Wrath • • • Hope Jorgensen

She Shoots, She Mourns

Liah Argiropoulos

We didn’t know Marc Zumoff’s last game calling buzzer-beaters and halfcourt threes in Philadelphia would be his last. It’s even worse that the Sixers never won it all for him- leaving him to watch games from home as he records three hundred dollar Cameos and makes NFTs with the billionaires.

It’s not a bad life, is it?

We could have watched Joel Embiid and Dario Saric grow up together, but instead, they’re both nearly thirty years old now and they hardly look at each other when they face off, using the same strategies Brett Brown taught them when they fall over trying to get the rebound. You’d think they’d have each other’s footwork memorized after playing together for two years. You’d think they’d still smile at each other from the free throw line and hug after the game on their way to separate locker rooms. I guess two years seems like a longer stretch of time when you’ve only watched two years pass seven times. I’ve graduated high school and lived in dorms and apartments and cities I’d only ever dreamed of, and I still see them as my older brothers. Is it wrong to mourn for people who are happier now?

I remember how small and scared I felt when I would walk down the snowy streets of a town I didn’t live in and take photos of the picturesque houses with dim glows emanating from the frosty windows. I couldn’t name what I wanted, but it wasn’t this. It wasn’t trying to convince myself that my friends really did like me, even though they flaked every single time I asked to hang out and posted Instagram stories from the city later that night. It wasn’t crying when I got angry and forcing my parents to apologize to feel a semblance of self-assertion. It wasn’t sinking. It wasn’t sinking, sinking, sinking.

Is it wrong to mourn a version of yourself that’s happier now?

I was a kid once, and now I’m not. The drive home from the Wells Fargo Center is now exactly 45 minutes, maybe 12 songs, maybe fifteen thousand commercial breaks on 97.5. Regardless, I’ll still slump down in my seat and fall asleep with my cheek against the seatbelt every time, hoping my dad will carry me to my bed once we pull into the driveway.