He raised a hand. “State law requires us to empty the shelves of expired food. If we do not give it away, I am required by that same law to deposit everything in the back of this van in a Dumpster.”
“Dee, you should give that to folks who really need it.”
He wiped his head again and kept staring out the windshield. “In the six weeks we’ve been working out, I’ve lost fat yet gained twelve pounds. All my pants are tight in the legs, big in the waist, and I feel like I’m wearing muscle tees. We’re burning seven, maybe eight thousand calories a day, and you’re working harder than me ’cause you’re doing everything I’m doing faster, harder, and you’re talking to me the entire time. I don’t know what your weight was when we started, but—” This time he looked at me. “I know you’ve lost more than I’ve gained.”
He was right. Groceries were scarce. I was withering away. Between working out with him and spending the nights with Audrey, I was burning the candle at both ends and putting back only a portion of the calories I was spending. I nodded. “You give me your word that this won’t get you in trouble.”
A nod. “I give you my word.”
We carried five cases of food into my cabin. And he’d been smart about it, too. He didn’t bring me Twinkies and cheese puffs. I unloaded cans of tuna and salmon and one entire case of nothing but steaks, maybe fifty in total, that had expired yesterday. He pointed, “Freeze them. They’ll last.” Another case included chicken and pork, pasta, rice. It was a king’s buffet waiting to be cooked. My mouth was salivating with every box we unloaded. It also included soaps, shampoo, and a gallon each of dish and laundry detergent.
He checked his watch and started jogging to the van. “I better get. See you tonight?”
I tossed him a ball, which he caught in front of him, holding it there, his big hand wrapping around the laces. “How is it that you arrived at my house without that in your hand?”
He smiled and wiped his forehead. “So that’s how it’s gonna be, huh?”
“You know the rules. You better bring your A-game tonight. You’ll need it.”
He put his foot on the brake and dropped the stick in drive. “Old man—” He smiled, shook his head, and took his foot off the break.
“Dee?”
He turned to look at me.
“Thank you. Really.”
After he’d gone, I walked inside and cooked two steaks in a pan on the stove. One and a half for me, and a half for Tux. Then I cooked two more. I ate for nearly an hour until I was too stuffed to stand up. Then I curled up on my blanket on the floor and slept with Tux tucked under my arm. It was the best sleep I’d had in a long, long time.
When I woke, it was dark. The clock read 9:47. I stumbled to the fridge and chugged from a water bottle. I washed my face in the sink and only then saw the note lying on the floor.
Coach, I knocked and let myself in. Found you on the floor. Judging by the mess in the kitchen and the smell coming out of you, ;-), it looks like you got into the steak and potatoes so I let you sleep. You can take it out on me tomorrow morning. See you bright and early.
P.S. This place is a mess. You should clean it up.
The note was resting beneath a bottle of Pine-Sol cleaner.
I was mad at myself for sleeping through our workout, but he was right. Maybe my body was trying to tell me something. For the first time in weeks, I felt rested. And not hungry.
I swung open the front door and there, hanging in front of me, was the biggest moon I’d ever seen. Call it a harvest moon, call it what you like, it was ginormous. The light outside was that beautiful glowing white. I didn’t want to waste it, so I threw on some clothes and climbed up the Bucket. I cracked open a can of boiled peanuts and was digging my fingers around the bottom when a figure walked out on the football field below me.
He carried a bag of balls and began throwing into a net in the far end zone. Dee had improved. Anybody could see that. But while he had improved, there was something different tonight in his demeanor. His body language was muted. Heavy. Reserved. He was out there, going through the motions, but only about eighty percent. After a dozen or so throws, he gathered up the balls and then threw them again. Halfway through the third round, he stopped, walked in a circle, dropped the ball, then sat and stared out across the end zone and stands. I could see the weight on his shoulders from where I was sitting.
Moments later, I walked out onto the grass and quietly made my way to the fifty yard line. “You all right?”
My voice startled him. He jumped up but when he saw me, he nodded and then hid his face. His expression was oozing frustration and his shoulders were bubbling anger. He picked up a ball and flung it at the net.
“Dee?”
He wiped his nose on his shirt sleeve. “I was just trying to—” He pointed at the net.
I had a feeling I knew what this was about. Not all of it, but some. Every quarterback goes through a crisis of confidence at some point. Least, I’d never met one who hadn’t. Myself included. I gently turned his chin, sizing up the look on his face without embarrassing him.
“Something bugging you?”
He nodded but didn’t look at me. He wiped his eyes.
Dee was afraid of something. He was improving and he knew it. He also knew that the weeks to camp were winding down, and that with the possibility of success came the very real possibility of failure. He struggled to find the words. I knew where this was going. I’d been there. “Go ahead. Out loud. Voice it.”
“What if I’m afraid?”
“Of?”
“Not being good enough.”
“What’s that called?”
He paused. Then whispered, “Failure.”
“Go ahead. Louder. Spit it out.”
He cleared his throat. “Failure.”
“There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
He shook his head.
“A valid emotion.” I paused. “First things first—you want to play quarterback?”
He nodded.
“You sure? Nobody’s making you. This is your chance to decide. You can walk away and be no less the man. We’ll still be friends.”
He looked at me and thought about it.
I shrugged. “Don’t be fooled, failure is one of two possibilities. You could go to camp, forget everything I ever taught you, revert to your old ways, let that crazy coach of yours back in your head, and start throwing with that”—I mimicked his old throwing motion—“hitch.”
He laughed. “Was it that bad?”
“Worse.” I continued, “Let’s be real honest. Failing, falling flat on your face, is possible. But—” I poked him in the shoulder. “So is succeeding beyond your wildest dreams.” I laughed. “I want to let you in on a secret. You have more ability at your age than I did.” He looked at me surprised. “That’s right. Sitting here right now, you’re better than I was at your age. Difference is this—when I was five or six, my dad brought me out here, to this very field, and played with me. In our minds, we filled the stands, put a voice over the loudspeakers, filled the air with whistles and yellow flags and coaches calling plays. We filled this place with laughter and dreams and the impossible. And we played that game until the sweat ran down our faces and mixed with the laughter. Out here, I fell in love with a game and learned how to play out of my dreams, and failure never really played into that. I wasn’t trying to measure up. I wasn’t trying to become like someone else. Your problem is you’ve spent much of your life watching my film, and so you’re comparing yourself to me. Don’t do that. I’ve heard other coaches, some of mine included, talk about playing with a chip on your shoulder. Playing angry. ‘It’s a violent game, better fight violence with violence.’ ” I nodded. “They’re right about it being violent, but if they’re honest, they play out of anger and hatred because they’re afraid they won’t measure up as a man. Won’t be as good as so-and-so. They’re trying desperately to answer the question, ‘Do I have what it takes?’ And I’m here to tell you that
you’ve got it in spades.” I spun the ball in my hands. “If I teach you anything, if I can have any influence on you at all, let it be this one thing.” I waved my hand across the field. “This is a field where boys and men play. It’s a game. Maybe the greatest game, but it’s still a game. I guess to an alien, or somebody from another country, it looks like twenty-two large men chasing a piece of pigskin and stretching tight elastic pants in the process.” He laughed and wiped his nose again. I patted the ground with my fist. “This should be fun. If it’s not, if it turns into a chore or a burden, let’s go do something else, ’cause it’s too much work otherwise.”
He laughed and muttered, “I heard that’s right.”
“Out here, I learned to love something and someone other than myself. You asked me to teach you the game of football this summer. Teach you how to be a better QB. But”—I shook my head—“other than your throwing motion, I don’t think you really need me for that. But one thing I had that you don’t is perspective. I love the game for the game itself. You love the game for what it might say about you.”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“Dee.” He turned to face me. “You’re good enough to play at most any school. That’s not the question here, and you’ll learn that soon enough. If you just want skills improvement, a lot of guys can do that. Some far better than I. But coaching your head and coaching your heart are two very different things.” I spun a ball in the air. “If you want to succeed out here, you’ve got to risk failure.” I waved my hands across the stands in the distance. “A lot of guys I played with equated losing with failure. And when we lost, they melted down. Chernobyl. But losing and failure are not one in the same.” I paused. “Play this game long enough, and you will lose. Nobody’s undefeated.” I pointed up at the scoreboard. “When I was in junior high, Dad brought me out here after a Friday night game. The stands were empty. Field still painted. Scoreboard lit up. Sidelines littered with paper cups, mounds of melting ice, and spent athletic tape. He brought me out here beneath the lights. We ran around. Laughing. Throwing. Audibles. The same game we always played. But lately I’d been talking more about the scoreboard, of winners and losers, and what the board read at the end of the game. He’d been listening. So as I’m calling plays—standing right here on this very line—and my eyes are switching back and forth between him and that board of lights, he calls a time-out, walks over to the board, flips the power switch, and it goes black as night. Then he walks back to me and lifts my chin. I’m standing there wondering what in the world he’s just done, thinking to myself, What good is it if we can’t see the score? I can still see the smile spread across his face. He leaned in and whispered, ‘Every time you step foot on this field or any other, you’ve got a fifty-fifty shot at losing or winning. So get over it. They’re just numbers, and’—he pointed at the scoreboard then poked me gently in the chest—‘and they are not the measure of your value.’ ”
Dee stared up at me. “I’d like to have met him.”
“He’d have liked you. A lot. You’re his kind of quarterback.”
“What kind is that?”
“Explosive.” I smiled. “With a good bit of style thrown in for good measure.”
I stood up. “Come here.”
He followed.
I walked him to the sideline and stepped across it. Outside the field of play. I pointed down. “You see that?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s it called?”
“Is this a trick question?”
I laughed. “No.”
“Sideline.”
“What’s it do?”
“Creates a field of play.”
I shook my head. “It’s what separates us from all those folks behind us. This right here…” I stepped on the paint. “This is where we lay down all our fears. So many poor jokers are sitting around, remote in hand, afraid to buckle a chin strap, worried they might not measure up. About what might go wrong. Don’t buy into the lie that says you don’t count if you don’t win. You count. You matter. Always have.”
“That sounds like Mama Audrey.”
“Yeah, well… she said it to me one time.”
He wanted to ask me a question but hesitated. Something about it stopped him.
“Go ahead. Get it off your chest.”
“I never knew either of my folks. All I know is that the woman who gave birth to me dropped me off and never looked back.”
There it was. Right there. The wound we’d been dancing around all summer had bubbled up from its hiding place. The good news was that he trusted me enough to share it with me. To let me peek behind the curtain. The bad news was that it was soul-deep and had been plaguing him his whole life.
I put my arm around him. “For the record, I think she was wrong, but I don’t know what she was facing. Don’t know what she was up against. Or your dad. I just know they did. And selfishly, I’m glad they did.”
“What? Why?”
“Because for twelve years, I’ve not been able to make my wife laugh. You have.”
He nodded.
I locked my arm in his, standing shoulder to shoulder. “Cross this line with me. Be unlike all those cynical armchair wannabes behind you. Buckle up your chin strap and risk failure. What’s the worst that can happen?” I inched my toes closer to the line.
He looked at me, surprised. “You’ve been afraid?”
“Sure. You’ve seen my videos. I wasn’t playing pee-wee. Some of those guys are huge.”
He laughed. “I thought you weren’t afraid of anything.”
I shook my head. “You need to quit watching SportsCenter.”
He tucked the ball under his arm and broad-jumped way out across the line. From the other side, he turned, smiling.
I trotted across to the fifty and held the ball out under my imaginary center. “Rocky top, blue seven Chevy wicked zulu. Hut-hut-hut.”
It was the most fun I’d had on a football field in a long time, and never once did he glance at the scoreboard.
After thirty minutes or so, we collapsed on the fifty, drenched, covered in grass and surrounded by sweaty footballs. He lay on the ground looking up at the moon directly overhead. It was daylight-bright outside.
He spoke to me without looking at me. He spoke quietly. “Thank you.”
“Dee, play this game because you love it.” I tapped his heart. “Play out of here.” I placed my hand on his head. “Not here.”
We stuffed all the balls back into his bag, and he began walking back to his dorm. He turned, “Rocket?”
It was the first time he’d ever called me that. Nicknames are a big deal among football players, and I’d been giving his a good bit of thought. I thought I’d found one that fit. “Clark?”
He looked confused. He shook his head. “What?”
“Clark. Clark Kent.”
“Who’s he?”
“Don’t you ever watch the movies?”
“Yeah, movies in this decade.”
“Boy, you need a keeper. You know, red cape, flies around the Earth.”
He smiled. “Oh, yeah, that Clark.”
He smiled. He liked the nickname. “Tomorrow is my birthday, and I was wondering if maybe you’d let me buy you some lunch. I can clock out at noon. I know a place where no one will know you. Or care.”
“I’ll be there.”
I watched him disappear through the tunnel, marveling at the changes. The promise. And the effect all that had on my hope. Only then did I see the lone figure leaning against the far exit in the stands. She stood in the shadows. Arms crossed. Face hidden. Watching but disconnected.
I waved, but Audrey did not wave back. She turned, showing me her back, and disappeared.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
My clothes were starting to sour, and given my midday nap I wasn’t too tired so I stuffed a pillowcase with dirty laundry and rode to town. The twenty-four-hour Laundromat was open. One florescent light flickered. I rode by slowly and, to my relief, it was empty.
br /> I dumped all my clothes in one washer, loaded it with quarters, and sat while it began its cycle. The dryer read “seven minutes remaining,” when a lady and two kids pulled up and walked in. I thought to myself, What kind of mother brings her kids to the Laundromat at eleven p.m.?
Evidently, the working kind.
She was obviously a waitress or something as she wore a shirt with her name on it and had a pocket full of what looked like tip money when she went to the machine to make change. I pulled up the hood of my sweatshirt, checked my pants leg, and sat staring at their reflection in the glass door of my dryer. She unloaded a little girl, maybe four, and a little boy of about nine. Maybe ten. The girl wore a dress, pigtails, flip-flops, painted toenails. The boy wore a number 12 jersey and carried a small rubber football. She spoke quickly to him, “Daniel, put that down long enough to help me unload!” He set the ball down and helped her unload and drag three laundry baskets of clothes out of the back of the car. The little girl sat on a chair coloring in a book while the boy sat down in front of the TV on the wall. He grabbed the remote, punched a button from memory, and ESPN flashed onto the screen. SportsCenter was just starting. He crossed his legs, tossed the ball, and sat glued to the picture. The mother loaded five machines and then attempted to buy detergent.
After she’d inserted her money and pulled the lever, and then pulled it again, she cussed, and then hit the machine. “No, please don’t do that.” The single-use box of detergent had fallen and lodged against the glass, preventing her from getting the one she’d bought and from buying any more. “Oh come on!” She banged the glass harder with her fist. “You’re killing me.” She then tilted the machine, trying to dislodge the box. No luck. Finally, she unloaded the machines, throwing the wad of clothes back into each of the baskets, picked up her daughter, told her son to “Come on,” and began walking toward the door, dragging one basket behind her. Given the gallon I had sitting beneath my chair, I stood and offered it. “Ma’am, I’m not trying to be nosy, but I’ve got more than I can use—if you’re needing detergent.”