The Hottest Cup Preview

THE HOTTEST CUP

By Keith Kareem Williams

It was summertime in the big city and there was an unusual buzz in the scorching streets around a sport that we, the pessimistic, gritty citizens of New York, usually didn’t particularly care for. We only sacrificed precious time from our hectic lives for physical contests that were hard-hitting, brutal, fast-paced and most importantly, high-scoring. Even baseball, one our beloved national pastime, was dying a slow death. (Any sport where the television commentators had the time to casually drone on about weekend fishing trips in-between exciting plays was doomed.) In a crowded sports bar in lower Manhattan, on a Tuesday afternoon, we beer-drinkers and lovers of liquor were all there to watch the World Cup, of all things. Thanks to the constant barrage of relentless coverage and promotions on all of the top sports networks, soccer, better known as Futbol in most parts of the world outside the U.S., had become the new novelty that had temporarily grabbed a hold of our collective short attention spans.

The United States had already been eliminated from contention by Germany despite a valiant effort, mostly from out thirty-five year-old goalkeeper, Tim Howard, who at times mad superhuman save after save with the full weight of America’s pride on his back. The way he defended against Germany’s skilled strikers’ onslaught made him appear as if he was thirty feet tall. Our interest could have waned after that defeat but, we were all there on that day to watch soccer anyway, hopeful that the host country’s home team heroes of Brazil would stomp the mighty Germans, the villains that had just bounced our guys from World Cup contention just a few days before.

Once the match started and it immediately became obvious that it was going to be a painfully lop-sided, old-fashioned ass-whooping, (The Germans scored THREE goals in the first seventy-six seconds of the match which is UNHEARD of), most of us turned away from the big-screen televisions, got back to discussing the off-season news stories about our favorite sports and concentrated on getting drunk. After all, we were in an establishment that’s main function was to serve alcohol…and lots of it. While we speculated about which of the big named, free agent basketball stars might end up switching teams and signing huge contracts with different franchises, I spotted her sitting at a table all alone.

In the entire bar, she was the only one whose teary eyes were still glued to the television as she watched the painful massacre masquerading as a futbol match. Even though she must have been absolutely filled with shame, she seemed unable to look away as Brazil put up zero resistance and Germany continued to score goal after goal. I was surprised that I hadn’t noticed her before because, out of all the patrons in the place, only her darker skin tone was even close to my own. I made my way towards her, past guys in European-cut business suits who were busy boasting about how much money they were going to make this quarter, all of whom were all too narcissistic to notice a beautiful woman, literally crying her eyes out right in their midst. Most of them probably spent too much time in front of mirrors admiring their own awesomeness to notice beauty in anything else. When I was only a few feet away from her, I saw how truly gorgeous she was.

***

The forlorn female in the yellow T-shirt didn’t notice me as I tried to make eye-contact to gauge how she felt about my attention being on her. (If a woman frowns, looks puzzled or rolls her eyes when she catches you looking at her, it is best not to even approach her to save yourself a heap of grief and embarrassment.) The Brazilian flag printed boldly on the front of her top was warped and stretched because of the size of her breasts but I tried my best not to stare. Most women hated that. Her nose was broad but perfectly fit the shape of her face and she pouted with thick, full, luscious lips that shined with whatever gloss she had covered them with. Her kinky, curly, jet black hair was styled in a wild ponytail and she stared at the TV screen with eyes that were ocean blue which was unusual for someone with her complexion. I found it extremely sad that she should sit and mourn her nation’s humiliation alone so I bought two drinks at the bar and then pulled up a chair right beside her at the round wooden table.

“Hello, my name is Andressa,” she told me in a thick, Portuguese accent after I introduced myself and offered her one of the two rum and cokes I sat down next to her with.

If she had refused I would have just guzzled both of them myself. Andressa smiled, and accepted the tall shot glass of liquor. She eyed it suspiciously at first before she eventually shrugged her shoulders and gulped it down all at once. She grimaced as it burned her throat, then turned her attention back to the match. I decided to watch it as well without hounding her with conversation that she was probably not in the mood for. It made no sense to hound her when her focus was somewhere else. As the cameras panned through the stands in the stadium, the Brazilian fans, draped in flags and varied patriotic regalia looked more like mourners at a funeral than sports fans. They might as well have been wearing black instead of their national colors as they wept from disappointment and shame. I handed Andressa a napkin as the first of many tears rolled down her chocolate cheek.

“I know how you feel,” I leaned close to her and whispered in her ear.

“How could you?” she asked. “America lost but, at least they put up a fight. This is disgraceful so how could you possibly know how I feel?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised. I’m a New York Knicks fan and THEY haven’t won a championship since three years before I was born,” I joked in an attempt to brighten her mood.

She finally turned from the television to look at the exaggerated, sad, disgusted, frustrated expression on my face and smiled. She had a grin that was mischievous and mysterious enough to inspire a burning desire to know what she was thinking. Her eyes reminded me of a tropical ocean deep and clear enough that you could see right down the depths to the sandy bottom.

“Are you from here?” she asked.

“Yes, I was born right here in New York, more specifically Brooklyn. Lived there all of my life,” I answered.

“I was born in Brazil, obviously,” she said, stretching out the front of her shirt to show me the flag. “But, I love it here in this city.”

“Have you ever been to Brooklyn?” I asked.

“No, I haven’t had a chance to. I’ve only been living here for a few months. My apartment is just a few blocks from here. I’ve been to Times Square though. It’s so nice,” she told me.

“Times Square is pretty but, it’s not really New York,” I said.

“Why isn’t it?” she asked, somewhat puzzled. “It’s one of the most famous places here. I used to daydream of seeing it one day for myself when I was back home.”

“Times Square is pretty but, it’s like a glammed up model with way too much make-up on. That part of Manhattan is what big corporations think tourists want to see…the wonder, the fabricated fantasy and all of the hype but it’s not real. It’s not authentic New York,” I explained so passionately that I seemed to spark a burning curiosity that I could see burning behind her big, bright, inquisitive eyes.

“So, what is real Mr. Brooklyn?” Andressa asked and leaned closer to me as she waited for my answer.

That’s when I looked directly into her beautiful chocolate face, swam in the deep blue of her unusual eyes and boldly said, “Let me show you.”

Five minutes and two drinks later we were out the door, on our way to my part of the town that never closed its eyes.

***

By the time either one of us realized how fast the time had flown by, the sun was long gone. When we finally did look up, only the pale moon swam in the black-as-ink skies above my beloved Brooklyn. We had stood in the shadow of the beautiful basketball arena where I made her close her eyes while I described all that used to be there before the Nets brought the team over from New Jersey. We went window shopping in a few of the unique boutiques and when she got hungry, I took her to dinner at one of my favorite spots to eat authentic, West Indian food, just like my Granny used to cook. Everywhere we went, I had a story to share, either from my city’s history or from my own rich memories. I shared with her the soul of my home, past and present. The twinkle in her eye let me know that she was falling in love with it all, just as I had always loved it from the day I was born. At the end of our adventures and tour, we found ourselves sitting outside at the promenade at the end of Brooklyn Heights, (Or the beginning, depending on how you looked at it.) We sat on the benches and stuffed our faces with cheesecake as we looked across the water at the towering, brightly-lit skyscrapers of Manhattan.

“It looks so different from here,” she said to me.

“It IS different from here,” I answered, putting one arm around her and pulling her close. “All of THAT is the glitzy, tourist attraction,” I said as I pointed. “It’s just a mask, a front, a dolled-up pretty face but, make no mistake, places like Harlem, Southside Queens, and Brooklyn are the soul of this metropolis.”

“You love your home,” she said.

“I really do. I get homesick every time I’m gone for too long.”

“It’s a beautiful thing, to love something so much, with such passion,” she sighed.

“Well, I’m a passionate man,” I said with a smile.

After that, there was silence between us for a few minutes. I wasn’t quite sure why she had suddenly gone quiet but, things still felt right, even without us exchanging a single word for that time and I wasn’t about to ruin the moment or alter the vibe. I didn’t interrupt her thoughts with clumsy questions and I let her feel what she was feeling until she was ready to share.

“Take me to where you live,” she told me and although I had not anticipated that request, I didn’t hesitate to oblige her.

***

We didn’t make it inside my place before we started kissing and peeling off each other’s clothes right in front of my door. I fumbled clumsily with the keys, desperate to get inside before my neighbors heard the commotion, stuck their heads out into the hallway and caught us both in heat and  half-naked. With a smooth click, the lock finally opened and we stumbled inside after I turned the knob. Andressa had already undid my belt and opened my jeans by the time I closed the door behind us. At the pace we were going, we would never make it to the bedroom.

© 2014 Keith Kareem Williams

All Rights Reserved

TO BE CONTINUED in Naughty Ink Press' "Steam Room" anthology....COMING SOON!