[color=silver][right][sub]Early Monday morning between 5-6AM 
(before the new batch of letters was sent out)
[@metanoia] & [@BrutalBx][/sub][/right]

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There were some nights where Mikhail Zima could sleep through the night without fail. These nights were almost always including some type of company in his bed or if he had South Park playing in the background. He had a rather weird fascination with South Park and it always made him feel relaxed. Maybe it was the childhood nostalgia. Maybe it was the crude humor, or maybe it was Kenny always dying. That was his favorite running gag.

But that wasn’t on this night. He had stayed awake. He kept dreaming about the same thing on and off for the past month. It was the day of the shooting. Not so much the shooting itself. That day, Mika had fortunately walked away with nothing but trauma. Trauma because he basically lost two brothers that day: Danny Boaz and Boa, who left on that day. But it wasn’t about the heartbreak from that day that persisted in his dreams, but rather what happened shortly after the immediate threat of Charlie Decker was laid to rest and the aftermath of it was felt. It was when his mother came back to her hometown that Mika’s entire world came crashing down.

It was the moment that John O’Hara found out that Mika was his nephew and not just some kid who had the coincidence of reminding him of David. It was those sequence of events playing themselves on an infinite loop that kept him up all night. Occasionally he would get a few winks, but not today. The sun was barely out and he just couldn’t fall asleep.

It had been nearly two years since he spoke to his Uncle John. Two years of avoiding him.

[color=635687]Not anymore.”[/color] 

Before he mentally clicked the decision he just made, Mika’s body moved. His legs moved him past the bowl where he kept his keys, out of his apartment, into his Toyota Tacoma, and he was driving down Carlisle Ave., over the tracks into the Northside, and driving to a place he [i]absolutely[/i] knew where he had to go.

There was something almost hilarious about how his brain was working. He hasn’t been anywhere close to his old stomping grounds except for that one time last month he passed the school. The night that Boa returned. The night that he, instead of being part of that group of people who heard what happened to Charlie Decker, he disturbed Cece and Niles on their date, yet as he parked near the gym, Mika wasn’t going to avoid it this time around.

And yet he sat in his truck. It had shut off, so no light shined on him except the subtle rays that came from the almost-risen sun. In the back of his mind, he pondered about whether or not this was the right thing to do. Or maybe if he could even go through with it. He could turn back, drive to the diner down the road, and nobody had to know he was even here. But how much of a man would that make him? Running away from his past? Running away from something that deep in his heart, the heart he felt was closed to certain people he felt he had betrayed, that he knew he [i]needed[/i] to do this.

As he met his reflection in the mirror, he looked at himself. Bags under his eyes, the signs of sleep deprivation in those blue eyes of his, and what seemed like his own soul telling him what he needed to do, he sighed at himself. [color=635687]“Sometimes, I really hate you. You know that, right?”[/color]

With that decided, he exited his truck and walked into the gym. Not to his surprise, it wasn’t locked. That’s because he knew a certain someone was here. And as he entered, he heard the echoes of a basketball reverberate through the empty building. He saw a man run up and down the court. Mika hesitated going further. He hadn’t noticed him, but he came this far. No point in giving up now. [color=635687]“I knew I’d find you here, Uncle John.”[/color] Those last two words, he hadn’t spoken them to John O’Hara since before senior year and them having the same meaning as it did right now. 

John stopped mid dribble and bounced the ball back up into his ready guarded hands. The sweat was glistening on his slowly withering skin and his breathing was heavy. He had been up for several hours already, not unusual for the Coach. He hadn’t slept properly since that humid hot summer of 1974. Every time he closed his eyes, there was always a flash, or a whisper, some kind of memory that as he had grown older he had managed to force away before it affected him too much. Yet when he was asleep, that was when he couldn’t control his mind, that was when he could feel the Hangman’s noose tightening around his neck, the ground beneath his feet giving away as he was dragged back into the woods, staring at the light from the camp mess hall and trying to scream for help. Sleep was a portal to the past and John did not want to go back in time.

Then there was a more recent past that also haunted him, more so in his waking hours that he had tried to forget. It was right there in that gym, on the home side of the court where he did what he could to temper the rage of a lost soul, only to be met by a shotgun blast to his stomach. That wasn’t the worst of it. Not by far. John’s worst memory of that day was watching the Callahan boy be shot before his eyes and feeling the child’s wait crash on top of him. Roddy was trying to help him and it cost him dearly. The one blessing if any was that Jamie and David were not there. David…

The boy that now stood to his right reminded him so much of his first born son. The way he carried himself, the mannerisms, he really should’ve seen the signs sooner. Shame on him. John had tried religion; it didn’t work for him but he did believe in a higher power, he did believe that they worked in mysterious ways. Still, sometimes he wondered. He had so many questions. One of which was Mikail Zima. This boy, now a man, he was an O’Hara. Mary’s boy. Yet he didn’t know. They didn’t tell him. There was frustration when he first found out, of course there was. Secrets and lies were a currency in Edenridge that John wanted no part of.

[color=bf755c]“Mika, you’re out and about early. It’s a family trait”[/color] Coach corrected his posture and turned to face his nephew. [color=bf755c]“What can I do for you, son?”[/color]

He stood firm at the center of the court, eyes meeting his uncle's. In the back of his mind, there still was that part of Mika that told him being here was a bad idea. There was no way John would hear him out. It could be two more years or five and he still wouldn't forgive you. The shame you brought to him was too much. The heartbreak of your secret was too much.

And yet, ever the stubborn son his mother raised, for better or worse, Mika didn't move an inch. He wasn't advancing but he wasn't retreating. [color=635687]"Couldn't sleep. Tried for hours and still nothing, so I thought I might come back to the place where I shined my brightest. Back to the place where you pushed me to my absolute limit… Coach…"[/color] His voice trailed off into silence as the two O'Hara men met each other in a locked gaze. He felt a subtle increase in that funny feeling that he hadn’t felt in a few years. That air of warmth that Coach O’Hara always managed to instill in him in his times of need.

[color=bf755c]“You were a hell of a player”[/color] Coach bounced the basketball off of the hardwood several times. He looked at Mika with a sense of empathy. He had spent so much time worrying about the past. Life had been hard for him. Between nearly dying multiple times, the loss of his son, the issues with his sister and his daughter’s own anguish. The one constant in John’s life has always been the game and Mika really was one hell of a player. He could tell the boy was here for more than a sleep deprived reminisce; he was reaching out for something, someone to hold on to.

John had held on to a grudge from years gone by and he had let young Mikhail suffer for it. Mary was his little sister, he loved her and he always would but she chose her path. It took the Coach a very long time to come to terms with that and then to be blindsided with the bombshell that one of his stars, one of his beloved Celtics, was actually her son; it was a lot to deal with at a very bad time in his life. [color=bf755c]“Let me ask you something, when you played for me, do you think had I known who you were, it would’ve been any different?”[/color]

He let the silence linger as he pondered on Coach’s question. Would things between them be different if Mika was honest with him in the beginning? He didn’t know how to answer that because he didn’t know. He kept that secret from him because Mika thought he had to or else those he loved would get caught in the crossfire. Keeping secrets was Ivan’s favorite habit and he had made sure Mika carried on that specific family legacy. But he was also afraid of the rejection. Maybe the real reason wasn’t so complicated. He didn’t say anything because he didn’t want to be treated any different. He wanted to be accepted by Coach for nothing but his hard work that he put into the team.

As he stepped forward, even going as far as to tighten the distance between them, Mika never lost the gaze with his uncle. [color=635687]“I’m not sure how to answer that, Coach..”[/color] He bit the inside of his cheek, feeling the pressure and the gravity of the question itself. [color=635687]“For those two years, you were one of two people who felt like a real father to me. You made me want to believe in myself for more than just the short-term fame and glory winning the game could give me. I..wasn’t given the benefit of having a father who believed in me like you believed in me and the other guys.”[/color] That subtle feeling from before had deepend and Mika felt like he had to say what he was feeling now or he wouldn’t ever get it out. [color=635687]“I don’t know if things would be different. If you knew, I don’t know if that would’ve changed things. What I do know, Uncle John, is that not telling you on [i]my[/i] terms is one of the things I most regret about that year. You deserved so much more than that from me.”[/color] For the first time since arriving, Mika’s gaze left Coach’s and he was looking down at the court. Shame piled high on him.

[color=bf755c]“I remember when you first asked to join the team. You were a little shorter than the other guys but you had this fire, you had the heart and you had the arrogance. You reminded me so much of someone I used to know…your mother”[/color] Coach looked towards the bleachers and in memory he could see his little sister, sitting with their parents cheering him on when he was a player. A vision in gold. [color=bf755c]”I should’ve seen it then but I didn’t. I don’t blame you, Mika. I’m not even mad at you. You’re just a kid in a strange situation and you handled it in whatever way you could”[/color] John bounced the ball again before tossing it to Mika.

[color=bf755c]“What’s past is past. You and me, we can build a bridge kiddo but it might take some time. Some effort. You want to put in the work? Then I will too”[/color] The Coach moved off of centre court and stood off to the sidelines where he always did when he was in charge of a game. [color=bf755c]“We do work in this gym. We go hard and we go better than anybody else. You know that. I want you to meet me here, every morning and we will go through this together. But before we do, we’re gonna do a little test”[/color]

Hearing Coach make the comparison between Mika and his mother was…unexpected, but welcomed. He cracked his first smile since coming here (albeit small). When Coach tossed the ball to him, Mika caught it. His time under the lights as an Edenridge Celtic may have been long past him, but Mika never stopped playing the game. Southside ball was different, but he still ruled the court. But all he could think about as he stared down at the ball.

And then he looked up when Coach said the words he never thought he’d say: build a bridge. His eyes were, for the first time (especially when he thought about his uncle), clear. Of course he would put the work in. There was no question about it. Mika never wanted anything more than to just…be someone that John O’Hara could be proud of again. [color=635687]“Yes, Coach.”[/color]

Cracking a wider smile, almost grin-line, Mika bounced the ball a few times on the hardwood floor. [color=635687]“When have you ever known me to turn down a challenge?”[/color] He bounced it once more and held it in both hands. [color=635687]“What’cha got on your mind?”[/color]

John placed his hands on his hips and assumed his Coach position. It was game time at Edenridge High. [color=bf755c]“Clear eyes. Full Hearts. No luck but what we make. That ain’t just a catchy slogan so the soccer Mom’s can sell some mugs on Etsy whatever the hell that is. Those are words your grandpappy lived by. He was a hard man. A decent man. A man you want to aspire to be. Those words mean everything to me. They are what it means to be an O’Hara”[/color] 

John glanced up at a wall, the framed jerseys of retired numbers staring back at him. His number was up there, Francis, Clay, Garrett, Russell, all of them. Save one. Save 23. Save David. 

[color=bf755c]“You want to be an O’Hara kiddo, this is how you do it. You make this first shot, you sink three points, then we will set up a meeting between me and your mother and we will try and sort our issues out.You miss? Then it’ll just be me and you, understand? Earn your name, Mika”[/color]

That old slogan was etched into Mika’s memory even though there was a part of him that tried to push it back and out of his life since [i]that[/i] day. No luck but what you make. It defined Mika’s sophomore and junior year. It defined those two blissful years of being under Coach’s watchful eye. Being one of the star players under Danny Belmonte’s lead. Being a Celtic until tragedy brought too much shame to face anyone. In those two years, regardless of what was happening, whatever happened inside the Edenridge High Gymnasium and the locker room and any time Coach gave his speeches, that one line was something that carried Mika through everything.

And now, as he held the ball in both hands, looking at Coach O’Hara -- his uncle, his mother’s older brother -- stand in front of him in the same way he always did back in better days, he couldn’t help but feel like whatever [i]was[/i] (and is) happening outside these walls, it didn’t matter. In his heart, in his soul, Mikhail Zima had a familiar feeling that stemmed from the desire that he always had.

To be an O’Hara.

He walked up to the 3-point goal line, bouncing the ball a few times right on the line. His gaze was focused and stern. His back was straight. Posture was straight and his arms bent slightly as he had the ball in his hand. Mika held it up close to his face, looking down at it once more. [color=635687]“One shot is all it will take.”[/color] He whispered, gazing at Coach O’Hara. The man hadn’t budged an inch in the minute he laid out his challenge. 

In that moment, he couldn’t help but think of his mother, Mary-Anne. Her sadness and even grief about her family. Sometimes he would catch her in a moment and he'd ask and she would tell him about her brother and his son. Nothing in great detail, but thinking back, it was an intense grief and regret. He understood what she was lamenting about when was younger -- around 12, 13 years old. He understood because Mika himself was experiencing similar feelings. Like mother, like son, after all.

[color=635687][i]Here I go.[/i][/color] With a deep breath, Mika took the position: legs bent, the ball positioned in his dominant, left hand and his right one on the side. He eyed the net, knowing if he made this there was hope for both him and his mother to finally have that peace of mind that he longed for and what he suspected she longed for. 

And he took the shot, the ball flying through the air. 

All of his hopes of being an O’Hara was on this one shot. 

No luck but what you make it.
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