He kicks one now.
We win. 17–14.
69. the glow of nothing special.
There’s chaos on the field. We shake hands with the Brookline guys, and they quickly retreat as the stands empty and we’re mobbed by fans. The last thing I see is Everest looking back at me, giving me the nod. I gesture with my hand like I’m tipping my hat to him.
Coach gets a barrel of Gator poured over his head. It’s the only time I’ve seen his moustache droop. It looks like there’s a wet mouse sleeping on his lip.
O. gets hefted on top of the guys’ shoulders. I watch him up there, his eyes twinkling. He lives for this stuff. Not just winning. Football. I knew it from the first practice when I saw him on the field. It reminded me of Mom when she’s in the kitchen. Or Dad in his office. They’re perfectly in their element.
The field is O.’s element. He may get to play college ball or he may not. But he’s home now. All the guys are. I can feel it.
Suddenly I’m sad because I know I’m not like them. I practiced with them. We played together, and I held my own. Tonight we’ll celebrate together.
But I don’t love this game. Not the way they do. Which brings up an interesting question. If not football, then what do I love?
Dad appears out of the crowd. He runs towards me, smiling and calling my name.
“That was fantastic!” Dad says. “I couldn’t believe it was you out there. It’s like I had another son and nobody told me.”
“It was okay,” I say. “I didn’t score.”
“It was more than okay,” Dad says. “Outstanding.”
Coach comes over, wringing green liquid out of his shirt. He’s smiling, too.
Dad thrusts his hand out towards Coach. “I’m the father,” he says.
“Pleasure to meet you,” Coach says. “Hell of a game, wasn’t it?”
“I was just saying as much to Andrew,” Dad says.
Coach puts his arm around my shoulder. “I’ve got big plans for your boy, Mr. Zansky.”
“Do you hear that, Andrew?” Dad says.
“Big plans. We’ve got ourselves a natural talent here. A diamond in the rough, so to speak.”
“You’ve got three years to polish it,” Dad says.
“A little guidance, some strength training. This is just the beginning.”
Dad looks so proud, and Coach is really excited. I can see he’s thinking about winning, not just this year, but next year when O. is gone. That makes it hard to say what I have to say, but I take a deep breath, and I do it anyway.
“No thanks, Coach. I quit,” I say.
“Quit what?” Coach says.
“Football.”
Dad laughs. “You’re joking, right?” He nails Coach in the ribs with his elbow.
“I never really liked football. I only did it to impress a girl.”
Dad looks at me like I’m crazy. “What’s wrong with that?” he says. “That’s how I met your mother.”
Coach nods like it’s a fact of life.
“If I’m going to impress someone,” I say, “I’d rather impress them doing something I like.”
“But you’re good at this,” Dad says. He sounds desperate. I know Dad wants me to succeed. Maybe he thinks this is my one chance.
Do you only get one chance? I hope not.
“I’m good at a lot of things,” I say.
“Not like this,” Dad says.
I think about that for a second. Dad’s right. There aren’t a lot of things that three thousand people watch you do in a stadium. I imagine taking the American History AP exam in the middle of the field with people watching. I bubble with a number-two pencil and the fans go wild. Never going to happen. Then I imagine writing a short story. That’s something else I want to do. But people don’t jump up and down when you write a story.
“Take some time to think about things,” Coach says.
“I’ve had lots of time.”
Coach twirls his droopy moustache. “Take some more. You don’t want to do anything you’re going to regret.”
A bunch of guys rush past, and they grab Coach and pull him along with them.
“I’m serious,” Coach calls back to me. “This team is championship material.”
I turn back to Dad. He just stares at me.
“You’re quitting?” Dad says. “Why would you say something like that?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think you do.”
“You wouldn’t understand, Dad.”
“Try me.”
You can’t out-argue a lawyer. I forget that sometimes.
“It’s like I did everything for the wrong reasons,” I say.
I think Dad is going to yell at me, but instead he says: “Right and wrong. It gets confusing sometimes, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“You think it gets easier when you’re older, but it doesn’t.”
Dad shuffles uncomfortably and kicks the turf with his loafer.
“I don’t want you to go to New York,” I say.
As soon as I say it, I wish I hadn’t. Even though it’s what I’ve been thinking for months. Even though it’s the truth.
“You don’t just give up an opportunity like this, Andy. They don’t come around every day.”
I’m not sure if Dad is talking about his new job or football. Before I can ask him, Miriam comes walking towards us across the field.
“Sorry. I had to run to the little girls’ room.”
“She has a tiny bladder,” Dad says. “It’s like living with a gerbil.”
“Stop that,” Miriam says. “It’s your son’s big day.”
“Exactly why you should hold it until we get back to the apartment.”
I clear my throat. “Mom’s giving me a ride home.”
“Okay, then,” Dad says. “You’ll come by the apartment before we leave?”
“Absolutely,” I say.
He musses the top of my hair like he used to do when I was a kid. Then he gives me a hug.
It starts out like the usual Dad hug—more symbolic than anything else—but then he doesn’t let go. Neither do I.
“Whatever you decide, you did a good job today. You should be proud,” Dad says.
“I am,” I say.
I walk away towards the parking lot. When I glance back, the two of them are still there, watching me. Miriam has her arm hooked in Dad’s, and they’re both waving and smiling.
Maybe it’s mean of me, but I don’t wave back.
70. the long short ride home.
“What’s O. Douglas really like?” Jessica asks from the front seat. This is her ten thousandth question about the game, and it’s only a fifteen-minute ride home. I feel a little embarrassed for her, the way she’s so obviously obsessed with the popular crowd. Who’s hot, who’s not, et cetera.
All the same stuff that I was obsessed with.
So I don’t get angry with her like I usually do. I answer her questions as best I can. I try to tell her the truth, share my experience of it all.
I tell her about the time I was playing in O.’s backyard, and I had an asthma attack. I tell her about my secret deal with O. about my inhaler. I tell her how I had a crush on April, how we talked at the party, and I thought she was going to be my girlfriend. I talk about my theory of love at second sight. I know Mom’s listening, so I leave out the stuff about the alcohol at the party. But I tell most everything else.
Mom and Jess seem really interested, even during the boring parts. They sigh and gasp, ask a lot more questions.
A funny thing starts to happen.
The more I tell the story, the more it stops feeling like something that happened to someone else, and starts feeling like it happened to me.
When I finish, Mom says, “What an amazing story. You should write some of this down.”