy’s love for her heritage, history, and discussions about colorism, acceptance, and placement within the African diaspora amazed me. I abandoned any thoughts I had of her being trivial.
I devoured my roasted spaghetti squash and turkey meatballs. Tracy had a salad with a unique combination of green and black olives, artichokes, and we laughed over our obsession with hummus. I surmised we needed more time together and thought, “Is she the one?”
I could force myself to get accustomed to LA and its peculiar, yet bogus, behaviors. I could cover West Coast sports for media outlets and get to know the Puerto Rican ballet dancer. My cell phone alerted me to sports and major news, in case I had to stop, drop, and write. Most of the alerts centered around the Coronavirus’s impact in China, Italy, and the Middle East. Tracy was concerned that a future trip to dance in France would be postponed.
Though Anthony Davis dropped 37 points and the Lakers beat Philly 120-107, the sports world wanted Lebron’s take on COVID-19. I was able to wedge myself between two reporters as LeBron said he’d follow the NBA’s protocol, procedures, and decisions, but hoped for the best for anyone impacted. I took the liberty of interviewing Rajon Rondo about his quest to win a second championship. I asked him about COVID, but he waved it off.
I saw Tracy the night before I headed to Sacramento. We had dinner at Shaquille’s at LA Live, located across the street from Staples Center. It was late, but Tracy ordered Roasted Beets and Deviled Eggs. We joked about her ballerina’s diet, and she noted it was seasonal. I took a bold approach and confessed how I had thought about her, and she asked what had taken me so long.
I was astonished by the mutual sentiments. We spent a pleasurable night in my hotel room and ordered room service for breakfast before my flight. As I boarded the plane, I thought, “She could be the one.”
Philly handled the Kings 125-108 behind Tobias Harris’ 28 points, and Shake Milton was at it again with 20. A Dallas reporter asked to send him some copy on Shake for an article he was working on. Milton went to college in Dallas, and the Mavs drafted him, but then traded him to Philly. My colleague wanted to poke fun at the trade decision now that Milton was producing.
I landed in Oakland to cover the last game of Philly’s West Coast trip. I was looking forward to flying back to LA to spend more time with Tracy. It was reported that twenty-one people tested positive for COVID-19 on a Carnival cruise liner, and the ship was being held at sea instead of docking in San Francisco.
I drove to the other side of the bay and checked in at the Hyatt Regency Embarcadero. The lobby was buzzing with news, and patrons watched CNN as the virus made its way to America, with growing cases.
I was preoccupied with world events and couldn’t write a decent story, although the game was exciting until the final buzzer. Tobias Harris tallied 24 points for the Sixers, and Damion Lee was the team leader for Golden State’s team minus Steph Curry and Klay Thompson.
My editor called me to tell me to head home. I shared my plans of heading to LA, and he said, “No can do. This virus is getting serious, man.”
I changed my LA-bound flight back to Philadelphia and called Tracy to inform her of the news. She said she understood, and we’d make future arrangements. I told her I’d be back to cover one of the LA teams if they made the Finals. She had her heart set on the Lakers. I told her it would be the Clippers, and we set up a friendly wager where the loser had to give the winner a massage. No matter who won, I was going to enjoy that. I was welcoming this new connection with the ballerina.
The World Health Organization declared COVID-19 a Pandemic, and the 45th President declared the novel coronavirus a national emergency. By March 13th, travel bans had been issued, while supplies of toilet paper and paper towels had vanished.
It felt like ages since Tracy and I had seen each other, even though we had texted a lot between our time zones. She said we were living in the last days and had reservations about our relationship. That threw me a bit, and I wondered if I had stepped to her too fast for her. I told her she was overthinking all of this, but I was down to take things slow if she desired that.
She told me she couldn’t go into the details of her decision, but instructed me to read Revelations 6 and write about it. I told her I covered sports, and my editor would have an issue with me combining Bible verses with a sports article. She urged me to find a way to do it for her and the rest of my readers. I told her I’d think about it.
Tracy hadn’t responded to most of my texts for several weeks, and I wondered if our thing was just a thing. Was she ghosting me, seeing someone else, or doing something with the ballet company?
April 16th
Tracy died from COVID-19.
She was the one.
By
Kevin M. Scott
© Copyright 2021
By Kevin M. Scott or Sonoma Healing Press
All rights reserved.
It is not legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic or printed format without express permission.
Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited.
Dedication
Mom, Dad, Pablo
Allen and Joseph
Virginia and Gladys
Mrs. Carson, Mrs. Cooper
Jack Bossard and Dr. Paul Woods
Sierra, Dara, Kristopher, Kaleb, Kole & Kristy
