Latrell Sprewell scored his twelfth point of the fourth quarter, a beautiful spin move under the basket, followed by a soft little jumper from maybe five feet away, over the outstretched fingertips of Jalen Rose. The crowd went wild and Sprewell raised a fist, pumped it in excitement, and the Knicks took their biggest lead of the night, eight points.
Normally, there was no place Jack Keller would rather be than at Madison Square Garden during a Knicks play-off game. Especially in his second-row seats, in the corner, right under the home-team basket. He loved the crowd's electricity and the Scoreboard's computerized graphics, the Knicks City Dancers, and most of all the game itself. Tonight, especially, Jack should have been in heaven. His beloved team was hounding and containing Reggie Miller, Sprewell was slashing to the basket as only he could and his outside shot was on, and while the game had been close the whole time, the Knicks led from the very beginning. They had that look to them: the look of winners. But when the final buzzer sounded and the game was over, 103-98 Knicks – now they were on their way to L.A. to meet the Lakers in the finals – Jack was not a part of the ecstasy and hysteria around him. He barely noticed Allan Houston running around the court, the ball held high over his head. He never saw Spree slapping five with the courtsiders and he barely heard his longtime cronies and fellow lunatic fans – season ticket holders, ushers, vendors – congratulating him or felt them pummeling him on the back. All around him, people were hugging and screaming but Jack was still staring at the empty seat beside him, the seat that had never been filled during the course of the game. So as the crowd stood and yelled for the players to come back and share the celebration, Jack rushed out of the arena, raced onto Eighth Avenue, yanked his cell phone out of his pocket, and, huddling against the deafening noise that was even spilling out into the street, dialed.
He was pissed.
Jack did not like irresponsibility. He did not like wasting a Knicks ticket. And he especially did not like being stood up.
He'd called twice during the game. Once after the first quarter, once at the half. Both times he'd heard the same recording; neither time did he leave a message. Now, his third call of the night, the phone picked up and the machine offered the same apology: "Hey, it's Kid. Sorry I'm not available right now but I'll be checking in, so if you leave your name and number I'll call you back as soon as I can. Bye-bye."
This time, Jack spoke: "It's Jack, Kid, and you are in deep shit. You'd better have a damn good excuse for not showing up. Damn good. I'll be home in a little while. Call me whenever you get in." He hesitated and then, out of spite, added, "Great celebration. Thanks." He pressed the "Okay" button, disconnecting the call. Then he shook his head, muttered a fierce "Shit" to himself, and didn't even hear the fan to his right taunt, "Hey, what's the matter? Indiana fan?"
Jack shoved his phone back into his front pants pocket and started walking briskly uptown. He walked about twenty blocks before his legs started feeling tired. By then he was far enough away from the Garden to hail a cab. Ten minutes later he was saying a curt, distracted hello to Ramon, the doorman, another Knicks fan. By then, Jack was too busy being angry and wondering what the hell could possibly have happened to notice that there was someone watching him.
The someone was across the street, standing in the shadow of the small birch tree on the corner. It was someone who had been waiting for him to come home. And was prepared to wait as long as necessary.
Someone who had been waiting a long, long time for what was about to happen.