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own. And he had to look perfect doing it.
    “Improve its image, huh?” Coach began, running his manicured hands through his curly grayish blond hair. “So has the city offered any type of … of financial assistance?”
    Tom looked again at Hal, but this time Hal spoke first. “Look, everyone, if I don’t turn a profit with the Flyers soon, my family estate will take any decisions about the team out of my hands. What Tom was referring to came out of a meeting with a couple of city officials last week. There’s no guarantee in it, though.”
    “Hal, if there is something, anything, that the Flyers could do to avoid being sold, then damn it, tell us … please!” Whatever was in his power to keep the Flyers together in his city, Brent knew he would do.
    “If, and some might consider it a big
if
the Flyers were to bring home a championship this year, the city would be amenable to financing fifty-five percent of the Arena’s operating costs and would issue a couple of municipal bonds to the Flyers which would decrease some of our major tax-related expenses.” Hal sat back in his chair and placed his hands on the table.
    “As much business and revenue that we’ve brought to the city already, you mean to tell me that the city will only help us out if we win the championship this season, as in at the end of this season’s play-offs?” Brent asked.
    “Afraid so, Brent,” Jake began. “It’s politics … The city might be nice enough to help us out of the kindness of its heart, but minus a championship, every department in the city would have something to say about it. Housing would be pissed off because they’ll claim that the funds should have gone to a housing development project. Welfare would cite their statistics and point out all the unemployed people the money could have gone to. Education will cite the ten city schools it had to close down last year because of insufficient funding, and so on. On the other hand, if we bring home the ring, we make enough people in other departments happy, like in transportation and tourism.”
    “Hal, you know better than anybody what kind of team we have this year. It’s the best squad we’ve had in years … hell, since I’ve been a Flyer. I think we can really do it this year. I’m confident enough that we have the best team in the NBA. Can’t you wait until the play-offs are at least over to give Hightower his answer?” Brent asked, looking at Hal hopefully.
    The weary owner of the Flyers locked eyes with Brent. “Listen, I don’t have to respond immediately to Hightower Enterprises, but I do know that the longer I take to accept their offer, the more risk I run of them withdrawing it. At least under Hightower’s ownership I could rest assured that the Flyers would have everything the team deserves.”
    “Maybe in your eyes, Hal. But from a player’s point of view, this sucks. Working for someone like Hightower would be a nightmare. His ego is gigantic. And Lord knows we already have enough big egos in this business,” Brent said, envisioning Hightower’s abuse of them already. “Hightower would probably expect us to be at his two-year-old’s birthday party dressed in our uniforms shooting baskets with his drunk racist friends who’d call the police on us if they spotted us in their neighborhoods on any other occasion. It won’t work, Hal. People will get hurt and more than a few careers will be ruined before someone like Hightower tires of us and moves on to his next project. You know it just as well as I do. Stop trying to fool yourself into thinking you’re making the right decision.”
    Hal looked down at his age-spotted hands. Brent noticed once again how old and tired Hal actually was. The lines in Hal’s face showed every one of his sixty-eight years, and Brent found himselffeeling sorry for the owner. Hal had always been there for him ever since the Flyers drafted him nine years ago. Unlike most of the other team owners, Hal had extended