And just like that, the game was over

/ Jeff Cann

Mostly, we drank beer together. We sat in my dorm room planted on threadbare Goodwill furniture, feet propped on a scuffed coffee table, Marley playing not-so-soft in the background. My roommate Rob, intense, aggressive, always ready to challenge an opinion, pick at a foible, or poke your proper buttons, brought up the idea. “We should play racquetball.” He was muscular in a wiry, sinewy way, quick on his feet, endless energy. When we played, he anticipated the shots and always met the ball, even in the corners. Racquetball was his game.

Joe and Matt lived next door. Much like he lived his alcohol-sodden, injury-prone life, Joe played recklessly. He chased down balls, made flicking shots an instant before crashing into the wall. He dove when taking two steps would get him to the ball just as fast. He hovered just behind my outstretched racket hand. I thought I might rake his face with every swing. I swear I crashed into that guy four or five times every game. He missed the most shots, but made the best shots. After our games, he propped his bloody, bruised knees over an armchair and drank more than anyone else.

Off the court, we all loved Matt. He kept us howling with his quick, wry wit, his double-entendres, and his ability to make up convincing, funny lies on the fly. He quoted outlandish stats and facts so easily that he made his points with hyperbole rather than reason. On the court, he was a prick. Never satisfied with his play, he cussed, he pouted, and in anger he smacked every ball one extra time after every point. Everyone cringed. I quickly learned to turn away, eyes closed. If I got needlessly hit, I didn’t want it in the face.

Walking back to the dorm one night, Rob mumbled “If he ever hits me during one of his temper tantrums, I’m going to beat him silly.” Rob and I talked about replacing Matt. His relentless outbursts always soured the mood.

On our last night of racquetball, Matt and I paired up, destined to lose. Rob and Joe out-hustled and out-played us. We quicky fell behind in every game. Matt raged and cursed himself after every point, slamming the ball or his racket against the closest wall in frustration. Tension built. I could tell Rob was about to snap. He served the ball to Matt, expertly dropping it in the back corner. Matt hesitated too long and lost any angle on the ball. When he finally swung, he missed the ball altogether.

Apoplectic, Matt screamed and swatted the ball directly into the center of my lower back. It hurt like the time a hornet stung my back the prior summer on a camping trip. Before I could react, before I fully grasped what happened, Rob picked up the bouncing ball, and volleyed it, hard as he could, directly into Matt’s face. The ball hit him in the eye, causing a blood-red shiner that took a month to fade.

The four of us never played racquetball together again, and in truth, for my remaining two years at college, I hung up my racket. We all continued to hang out together, drinking, joking, poking and prodding one another, but that night drew a shade over our group. An unspoken air of hostility hung between the two dorm rooms for the rest of the school year.

I see Matt and Joe on Facebook occasionally, but never in person. Matt has lifelong problems with that eye. Last summer he posted about eye surgery, his second, attempting to correct his vision. I haven’t heard from Rob in decades. I thought about asking Matt about him, they were close before the incident, but I don’t want to open old wounds. I don’t know if they ever rebuilt their friendship after that night.

~ ~ ~

I wrote this story in response to the prompt: And just like that, the game was over.  When I read the prompt, I immediately thought of my college racquetball matches. I used my blog category ‘Almost Fiction’ for this story. Some of it is true, but not all of it. It’s sort of an alternate universe account of events.

I feel compelled to point out that my own vision problems aren’t related to racquetball, but most likely due to a bicycle accident I had in the nineties.

And now I want to ask a question I’ve been thinking about for the past few days: Do you see any value in reading a memoir-ish story like this if it isn’t necessarily true? If this was fact from beginning to end, I would feel comfortable posting it. As a fictionalized account, I wonder if I’m wasting your time. Thoughts?

Image by 12019 from Pixabay

36 thoughts on “And just like that, the game was over”

  1. I really enjoyed this story. I think readers obviously view stories differently than the authors who write them. A reader won’t know if it’s pure fiction, based on actual events, autobiographical or a first-hand account of a true event unless the author adds a disclaimer at the beginning. The reader only experiences the final product; the author sees all the little details between the lines and knows all the motivations and discrepancies. I think all writers have melded fact and fiction to create stories. I suppose a full disclosure might be appropriate in some instances, but readers are going to focus on the content, not the intent. I would like to read more of this sort of writing if you decide to post it. Seriously, this is a good piece of writing.

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    • Thanks Mike. I’ve become so accustomed to writing meticulously accurate memoir that it’s difficult to take liberties. From the comments, I’m learning that people want good writing and story telling and no one really cares about the accuracy (which makes sense as none of us know each other except on our blogs).

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        • I struggle sometimes with the term “creative nonfiction.” I’ve been taking some spectacular history courses, and one of the main things that makes them so splendid is that they tell the story of history (very accurately, I hope 🤓), with the professors pausing sometimes to say what their opinion is, emphasizing that that’s not necessarily part of “history.” These courses make history come alive and, at least to me, show how very relevant it is to our lives today. How true the “those who don’t know history are doomed to repeat it” is. And so much more engrossing and mind-broadening than a list of dates and events.

          Does that count as creative nonfiction?

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        • I think when a writer (or speaker) uses storytelling techniques to convey nonfiction material, it becomes creative nonfiction. For, me the best history books are written that way because I find the topic dry.

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  3. I have recently been reading some of my father’s many essays and memoirs about his youth and war experiences. What is notable is the some stories have been told multiple times, and although the actors and circumstances vary from version to version it’s clearly about the same event, but told from slightly different perspectives up to 80 years after the actual event. For example, I have found four versions of a story where his siblings break into a summer cottage on the beach where they lived, stole a comprehensive postcard collection and then set up a stall in the main street to sell them. Unbeknown to them, the cottage belonged to a member of the local constabulary and it was that very constable who happened to be on street patrol that day and recognised his own collection.

    In one story only his siblings were involved, in another it was only one sibling, the remainder of the culprits being neighbourhood kids, and in yet another it was equally siblings and other kids. The manner of the break in also varied from story to story, as did the actual number of kids involved, and what other mischief they got up to immediately before, during and after the break in.

    One version was obviously written as a humorous anecdote with no other motive in mind, while another emphasised a valuable life lesson. Yet another was to contrast the different parenting styles of each of his parents, and another emphasised the different personalities of two of his four brothers. Each of the versions is true in their own way and best read when the intent of the retelling is understood. I don’t know if my father realised that the story changed with each retelling, but even if he did, it would not matter as each has its own value.

    The above is a long winded way of saying that a good story is worth telling even if it’s not entirely accurate.

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    • That’s a fun story. Thinking about this, does it matter if the story is accurate? I guest to a historian. Everyone else just wants a entertaining story. Interesting that he revisited it so many times. Formative experience no doubt.

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  4. I did a lot of reading about memory twenty odd years ago and discovered how unconsciously maleable it is. My favourite study included repeat interviews of witnesses to an accident. Everyone changed their story over time without realising it and many believed each story that they told was an accurate recounting of the original facts.
    My point? Memory isn’t set in stone. In addition, if some truths are better revealed by a conscious editing of memory, I’m in favour of that. Mind you, I like to know that a memory has been shaped for the purpose of telling a more coherent, interesting or moral story.
    That makes me think of an aphorism:-
    There is no fiction like biography.
    ~
    Good one, Jeff
    DD

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  6. Almost all memoir includes fictionalized elements. That does not diminish its value or quality. Whether or not all of its details are verifiably true, a piece of writing can convey a truth to the reader.

    I love this snapshot of college friends in conflict. As usual, your writing is beautfiul and a pleasure to read.

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  8. I do the same with the books I write, take fact and wrap them up in fiction, but I do call it fiction even though there’s some truth to it. I think if it were mostly true and the only fiction was the names of people mentioned or the places it occurs or even a small part of the plot, I’d call it facts.

    I think you executed it very well. It reads like a memoir entry and it held my attention as a reader. Pretty cool.

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  10. The literary circles I follow are all abuzz over autofiction. It’s wonderfully flexible and paradoxically seems to have the effect of enhancing an essential truth, or making it more interesting. I suppose by such careful editing and embellishment to bring certain elements forward. I am all for it. I love reading what feels real, but reality is also messy, and I enjoy a selective focus that allows me to be immersed on a whole and complete feeling world. Whereas lived reality does not tend to feel that way; so much sensory and informational overload.

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      • You ARE trendy, Jeff! My favorite source of literary circle is all things related to David Naimon’s “Between the Covers” podcasts. They are extensive, expansive, beautiful conversations. I was a latecomer to twitter (which I won’t call by its other name) and followed/ friended only poets/ writers of interest, so I find I pick up on a lot of gems there. And, actually since I miss most of the other noise on that platform, its genuinely pretty nice. I have mostly poets and cats in my feed : )

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