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As Ben watches Trent and Billy Crystal go back and forth over the merits of small forward Norman Powell’s defense in the post, he wonders how he got here. Well not here, the Cryto.com Arena, exactly - idiotic name for a stadium if ever there was one- that would have been via Uber. But rather here courtside at the Clippers game eating nachos with Trent Harrison and 2-time Emmy and Mark Twain Prize for American Humor winner, Billy Crystal. From sharing grapes with Patty, to assisting Aneesa in her dance proposal, to now fraternizing with Trent of all people, Ben had to hand it to him. That Billy Crystal was one class act.
Earlier today when Howard Gross had informed his son he would be unable to make tonight’s game- perfectly legitimate excuse for once as a surprise spring snowstorm had shut down Denver International Airport preventing his flight home- Ben had made lemonade from lemons and decided to see it as an opportunity to try out his new resolve to work on his social life for once. Of course, despite a noticeable change in objective from his usual academic goals and a newfound appreciation for moderation, Ben took to the task with same manic energy he approached all his pursuits. He may have mellowed but he was still Ben Gross after all.
As he’d considered possible companions for the game his first thought, one that had surprised him, had been Paxton. They’d shared a moment, if you could call it that, the other night in the hospital after all. He seemed a decent guy and truth be told; Ben was a little mortified to think that there really wasn’t anyone else he could even think to ask.
There’s Devi, his mind had supplied.
But as soon as he’d thought of her, he pushed the idea right back out again. Probably not a great idea to open that wound right now, no matter how much fun he knows they’d have or how cute he imagines she’d look in his Paul George jersey. Let go of what causes you pain, he’d reminded himself blinking away images of bright eyes and shiny hair.
For better or worse, he’d ask Paxton to go to the game with him. But as he stood in the hallway watching the hot pocket congregating by the soda machines, he’d found himself oddly nervous. Suddenly he’d had a whole new appreciation for Devi as he realized how much courage it must have taken for her to approach Paxton out of the blue and ask him to the dance last year and a whole new understanding of how mortifying it must have been when he’d rejected her offer.
But he’d meant what he’d told her in the bathroom that day. Paxton was just a guy, like any other guy. He knew that now, right? A guy who didn’t even know what he wanted or who he was. So, what if he was the social equivalent of Colombia University? Colombia wasn’t the be- all-end-all and neither was Paxton Hall-Yoshida.
Always one well trained in keeping up appearances, Ben had plastered on his most confident and relaxed face and made his way over to where Paxton and his entourage stood. But before he could even try out his well-considered and much rehearsed intro- Hey Paxton man, good to see you. How’s it going? - he’d found himself being body slammed into the vending machines by what was either Trent Harrison or a Royal Poodle going by the mass of curly dark hair that he caught in his peripheral vision before his eyes were slammed shut by the impact of his face against the Coca Cola emblem.
“BG! My man!” Trent had grabbed his arm, heaving Ben upright once more and guided their hands in an elaborate handshake, one that Ben for all his photographic memory and better than average hand eye coordination felt certain he’d never be able replicate.
“Hey Trent. Guys,” Ben had nodded in greeting to the rest of the group.
“Hey man, what’s up?”
Paxton’s greeting was warm enough but still a little tentative. Ben had thought Paxton might have been having the same reservations as he was himself. Were they friends? Could they be friends, with their history and complete lack of shared interests? Ben didn’t know the answers, but he did know they were something more than strangers, rivals, or acquaintances after their evening of shared embarrassments.
“Hey,” Ben had said again, stalling a bit and wishing he’d chosen a moment for this interaction that didn’t include the audience of almost every cool kid in Sherman Oaks. “So, my dad can’t make the Clippers game tonight…”
He’d been about to get to the pertinent bit, when he’d been interrupted by Paxton who’d stepped away from his entourage and guiding Ben away, had asked in a hushed voice, “For real?” He’d looked back at his friends once more to confirm they wouldn’t overheard before continuing, “Even after what happened in the hospital? He’s still pulling that shit?”
Ben had been stunned into silence for half a second at first, his defense of his dad delayed momentarily by the revelation that Paxton of all people seemed generally concerned for him. For the first time the possibility of being actual honest to goodness friends with Paxton hadn’t seem so completely impossible.
“Oh, no. It’s not that. He really couldn’t make it this time, freak weather thing. Global warming, you know? Everyone thinks of it in the abstract, but we’re experiencing the consequences of decades of inaction on climate change in the here and now.” He’s rambling, but now that it had come to the point of inviting Paxton to the game, he’d found himself stalling.
“Dude, totally.” This had come from Trent who had reappeared at Paxton’s side sometime during Ben’s diatribe on the moral cowardice of the world’s leadership on climate. “My mom, like won’t even let me run my grow lights at night anymore.”
“Yeah,” Ben had acknowledged Trent noncommittedly before turning his attention back to Paxton. “So, I was wondering if you’d want to go.”
In actuality, Ben had made this proposal to his sneakers, so it was impossible to tell what Paxton’s initial reaction to his suggestion had been, but as his response came back quickly and naturally, Ben congratulated himself that the notion of Ben inviting Paxton on a social outing was, if not encouraged exactly, at least not completely unwanted.
“Damn, man. I can’t.” Paxton had apologized. And perhaps it was wishful thinking, but Ben had thought his regret has sounded sincere. “It’s my ojisan’s birthday today. We’re doing a whole party thing.”
“Oh,” Ben had replied, hoping he’d kept the disappointment he’d been feeling out of his voice. “That’s cool,” He’d added. “Happy birthday to him.”
Ben was just preparing to leave, counting the encounter as a social success despite failing to procure a companion for the game, when Trent had stalled his retreat by throwing his arm around Ben’s shoulders and proclaiming, “I’ll go with you, bro! I love the Clippers!”
It had been a surprisingly enjoyable evening so far. Trent was, well Trent-esque certainly,- Ben had had to explain to him that ‘Clippers’ was in fact a reference to the tall ships that sailed in the harbors of the Pacific when the team had been based in San Diego, not to barbershops, and that ‘Nuggets’ was a reference to the mining history of the Rockies and not a nod to battered chicken- but Trent for all his ignorance was unexpectedly knowledgeable about basketball.
“It’s like poetic, you know?”
Ben swallows the sarcastic rejoinder, that he did in fact not know, down as memories of Aneesa and Fabiola calling him arrogant and insufferable spring to mind, and instead asks Trent to elaborate.
“So, like, you know LeBron James, right?”
“Yes?” Not being a smart ass is really taking a toll on Ben now, so he ducks down to grab his soda and hopes Trent doesn’t catch his involuntary eyeroll.
“He’s LeBron James, like the greatest of all time. The goat!”
Ben has always had a soft spot for 90s era Michael Jordan, but he keeps this to himself allowing Trent to continue.
“But like look at the Lakers this year, man. They’re garbage!”
“Completely,” Ben agrees enthusiastically. He’s always been a Clips fan for as long as he can remember, but his loyalty was fully cemented when Blake Griffin had hoisted Ben’s chair in the air at his Bar Mitzvah. He’s about to share this story with Trent, he’s trying to be less of a pretentious ass sure, but a little name dropping can’t hurt when you’re trying to make a good impression, right? But Trent continues before he can go into that particular anecdote.
“To win a championship, you need a team. And not just a bunch of studs either. A real team, different players, with different skills, working together. You know what they say: There’s no ‘I’ in champion, you know?”
“There’s no ‘I’ in team,” Ben corrects.
“Ooh, that’s good too,” Trent enthuses. “I’m stealing that.”
Rather than clarify, Ben smiles good naturedly at Trent and considers Trent’s, wise albeit jumbled, words. Ben’s a Lebron James, of course. He’s hard working, smart, good looking enough, but is he winning? It certainly hasn’t felt like it as of late. Maybe in his good-natured, addled way, Trent was onto something. Maybe he couldn’t do this alone. And maybe Trent was right about different players with different skills. So, what if Paxton didn’t share his interests and so what if Trent was, well Trent. It was okay that they were different, preferred in fact.
For the first time in a long time, Ben considers what life might be like outside his comfort zone and finds the thought exciting as opposed to terrifying. Perhaps that’s why as he and Trent are making their way onto Figueroa to commence the unwelcome task of catching an Uber, Ben surprises himself by asking Trent if he’d like to do this again some time. The season is winding down and it seems unlikely the Clippers will make the post season, what with both Leonard and George out for the season, but there will be a few more home games and Ben is excited about the prospect of working on his teamwork skills.
“Hell yeah, man!” Trent enthusiastically replies. “That game was tight, man. And your dad? That dude is awesome.”
“My dad?” Ben asks in confusion. When had Trent met Howard Gross?
“Yeah, man. He’s hilarious. But super wrong about Powell’s off-man defense. Sorry bro, but it’s true,” Trent adds apologetically as he mistakes Ben’s stunned silence for offense.
“Trent, that wasn’t my dad.”
“He wasn’t?” Trent asks in confusion. “Then who the hell did I eat nachos with all night?”