Exactly one year earlier, the Lucentine diary entries began in the bustle of New York City, a chapter written far from the quiet streets of Alicante. The writer spent a season abroad thanks to a European Commission scholarship that allowed a temporary departure from Spain. The opportunity opened doors to work in a different culture, study its rhythms, and observe a world where artistry and daily life intertwine. The experience also included a stint at Colombia University, a reminder of how quickly paths converge when curiosity leads the way. The person who welcomed the writer into this intricate web—someone who had once welcomed Lorca nearly a century before—stood at the crossroads of literature, music, and memory. And then Carnegie Hall called: the famed venue, renowned for its acoustics and its aura of timeless performances, was seeking volunteers for a new music season. The writer grabbed the chance and earned a weekly shift at the information desk, a role that brought a steady thread to otherwise vast, glittering evenings. Tuesdays were spent there, a quiet routine shared with Risa Beth, a Bronx-born woman who found in their conversations a surprising depth about the divine and the human, a reminder that art often dwells in the simplest exchanges.
That season’s centerpiece was an extraordinary recital by the pianist Yuja Wang, a concert that many believed would go down in history. She pressed Rachmaninoff’s four piano concertos into a span of nearly four hours, weaving a marathon of sound that captivated every listener in attendance. Tickets disappeared the moment they went on sale, and the hall hummed with the kind of anticipation that only a once-in-a-lifetime performance can spark. Yet the evening took an unforeseen turn: in the middle of the second concerto, a member of the audience collapsed, overcome by a heart attack. The scene froze for a heartbeat as alarm spread through the seats, until a doctorly presence appeared—one of Manhattan’s leading cardiologists enjoying the concert just a few rows away. He sprang into action with practiced calm, tending to the patient and coordinating swift transport to a hospital, where recovery began and hope remained strong. The incident became a story with a happy ending, a narrative that stitched together performance, medicine, and the human capacity for quick, compassionate action. Clive Gillinson, the manager of Carnegie Hall, later recounted the moment with pride, noting how the venue proved its resilience when faced with crisis. He was fond of saying that Carnegie Hall had become a heart-attack-proof house, a line that echoed through the days that followed. The implication was clear: in New York, the stage is not the only place where people rise to the moment when it matters most.
Back in Alicante for the next season, the city’s own arena carried a familiar charge that rivaled the drama of New York’s stages. The thought of future games carried a pulse of its own, a rhythm that kept the heart racing during the most challenging moments. Pedro Ferrándiz, the legendary figure associated with the local club, had built more than a team; he had crafted a shared memory that bound players, fans, and neighbors in a single, beating rhythm. How many dramatic finishes had the squad endured under his guidance? How many last-second baskets had lifted spirits and sent crowds to their feet? And how many improbable victories had drawn everyone together, hearts in throats, breath held in suspense? Those questions framed the season already, even as the team prepared for the Cup break and renewed a fresh sense of purpose after the drought. The upcoming game loomed as another test, a chance to prove that endurance and belief can outlast fatigue. In the stands, the writer imagined a familiar scene: a medical professional seated nearby, a quiet reminder that the same vigilance that saves a life in a concert hall can also sustain a team through the fiercest moments on the court. The hope was simple and almost ritual—an enduring belief that Pedro Ferrándiz would once again steer Lucentum toward a night when the arena felt almost like home, warm with the shared courage of players and supporters alike.