likely.
But she did not believe that she had won anything that evening. The game perhaps. But nothing else.
In the stands, in the seconds following the final whistle, especially in a close contest, there is a surge of relief crashing against waves of disappointment. Elation and disappointment are like conflicted currents in a 47
JOHN KATZENBACH
tight channel as the tide begins to change. The Big Bad Wolf basked in the palpable ebb and flow surrounding him. Winners and losers.
He was incredibly proud of Red Three. He loved the way she fought on every single play and the way she had taken advantage of every mistake her opposing number had made. He thought he could taste the sweat that matted her hair and glistened on her forehead. She’s a real competitor, he thought.
Affection and admiration only made his desire to kill her increase. He felt drawn to her, as if she exuded some magnetic force that only he could feel.
He let out a loud, “Yeah! Way to go!” like any parent or spectator root-ing in the stands.
He closed up his notebook and stuffed his mechanical pencil into a jacket pocket. Later, in the privacy of his writing room, he would go over his scribbled observations. Like a journalist’s, the Big Bad Wolf ’s rapid notations tended toward the cryptic: Single words, like lithe, nasty, tough, and fierce mixed with larger descriptions, such as seems possessed by the game and never appears to talk to anyone else on the court, either on her team or the other. No trash-talking and no encouragement. No high-fives for teammates.
No “In your face” or shouts of “And One!” directed at the opposition. No self-satisfied, chest-pounding, preening for the people watching. Just singular intensity that every minute exceeds that of the other nine players on the floor.
And one other delicious observation: Red Three’s hair makes her seem on fire.
The Big Bad Wolf could hardly rip his eyes away from watching Red Three, but he knew that he should think of himself as on stage, so he forced himself to avert his gaze and watch some of the other players. This was almost painful for him. Although he knew no one was watching him, he liked to imagine that everyone was watching him, every second. There were marks that had to be hit, and lines that had to be uttered at just the precise moment, so that he seemed no different from anyone else crammed into the wooden bleacher rows.
Around him, people were standing, stretching, gathering coats as they readied to leave, or, if they were students, looking for book bags or backpacks. He stole one look back over his shoulder as he pulled on his jacket, 48
RED 1–2–3
and watched the team—with Red Three bringing up the rear—as they jogged off the court. The boys’ varsity game was scheduled to start in twenty minutes, and there was a press of people moving out of seats and newcomers working their way in. He tugged on his baseball hat, emblazoned with the school’s name. He believed deeply that he looked like any parent, friend, school official, or townie who just enjoyed high school basketball. And he doubted that anyone noticed his note taking; there were too many college scouts and local sports reporters who watched the games with notebooks in hand to draw any real attention to his interest.
This was something the Big Bad Wolf loved: looking ordinary when he was far from it. He could feel his pulse accelerate. He looked at the people pressing around him. Can any of you imagine who I truly am? he wondered.
He took a final glance toward the door to the locker room and caught a glimpse of Red Three’s hair, disappearing. Do you know how close I was today? He wanted to whisper this in her ear.
He thought, She does not know it, but we are more intimate than lovers.
The Big Bad Wolf began to make his way out of the gym, caught up in the throng of moving people. He had much to do, both planning and writing, and he was eager to get back to his office. He wondered if he’d
But she did not believe that she had won anything that evening. The game perhaps. But nothing else.
In the stands, in the seconds following the final whistle, especially in a close contest, there is a surge of relief crashing against waves of disappointment. Elation and disappointment are like conflicted currents in a 47
JOHN KATZENBACH
tight channel as the tide begins to change. The Big Bad Wolf basked in the palpable ebb and flow surrounding him. Winners and losers.
He was incredibly proud of Red Three. He loved the way she fought on every single play and the way she had taken advantage of every mistake her opposing number had made. He thought he could taste the sweat that matted her hair and glistened on her forehead. She’s a real competitor, he thought.
Affection and admiration only made his desire to kill her increase. He felt drawn to her, as if she exuded some magnetic force that only he could feel.
He let out a loud, “Yeah! Way to go!” like any parent or spectator root-ing in the stands.
He closed up his notebook and stuffed his mechanical pencil into a jacket pocket. Later, in the privacy of his writing room, he would go over his scribbled observations. Like a journalist’s, the Big Bad Wolf ’s rapid notations tended toward the cryptic: Single words, like lithe, nasty, tough, and fierce mixed with larger descriptions, such as seems possessed by the game and never appears to talk to anyone else on the court, either on her team or the other. No trash-talking and no encouragement. No high-fives for teammates.
No “In your face” or shouts of “And One!” directed at the opposition. No self-satisfied, chest-pounding, preening for the people watching. Just singular intensity that every minute exceeds that of the other nine players on the floor.
And one other delicious observation: Red Three’s hair makes her seem on fire.
The Big Bad Wolf could hardly rip his eyes away from watching Red Three, but he knew that he should think of himself as on stage, so he forced himself to avert his gaze and watch some of the other players. This was almost painful for him. Although he knew no one was watching him, he liked to imagine that everyone was watching him, every second. There were marks that had to be hit, and lines that had to be uttered at just the precise moment, so that he seemed no different from anyone else crammed into the wooden bleacher rows.
Around him, people were standing, stretching, gathering coats as they readied to leave, or, if they were students, looking for book bags or backpacks. He stole one look back over his shoulder as he pulled on his jacket, 48
RED 1–2–3
and watched the team—with Red Three bringing up the rear—as they jogged off the court. The boys’ varsity game was scheduled to start in twenty minutes, and there was a press of people moving out of seats and newcomers working their way in. He tugged on his baseball hat, emblazoned with the school’s name. He believed deeply that he looked like any parent, friend, school official, or townie who just enjoyed high school basketball. And he doubted that anyone noticed his note taking; there were too many college scouts and local sports reporters who watched the games with notebooks in hand to draw any real attention to his interest.
This was something the Big Bad Wolf loved: looking ordinary when he was far from it. He could feel his pulse accelerate. He looked at the people pressing around him. Can any of you imagine who I truly am? he wondered.
He took a final glance toward the door to the locker room and caught a glimpse of Red Three’s hair, disappearing. Do you know how close I was today? He wanted to whisper this in her ear.
He thought, She does not know it, but we are more intimate than lovers.
The Big Bad Wolf began to make his way out of the gym, caught up in the throng of moving people. He had much to do, both planning and writing, and he was eager to get back to his office. He wondered if he’d
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