Anthony and DeAndre stood in the snack line studying the menu. They'd stared at its sun-bleached images of ice cream and chips every day so far this school year. It was a ritual, matching their mood ... [+]
The heavily engraved wooden panels that covered the walls of the overcrowded room had long blurred from his vision. His gaze had shifted from the hanged portrait to the audience's faces, each contrasting sharply with the wildness his own youth reflected in all surrounding glass surfaces. Now, his attention was entirely centered on the vivid green, soft-linen-covered table, the chips, the cards, and, of course, his six opponents.
Game after game, he had tried to assess the other players. He didn't pretend to decipher minds or read strategies. His opponents were good. Too good. Alarmingly good, given the game's stakes. All he could do was reduce uncertainty. Ground his intuition in some intangible scientific analysis. Make an educated bet.
After meticulously checking the last cards handed out by the short, middle-aged dealer in a dark blue, naval-style uniform, he locked his matte black eyes onto the last three participants, trying to map his way into their minds. He then placed his cards face down on the soft velvet carpet and pushed his chips toward the center of the table.
"All in," he heard himself say in a half-whispered voice, hiding the storm raging in his mind behind a mask of confidence and nonchalance, tasting, once again, the sweet rush of risk. He drew his breath.
She exhaled slowly, fighting the fear flaring up within her. From below, the jump hadn't seemed that high. Now that her body was parting the air, unavoidably pulled down with nothing to hold on to, the fall felt like forever had renewed itself too many times already.
Why had she taken the damn step forward from the jump board? Why would a rational thinker, control addict, fully able and generally happy young woman throw herself into the emptiness above a suspiciously cloudy body of chlorine-saturated water?
She felt her mind pacing to create a framework of logic to make sense of the sudden lack of power she held in this second-long eternity. Had she fallen prey to an uncontrolled decision, despite all her hate for it? All her lifelong resistance. Surely not. And yet...
She felt her mind pacing to create a framework of logic to make sense of the sudden lack of power she held in this second-long eternity. Had she fallen prey to an uncontrolled decision, despite all her hate for it? All her lifelong resistance. Surely not. And yet...
Her life had been dedicated to proving she could push boundaries. Proving she held herself together through droughts and storms, fear and distress. A fight led in the dark, a meticulously reflected-upon-process she alone knew the darkness of. She alone held the keys to.
The key to winning wasn't selecting the cards to keep but controlling the ones circulating between players. The first six revealed would be decisive in revealing whether he had deciphered the right intentions. If they were too high or too low compared to his own, he would lose it all. The game he played was a tricky one: cards' value depended entirely on other players' hands. The odds of losing were certainly too high for his mathematical brain. And yet, here he was.
"Why do you play?" he had asked his grandfather after a long night circulating cards, counting chips, and changing candles.
"Because I like it," he said simply.
"Because I like it," he said simply.
The young player became suddenly aware of the portraits on the wooden wall, the heavy velvet curtains, the glossy marble floor. Did he like playing? Of course, he thought. What a silly question. He was a professional poker player, of course he loved it. Why else would he have sacrificed so many nights, so many friends? Why else would he have faced so much anxiety, so much pressure?
Because he liked it. He loved it.
Yet, as the last word rang in his head, he felt the hefty gaze of the hanged faces and, like so many times when drink and despair entangled on long rainy nights, reality slapped him. The truth was his grandfather hadn't stopped at those four words. He had continued: "Also, I'm a player. Whether I like it or not doesn't matter. That's simply who I am, who the world expects me to be. I play."
The little boy on the other side of the table had felt suddenly dizzy at the thought that the person he respected most was nothing but the product of a world he hated so much. That night, he silently vowed to never let anyone define who he would be. He would resist critiques, passerby opinions, riches' mermaid-like chant, and binding contracts. He would prove he was more than what the world expected him to be. That we were the products of our own desires, not others'.
The little boy on the other side of the table had felt suddenly dizzy at the thought that the person he respected most was nothing but the product of a world he hated so much. That night, he silently vowed to never let anyone define who he would be. He would resist critiques, passerby opinions, riches' mermaid-like chant, and binding contracts. He would prove he was more than what the world expected him to be. That we were the products of our own desires, not others'.
So, day after day, he studied the games and their tricks. From players' journals to psychology publications. Linguistics and superstitions.
Night after night, he played. Over and over. Until cards became just another part of his body. Until he could anticipate outcomes, read the subtle twitch of a mouth's corner, the faint glint of an eye. Until he was good enough, not to play, but to win.
Night after night, he played. Over and over. Until cards became just another part of his body. Until he could anticipate outcomes, read the subtle twitch of a mouth's corner, the faint glint of an eye. Until he was good enough, not to play, but to win.
He played because he had chosen to. He had bet all he had, all he ever owned, because no one expected him to.
Or maybe they did?
She couldn't quite remember if they had encouraged her to jump, or if she found, through the jump, a way to shine a little brighter. Surely, she wouldn't have jumped of her own volition. She had seen, in their gaze, a hunger for danger, but a fear of it too. And behind her "grands airs," she needed their approval so badly that she would have done anything. Or, at least, more than she liked to admit.
Yet, she was an only child. For some, this meant constant attention and a thinning distinction between want and need. For her, it meant long, lonely afternoons spent cosplaying and world-creating. Day after day, she built desolated worlds to be a hero fighting the cupboard's monster, a knight against the buzzing mosquito, a spy on a mission to discreetly salvage the fridge's last slice of apple pie. Night after night, she grew to see her only worth in achievements.
If she left the bedside light on, if she slept on the couch in a cloud of repellent, or if she was caught on her way to the kitchen, she would feel devoured by shame and anger. "I," alone, held no value in her eyes until proven greater strength or higher values.
Jumping was the only way to exist and not feel ashamed of it. She had stepped into emptiness because it was the only thing she could have done.
Yet, shortly before hitting the cold surface, she realized there was more to the jump than the jump itself.
There was the rise, along the springboard's ladder.
The mounting tension at every round.
There was the view from up there.
The coziness of gambling rooms.
There was the feeling of freedom as air played with her long auburn hair.
The joy of guessing, betting, tricking, surprising.
There was the certainty of gravity's call.
The surface's hit, the comfort of the welcoming water underneath.
Going all it had been their decision entirely because they loved the thrill; because, in the midst of fear and danger, they had found a space to think, to feel freely. To be themselves entirely.
There is, in the end, little difference between a poker player and a diver.
Between stories and the world beyond.
Between watching the world from the top of a jumping board and deciphering it from above a stack of chips.
Between stories and the world beyond.
Between watching the world from the top of a jumping board and deciphering it from above a stack of chips.
Risk offers lenses through which life's unstoppable flow is held still for the time of a fall or a bet. Freed from the burdensome rules of logic.
When everything around us shatters, and holding on hurts more, risk instead invite us to hope, dream, let go. Deliverance belongs to those who devote their lives to embracing it. To going all in, toward the world beyond, but more importantly, towards themselves.