by Carl Deuker
I took out a piece of paper and wrote it all down as fast as I could, afraid I'd forget it. The next day I turned my paper in to Mr. Pengilly, and the day after that he gave it back with an A+ on the top. "I felt it this time," he had written.
5
Sometimes I think I should have given that paper to my mom, because that was the year she stopped coming to my games. I knew she never really liked them; I knew she was afraid I'd get hurt; I knew she'd felt the same way when my dad had played. Still, she'd always been there.
That changed after the last game of my seventh grade season in Pop Warner. My team was behind 20–16 with less than a minute left. Our defense had stopped the Magnolia team around the fifty-yard line, and my coach sent me in to return the punt. "We need a big runback," he screamed.
The punt was high and short—dangerous to return because a slew of tacklers would be in my face. Any other time I would have played it safe and let the ball bounce, but the coach was right about needing a good runback, and I wanted to win. So I raced up and caught the ball on the dead run. I'd taken one step when one of the guys on the other team leveled me, driving his shoulder right into my gut. My helmet popped off my head and I went down as if I'd been shot. They had to use smelling salts to get me to my feet.
At home I took a long, long shower. My gut was so sore that I had to lean forward to walk. There was absolutely no way I could eat any dinner. So I hobbled into my room, stretched out on my bed, and turned the TV to ESPN. I didn't even know what game was on, because I was in too much pain to pay attention. Instead, I let my eyes wander over all the posters of running backs I have in my room. They go from wall to wall and even cover the ceiling: Jim Brown, Gale Sayers, Eric Dickerson, Emmitt Smith, Barry Sanders—you name him and I've got a poster. I closed my eyes and pictured each of them in action—the pure power of Brown, the grace of Payton, the high knees of Sayers—and then pictured myself doing the same things, pictured a poster of me up there on the wall next to them. My little daydream ended when I heard a tap on the door. A second later, my mother pushed it open. "Can I come in?" she said.
"Sure," I said.
She sat at the foot of the bed. "How do you feel?"
"I'm okay," I said. "Just sore."
She reached over and ran her hand across my forehead, pushing my hair back. I pulled away from her touch, embarrassed to be treated like a child. She took her hand away and then followed my eyes to the posters. "You're not going to quit, are you?"
"Quit what?"
"Football."
"Why would I quit football?" I asked. Then I understood. "Just because of that tackle? Mom, that was no big deal. I'm okay. I got my bell rung. It's part of the game."
She nodded. "I knew you'd say that. It's exactly what your father would say." She paused. "Mick, I love you and I want to be part of your life, but I can't go to your football games anymore. I just can't. Every time you get tackled, I'm afraid you're going to be paralyzed, or even killed. I want to run out on the field and grab you and pull you off."
"That's crazy," I said. "Nothing like that is going to happen."
"Mick, things like that do happen."
"Well, they aren't going to happen to me." I looked at her and saw that her eyes were filling with tears. "It's okay, Mom," I said quickly. "You don't have to come to my games. I'll tell you about them afterward. Or if you don't want to even hear about them, that's okay, too. Really."
She leaned forward and kissed me on the head. "You can tell me about them," she said. "I just wanted you to know why I won't be there anymore."
After my mom left, I tried to imagine quitting football the way she wanted, but I couldn't. What would I do if I didn't play football? I had nothing else that I cared about. Even more, who would I be if I didn't play football? The game was in my DNA; I needed it as much as I needed air to breathe.
6
Mr.Knecht had been my Pop Warner coach for years, but in eighth grade his son, Joey Knecht, quit playing. Our new coach was Mr. Rooney, a guy about my dad's age who'd played college ball at Oregon State. I liked Mr. Knecht okay, but I was excited when I heard we were getting a new coach.
The first day Rooney had us line up on the fifty-yard line. He'd call a name, and that guy would step forward, and he asked a few questions—the typical stuff. Finally it was my turn. "Mick Johnson," he said.
I stepped forward and gave a little wave. "Here," I said.
He looked down at his clipboard and then looked back at me. "You're the old kid, right? The one who should be in high school? The one playing on an exemption?"
It was like being hit in the face. I was totally embarrassed, totally humiliated. Most of the guys on the team didn't know I was older, and the few who did had known for so long it was almost as if they didn't know. Rooney brought it back, and the way he said it made it seem as though I was a cheater.
"I started kindergarten a year late," I said. "My dad thought—"
"Are you Mike Johnson's kid? The guy who played for the Huskies." He said it as if it was something to be ashamed of.
I nodded.
"All right, Johnson. You don't have to give me your life story, though I'm sure it's fascinating. What position do you play?"
"Running back."
He snorted. "Figures."
***
Practice was like every other first practice. We did a lot of simple drills, ran a bunch, and stretched a bunch. Only for me it was different. Mr. Knecht had always praised everything I did. I'd always be the one who demonstrated how something was supposed to be done. For Rooney nothing I did was good enough. He wouldn't even call me by my name. I was "Red" to him. "Pick it up, Red," he'd say, or "Pay attention, Red." I hated being called Red, and the more he did it the more I hated him.
After practice my dad asked about the new coach. When I complained about him, my dad closed his eyes and scratched the top of his head. "Rooney ... Rooney ... Rooney. I think I remember him. It seems to me there was some play where I ran over him and into the end zone. It ended up on SportsCenter." My dad laughed. "That's why the guy doesn't like you. He's still feeling the pain. Just ignore him."
But I couldn't ignore him, because he kept calling me Red, and every time he did, I could taste the anger. Always, in every camp and on every team, I'd been the hard worker, the guy who did everything by the book. But I wasn't that way with Rooney. He was disrespecting me, so that's what he got back. If he told us to get in a perfectly straight line for some drill, I made sure I had one foot sticking out six inches. If he told us to listen up, I always turned my shoulders to the side and looked off across the field; if he told us our break was over, I always took one more slug from my water bottle. Rooney would see, and glower, but what could he do? I was his best running back. You can't bench your best running back for a little twitch of the mouth.
There were two new kids on the team. One of them, Gerard Sampson, quit after the first day. The other was Drew Carney, a funny-looking kid with big ears. Drew played quarterback, had great size and strength, and had a gun for an arm. The guy was a player, and from day one Rooney loved him.
Whenever Rooney blew his whistle, Drew was always the first one in line. In every drill, Drew gave one hundred and ten percent. All through those early practice sessions Rooney would single Drew out and tell the rest of us that we should try to be like him.
One Friday, after I'd loafed during a blocking drill, Rooney pointed a stubby finger at me: "You there, Red. I want you to pull the towel against Drew. The rest of you guys—form a circle and watch. I want you to see this."
Pulling the towel was Rooney's favorite drill. It was basically tug of war, only it was one-on-one instead of in teams. But the watching part was different. Always before, we'd each had our own partner and we'd been all tugging and sweating simultaneously. Only you and your partner would know who won.
Rooney had us face off at the fifty-yard line. The object was simple: pull the other guy completely over the line. I took hold of one end of the towel; Drew
grabbed the other. I looked toward Rooney, but before I was ready, he blew his whistle. A split second later I was lying face-down in the dirt on Drew's side of the fifty. The guys circled around laughed. Rooney glared down.
"That wasn't fair," I said. "I wasn't ready."
"You're never ready," Rooney barked. "Go ahead. Pick up the towel. Try again."
I took my end of the towel and grabbed it as tightly as I could. I didn't look to Rooney this time; I kept my eyes on Drew. The whistle blew. I dug my heels into the ground and pulled. My arms started aching; my legs started cramping. I tried to turn just a bit, but in that split second something happened, because for the second time I was lying face first in front of Drew, and for the second time everyone was laughing.
"You want to go a third time?" Rooney said.
I shook my head.
"I didn't think you would. You're Mike Johnson's son through and through. You're going to end up just like your father. The talent of an all-star, the attitude of a punk. I've seen that smirk on your face for too long. I've seen it and I'm sick of it. I'm not having bad actors poisoning my team. So you think it over, Mr. All-Star Mick Johnson. You want to play for me, then you practice the way I want you to practice. If not, don't come back. Now go sit in the bleachers until the end of practice."
I went to the bleachers and sat, my hands clenched in fists, a lump in my throat. I wanted to hit Rooney for what he'd said and for what he'd done. It wasn't my fault he was a lousy linebacker; it wasn't my fault my dad had humiliated him on the field. Why was he taking it out on me?
Finally the whistle blew, ending practice. As I headed to the parking lot, my dad pulled in. I threw my duffel into the back of his Jeep Wrangler and climbed in. "Bad day?" he said.
"I'm quitting," I said. "I hate Rooney."
He pulled out of the lot. "What happened?"
"Nothing happened. Rooney doesn't know anything about football, that's all. He's stupid and I'm quitting."
He drove in silence for a while. At a red light, he looked over at me. "You need to play on a team, Mick."
"Then I'll play on another team," I said.
"You can't play on another team. The teams are set by where you live. It's Rooney's team or no team, and you're not quitting. So get over it, whatever it is."
7
As soon as we walked in the door, the phone rang. It was Bull Tinsley, one of my dad's old football friends. Tinsley had extra tickets for the Mariners game. My dad put his hand over the receiver and turned to me. "He's got one for you, too," he said. "You coming?"
I shook my head.
I didn't eat much at dinner. After my dad left for the game, I went upstairs to my room, took out my Game Boy, and sat on my bed holding it, not even turning it on. I kept thinking about what Rooney had said about my dad: The talent of an all-star, the attitude of a punk.
What did he mean? What was he talking about?
Around nine I opened my bedroom door, stepped out into the hallway, and tiptoed downstairs. In the living room my mom was drinking tea and watching a Christian television channel. I went back upstairs and turned on the radio. The Mariners game was only in the sixth inning. My dad wouldn't be home for hours.
I slipped into the computer room. I'd done searches on all sorts of things before, but I'd never done one on my dad. I'd never even thought of doing one on him. I had his trophies, his pictures, his scrapbooks.
I opened up Google and typed in "Mike Johnson San Diego Charger running back." I hit Return and the screen filled with sites. I read down, searching for one that fit. And there it was. The dates and names matched.
I clicked on it and was taken to an article from the San Diego Union Tribune. The headline read ROOKIE GIVEN UNCONDITIONAL RELEASE. I read through it, slowly. Lots of it I knew. The career as a Washington Husky. The selection in the third round.
But after that, everything was new. All through the Chargers training camp, my dad had been in trouble. There had been fights with teammates and arguments with coaches. There had been missed team meetings, an arrest for drunk driving, and another arrest at a dance club in Tijuana. On the football field in the preseason games, there were blown blocking assignments, fumbles on kickoffs, personal fouls. "He just didn't have what it takes to succeed in the NFL," the coach said, explaining why he'd cut my dad. "It's as simple as that."
8
I didn't sleep much that night. I lay on my bed, confused and angry. That stuff my dad had said about an ankle injury—it was a lie. How many times had I told my teammates what a great running back he'd been as a Husky? How many times had I said that if he hadn't been injured, he'd have been a star in the NFL? How many of them had known the truth? Some of their fathers must have known all along. They must have followed his career as a Husky and his flameout in the NFL. They'd have told their sons. And if some of my teammates knew, that meant all of them knew. Kids probably talked about my dad and me all the time, talked about us and laughed.
I woke up early the next morning, ate breakfast by myself, and then returned to my room, shut my door, and just sat on my bed, being mad all over. Around ten my dad knocked. "You want to toss the ball around?"
"I don't feel like it," I said through the locked door.
"You're not quitting, Mick. I mean it."
"I just don't feel like playing football right now. I'll play later."
He went away, and I thought what a hypocrite he was, telling me that I had to play. What had he done? Drunk, and missed meetings, and gotten in trouble with strippers in Mexico. He was married to my mom then, too. She had told me that they got married while they were still in college.
A few minutes later he was back at my door, only this time he was pounding. "Get out here, Mick," he said. "Right now."
"I'll play catch later," I shouted.
"I'm not talking about that. I want this door open now."
He was mad, but I was mad, too. I stomped across my room and opened the door. "What?" I said.
He grabbed my arm, yanked me into the spare bedroom, and pointed to the computer. "Have you been checking on me?"
My face went red. "No," I said.
"No? Then what's this?"
The browser was open. He moved the mouse until the cursor hovered over Go. He dragged the cursor down to History and then he clicked. A couple of clicks more and the San Diego Union Tribune article was on the screen. "So tell me again—you weren't checking on me?"
"I wanted to find out the real reason you never played in the NFL."
There, I had said it.
"So you go snooping behind my back?"
My mom must have heard shouting because she'd come upstairs and was standing behind him. "Leave him alone, Mike. He had to find out."
My father kept his eyes on me. "You think I'm a failure, don't you? You read one article written sixteen years ago and you think I'm a failure?"
"I never said that."
"Yeah? Well, that's what you're thinking, isn't it?"
"Stop badgering him, Mike."
"I'm not badgering him. I'm asking him a question."
"You are badgering him."
He glared at her, and then he walked quickly down the stairs. My mom and I listened as the front door opened, then slammed shut. His Jeep started up and we heard him drive off, fast.
9
Once he was gone, my mom went downstairs and I returned to my room. I picked up my Game Boy, but there was no way I could play anything. Around noon, my mom called me down to lunch. Everything looked the way it always did: The cut flowers were in the vase in the center of the cream-colored table in the kitchen. My sandwich, a sliced apple, and a chocolate chip cookie sat perfectly arranged on a rose-patterned plate. A glass of milk was just to the right. Across from my food were my mom's bowl of plain yogurt with blueberries and her cup of tea. Everything neat and tidy, the way she liked it.
I managed to eat half of the sandwich and most of the apple. She finished about the same amount of her lunch. When I was done, I scraped my pl
ate clean and put it in the sink. I turned to go back upstairs, but my mom stopped me. "Sit down a minute, Mick. There's something you need to hear."
I sat.
For a moment she looked out the window at our rosebush. Then she turned back to me. "All those things you found out on the Internet, I know they hurt you. But your dad didn't kill anybody. He didn't rob a bank or burn down a building. I want you to remember that it's just football. Okay? Just a game."
I started to answer, then stopped.
"What?" she said.
I shook my head. "Nothing."
"Tell me."
"It's more than a game to him, Mom," I said. "And it's more than a game to me, too."
She frowned. "Only if you let it be, Mick."
***
My dad didn't come home for dinner that night, but my mom told me not to worry. "He called. He drove up into the mountains, to Roslyn. I told him to rent a cabin and stay the night. He'll be back tomorrow."
I ate half a hamburger for dinner. Afterward, I kept going through what I was going to say to him when he came back. I'd try not to be mad at him, and for a while I'd convince myself that my mom was right, but then I'd get mad at him all over again. All that stuff about his ankle sprain. He should have told me the truth.
He returned Sunday afternoon. We ate lunch together, a fresh bunch of flowers in the center of the table. My mom acted as if everything were normal, but he was stiff, like a stranger, and my stomach was in knots. I was afraid I'd throw up if I ate, but I was afraid if I didn't eat he'd ask me what was wrong. I picked at the cheese sandwich, ate most of a banana, and drank half my milk. After lunch I started back up the stairs to my room, but his voice stopped me. "Let's go for a drive, Mick," he said.
