When Eagles Die

Joe looked out the window. He didn’t like his brother’s attitude. He would never be a good team player. Tony’s attitude reminded him of a player: Paul . . . something. Randolph—Paul Randolph. The guy was nothing but trouble. Joe had to cut him, even though he had excellent natural talent.

“You can’t complain just because there was war,” Joe heard himself mutter. He wondered what ever happened to Paul Randolph. He heard the guy ended up playing point guard somewhere in Florida, but he wasn’t sure. It’s better not to have someone like Paul Randolph on your team, he thought. Staring out the window, Joe tried to remember how many games they won the year Paul Randolph was on the team. Absently, he added, “He wasn’t in Siberia.”

Tony shook his head, now upset. “Okay, fine—he wasn’t in Siberia. The Russians came to his house with balloons and said, ‘Andrzej Bartkowski, you are our grand prize winner and here is your first class plane ticket to Rome.’ So he went on vacation to Italy and that’s how he met Mom—okay?”

Joe returned his gaze to the window and tried to remember the name of the ballplayer who ended up playing point guard in Florida; it was Paul, Paul—something. Joe suddenly found it difficult to breathe. He was unable to think. All he knew was that the restaurant was dangerous—it was a dangerous place to be and he had to get out fast. He pushed his chair back and quickly rose. He strode to the entrance, swung the heavy glass door open, and left the restaurant. Still short of breath, he walked down the street, unsure of where he was going. His legs started to burn. He stopped and leaned against a doorway. People stared at him as they passed. He put his hands on his knees, and the breathing seemed a little easier.

Tony ran up. “You okay, Joe?”

Joe held his head down and nodded.

“I didn’t mean to piss you off,” said Tony.

“I’m okay,” Joe said.

“What happened? Why did you run out like that?”

“I don’t know,” Joe said, still breathing hard.

Tony stared at him. “You want to go to the hospital?”

“No, I’m okay,” Joe repeated.

“Why don’t you come to my house and rest? I gotta go back to work soon, but I can take you home.”

“No, I’ll go back to my hotel.”

“You sure you don’t want to go back in and eat?’

That was the last thing Joe wanted. “No, I’ll just go to my room.”

Tony looked toward the restaurant and then back at Joe. “Let me go pay. I’ll be right back.”

The burning in Joe’s legs nearly overwhelmed him as the muscles contracted tight. Both the front and the back muscle groups were taut as drums. Joe raised his head and tried to relax. Pills, he realized. I have the pills. He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew them. He popped one in his mouth and tried to remember where he was. His eyes searched for a street sign, saw Boylston Street. He looked down the street and saw a tower. The Prudential Center, his mind told him. Boston,

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