Cynthia's arm is in a sling, and she wears white on a day when anyone else would have worn black. There's a red ribbon woven into her braids, and her face shows a different range of emotion from that which people usually see from her. Something in her eyes is distant and pained. This is not a day she takes lightly.

Sheryl stands next to her, silent and pensive. She too wears white, but accented with black, and a red headband keeps back her hair. For once they have no sniping words to say to each other; on this day, it would be sacrilegious and a dishonor to the memory of an old friend. She looks as if she's been crying. Without a word, Cynthia offers her a tissue; without a word, Sheryl accepts it.

Tina and Janeth come up behind them. Tina wears a white shirt and black pants, Janeth the opposite. Without her infamous, customary lipstick, Tina looks years younger and more vulnerable. Janeth looks strained. Both of them have red-rimmed eyes. An observer might notice that all four of them are wearing championship rings; a keen and knowledgeable observer would see that while Sheryl, Tina, and Janeth all have their 1997 rings, Cynthia wears her 1999 ring. It's all symbolism and memory.

The last member of the original group, their coach, joins the four players. Coach Chancellor wears a black suit with a white ribbon pinned to the pocket. Though he'd never admit it, he's shed some tears today as well. They are the last active members of the original Houston Comets, the last four players remaining on the roster from the first three championships. The significance of this is not lost on them.

"Bet she'd have gotten a kick out of all this," Cynthia murmurs, her voice thick and choked. "She'd have given me holy hell for retiring in the first place, of course. And she would have told me what I was doing wrong when I was in Phoenix, except when I was going against you guys. She'd have teased me about not being able to give up playing." By the time she finishes, the tears are ready to fall again as memories of an old friend come up to overwhelm her. Tina passes her a tissue and offers a shoulder to cry on.

"I'd rather have her runnin' the offense than any of them that we've had there. Sonja, Jennifer, Coco, Kelley, Ukari now... none of them were a patch on her," Sheryl admits. "It wasn't so much that she was flashy, or she could stick the dagger in them, but-"

"She was steady," Coach Chancellor says softly. "Lord, when I think I near didn't give her any chance at all I just think I'm no kind of coach at all. We wouldn't have won at all if I'd kept Tiffany all season. We wouldn't be that dynasty everyone calls us if I'd gone with my first call. I don't know how many times I've said that, but I don't think it'll ever be enough."

"She was a good person," Janeth says. "She kept us together. She did her job, but she made it seem like more than a job. She didn't complain, or protest, or any of those things that bad players do." She doesn't look at Cynthia and Sheryl, but her eyes meet Tina's.

"Hardly anyone remembers her, and that's not good," a deep voice rumbles from the doorway. The group looks. Tammy Jackson stands there all in white with a red belt. Her former teammates seize her in a hug; she's the only other player to have been on all four championship teams. She's an old friend, and the last missing piece of the day. "I've been around this place looking, and if there's one of hers in every twenty, that would be a lot. And you don't want to know how much green I'm seeing." A sneer crinkles her face at the description of the color.

Cynthia nods. "That's what I thought." She looks at her teammates and her coach. "We all remember four years ago today. We know what happened and who we lost. We've got a game. It's not just any game. Remember her number. Remember that kid of theirs. Remember that she's got the audacity to wear #10 in this building. She thinks she's hot stuff. I think we're going to show her and her teammates that she doesn't deserve it. This isn't her building. This isn't her place. This is Kim's place."

The players join hands, and Coach Chancellor and Tammy lay theirs on top. "For Kim," they murmur. They file out of the room together. The game is in a few hours; Sheryl, Tina, and Janeth have to change into more appropriate gear. Cynthia is dressed for the night, as is Tammy; the latter will be watching from the stands on this August 19th. She would be nowhere else.

When the active players and Coach Chancellor disappear into the mist, Cynthia turns to Tammy. "Do you really believe...?" She trails off, reluctant to voice what she wants to ask.

"Of course. Don't you believe she's still here?" Tammy's answer comes without hesitation, shaming Cynthia's skepticism. "She's here. She'll be watching. And she'll make sure you give 'em a game to remember her by."

In Cleveland, Jennifer fingers her first championship ring, feeling slightly guilty that she has it. In Indiana, Sonja bows her head over her original Comets jersey. Monica, traveling to aid her foundation, takes a moment to remember her first season and the woman who helped ease her in. All across the country, former and current players, and some fans, take time to remember Kim Perrot, the unlikely hero, the epitome of what the league was meant to stand for. Somewhere in the back of an office, her name sparkles for a moment on the league's Sportsmanship Award, and for just a second, the light shines oddly on Houston's championship trophy.