I can say without being at all reductionist or overly schematic that my dad’s words that dismal morning set me on the path I took. But I couldn’t say those words to Andy. My dad was a guy who carried beer barrels under his arm at block parties. I was a guy who got knocked out the only two times he ever suited up.
Andy’s head bounced when we hit the toll both speed bump. As I fished some change out of my pocket, I saw an empty toll gate. I hit the gas.
In the mirror, Andy was still looking out the window. He had missed the best part — Majikowski throwing what looked like a touchdown pass and the place going crazy. Then the flag; Majikowski was over the line of scrimmage when he threw it. This time the fans howled. As if to soothe their rage, the top ref went to his tape player to review the play. For nearly five minutes.
“Is Parkinson done looking at the tape?” I knew the answer.
“Yes.”
I slowed down to drop the coins in the change basket. The gate lifted. I looked at the clock, counted to five, and started by imitating the ref: “Upon further review...” And then I repeated the roar that had filled the bar before Parkinson could explain himself: “THE BEARS STILL SUCK!” I could see the look on Bears kicker Kevin Butler’s face. Ditka’s face so red I’d hoped the heart attack would hit him then. After four years of losing to the Bears, the Packers pulled one out. After watching the 1985 Bears go to the Super Bowl, the Packers had humbled them. It was all the sweeter because of the way the Bears showed their loser mentality: In later team guides, an asterisk hung over the score. “Instant replay game.” The game they could never admit they lost.
“Can we stop at Wendy’s?”
“Sure.”
The lot was a third full. I spotted marks of road-tripping Bears fans. A weathered flag mounted on a window of a minivan. A dozen bumper stickers seemingly holding together the disintegrating rear bumper of an Aspire. A Bears helmet in the back window of an Audi. I grabbed my hat from the passenger seat.
“All right, let’s put our gear on. Got to hold our heads high, win or lose, right? Otherwise, we might as well be Bears fans.”
I turned to Andy. He stared back at me. He made a face and put his hat on.
Listening to Andy order three double burgers with bacon, I wondered if he didn’t have a growth spurt ahead of him. He asked for barbecue sauce for his fries. Nat never let him eat like this even though he was bony. But after the loss and knowing what tomorrow would bring, I wasn’t going to stop him. Maybe Nat wouldn’t have either.
We passed a family with two boys younger than Andy as we looked for a place to sit. All of them were wearing growling Bears sweaters. The older boy smirked at us. The minivan, I figured. I didn’t look around for the drivers of the Audi or the Aspire. We took a table by the window.
“They should be able to take the Lions and the Niners,” I announced. Andy was halfway through his second burger. It was the first thing I said to interrupt our watching headlights pass beneath us. “But after the bye, man, it gets tough. Miami. The Vikes. The Bucs. Ugh. If they don’t start looking better, they’re not going to make the play-offs.”
“Yeah, but do we want to limp into the postseason anyway? I mean, why not just get the draft pick?”
“But you can’t play like that. The guys won’t play like that. They have to look good if they want to get the big money, you know?” I took a drink from my soda. “And the coaches would get run out of town if they did that. You know that. The fans own them; they wouldn’t like that.”
“The McCaskeys don’t seem to mind losing.”
“As they say: ‘McCaskey has no Ditka.’” I tapped my cup against his as he swallowed the last of his burger. He didn’t reciprocate. “Just as long as they beat the Bears at Soldier, huh?”
“Could we go?”
My face muscles tightened; I felt my lips draw taut. That was a popular ticket for the firm. They always tried to get a big client in there for that one, and they always wanted a show of force. Andy looked away.
“Maybe...”
“I gotta go to the bathroom.”
“Okay. I’ll clean up.”
I didn’t enjoy going to the box. I hated it. The chit-chat and bullshit bonhomie with clients or prospects over beers and wings — we were all such regular guys in our luxury suite — while talking business. How to get ready for Y2K. How to open a plant in Mexico. How to find reliable partners in China. Usually the game was background music. Only a few of them could even follow it. Any time one of them said something, it was just rehashed Chris Berman or Dan Pompei.
“What we need are more Grabowskis,” said one west suburban metal bender busy plotting to move a couple of lines to a maquiladora, invoking the word Ditka used to describe blue-collar guys he wanted on his teams.
“You probably got a guy named Grabowski who’ll need a new job soon,” I had replied. It was a joke. That’s what I told my boss the next morning. I was told to consider myself lucky we had kept the business. He left it at that.
I prodded the wrappers and stray French fries onto the tray. I spotted a napkin crumpled under Andy’s chair and reached for it. My shoulder hit the tray, sending my cup tumbling over my back. It hit the floor and sprayed ice across the floor. I swore and started to pick up the cubes. Mama Bear was watching me with a thin smile as I set the last shard on the tray.
I dropped everything in the trash and headed toward the bathroom, wondering what was taking Andy so long. The nut and candy stand by the bathroom was closed. I heard someone yelling. I started to run. I heard words now:
“Favre sucks. Why don’t you get a real team?”
My hands were on the door.
The bathroom reeked of stale whiskey. The fluorescent fixtures cast a nicotine-yellow glow. I looked past the bank of stalls and saw Andy. He was pressed up against the wall near the sink. His eyes were wide and wet. His fingers were spread against the tiles. The only parts of him moving were his carotids, throbbing.
The man standing between us had half a head and fifty pounds on me. A Bears helmet patch was stitched on the back of his army jacket. Wiry black curls sprung from under his knit Bears cap. From the way he rocked in his heavy boots, I was sure he was the source of the whiskey odor. Then he started slurring.
“What, are you going to start crying now, you little pussy?” He stuck his gloved hand at Andy. “That faggot Favre likes to cry.”
And then the man’s body tensed as if to take a step toward Andy. And maybe he did, I can’t be sure. I don’t remember it clearly. I remember what happened next as a fragmented sequence of impressions.
My hands against the man’s back. His headlong fall toward the stall door. The door opening as his face hit it. The sharp, hard crack. The heavy whumpf on the floor. The door bouncing back and forth several times before settling shut. The man’s boots sticking out from underneath it. Then the smelclass="underline" sharp, sweet, and sour at once. Like something rotting.