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No. Hell, no. It will never really be over.
The next morning I'm hobbling through the lobby of the Four Seasons when a man steps out of the shadows. He grabs my arm.
Quit, he says.
It's my father—or a ghost of my father. He looks ashen. He looks as if he hasn't slept in weeks.
Pops? What are you talking about?
Just quit. Go home. You did it. It's over.
He says he prays for me to retire. He says he can't wait for me to be done, so he won't have to watch me suffer anymore. He won't have to sit through my matches with his heart in his mouth. He won't have to stay up until two in the morning to catch a match from the other side of the world, so he can scout some new wonder boy I might soon have to face. He's sick of the whole miserable thing. He sounds as if—is it possible?
Yes, I see it in his eyes.
I know that look.