the 4th star

Halibut. Not your standard cut that you’d get from the corner grocery chain, but a thicker, almost meatier slab of the fish, one that you’d pull out of that hidden fish market in the area of the city you would never be caught dead in. That’s what he had on this specific night. Not wrapped in foil or baked in the oven, but placed right on the hot grill, right next to the zucchini and the bell peppers. Dinner was now an event for him, a time consumer he never had the luxury of enjoying until now. He savours every minute of it.

After dining, he takes his regular walk around the community. The nights have been beautiful, he thinks as he makes his way to the end of the block, crossing into the local greenspace. An elderly couple comes towards him, with a small dog in tow. He smiles and they smile back as they pass. Given his short time under the lights, he was fortunate that no one would possibly recognize him. He was more relieved than fortunate, if we’re going to be honest here. He looks west. The sun sure sits low in the sky at this time of year. The day was winding down, though.

Deeper into the park, an errant football bounces near his path. Some kids were taking advantage of summer’s last chance with a scrambled 3-on-3 pick-up game. Hey man, little help? He gathers up the ball with his right arm and examines it, noticing that it was slightly smaller than the one he was recently familiar with. He transfers it over to his left hand and lobs it back to the kids. It’s been a while since he did that.

He rubs his right shoulder as he moves on, back out of the park and down the street towards home.

A couple chapters later, our man decides to turn in for the night. Before completing his personal checklist before checking out for the day, he checks in on his employer with the remote control. They played in Montreal earlier in the day — another loss, another poor outing by his former unit. There was coach, explaining how the club was going to stick with the plan, telling reporters how he is ‘doing the right things.’ It was hard to watch. It was hard to listen to the misplaced reality for the umpteenth time this season. He didn’t wish ill on the man, but he was relieved he wasn’t a part of it. He struggles with that feeling and hates himself for it, but there was no denying it: The club is 3-8 and going nowhere fast. He is happy to be out. The circus gets boring after a while. He watches as two of his guys get traded out, among whispers that they wanted out because of the coach. He’s heard that from a few guys this year. Our subject hits the remote again and heads upstairs.

As he rests his head on the pillow, he envisions what he is going to have for dinner tomorrow. Maybe a nice marbleized strip loin from that butcher he heard about. It’s been a while since he had a bone-in rib-eye, too. His mind drifts back to his walk in the park, and how it felt to throw that football. He notices his shoulder again and rubs it with his left hand. He always notices it.

He rolls over and looks out the window, his head still on the pillow. If it ever came out he was actually happy — genuinely happy — that his season was shut down by the Winnipeg Blue Bombers, he would get roasted by media and players alike. But it’s such a mess over there. He knows the difference between right and wrong. He knows he shouldn’t feel lucky that he can’t play.

But Stefan LeFors does. You would, too.