by John Grisham
The ’87 team met at Silo’s cabin a few miles out of town. It was an old hunting lodge, deep in the woods, on the edge of a small lake. Silo had put some money into it—there was a pool, three decks on different levels for serious lounging, and a new pier that ran fifty feet into the water where it stopped at a small boathouse. Two of his employees, no doubt master car thieves, were grilling steaks on a lower deck. Nat Sawyer brought a box of smuggled cigars. Two kegs of beer were on ice.
They drifted to the boathouse where Silo, Neely, and Paul were sitting in folding lawn chairs, swapping insults, telling jokes, chatting away about everything but football. The kegs were hit hard. The jokes became raunchier, the laughter much louder. The steaks were served around six.
The initial plan was to watch the Spartans play that night, but not a word was said about leaving the cabin. By kickoff, most were unable to drive. Silo was drunk and headed for a very bad hangover.
Neely had one beer, then switched to soft drinks. He was tired of Messina and all the memories. It was time to leave the town and return to the real world. When he began saying good-bye, they begged him to stay. Silo almost cried as he hugged him. Neely promised he would return in one year, to that very cabin, where they would celebrate the first anniversary of Rake’s death.
He drove Paul home and left him in his driveway. “Are you serious about coming back next year?” Paul asked.
“Sure. I’ll be here.”
“Is that a promise?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t keep promises.”
“I’ll keep this one.”
He drove past the Lanes’ and did not see the rental car. Cameron was probably home by now, a million miles from Messina. She might think of him once or twice in the coming days, but the thoughts would not linger.
He drove past the home where he’d lived for ten years, past the park where he’d played youth baseball and football. The streets were empty because everyone was at Rake Field.
At the cemetery, he waited until another aging ex-Spartan finished his meditation in the dark. When the figure finally stood and walked away, Neely crept through the stillness. He squatted low next to Scotty Reardon’s headstone, and touched the fresh dirt of Rake’s grave. He said a prayer, had a tear, and spent a long moment saying good-bye.
He drove around the empty square, then through the back streets until he found the gravel trail. He parked on Karr’s Hill, and for an hour sat on the hood, watching and listening to the game in the distance. Late in the third quarter, he called it quits.
The past was finally gone now. It left with Rake. Neely was tired of the memories and broken dreams. Give it up, he told himself. You’ll never be the hero again. Those days are gone now.
Driving away, he vowed to return more often. Messina was the only hometown he knew. The best years of his life were there. He’d come back and watch the Spartans on Friday night, sit with Paul and Mona and all their children, party with Silo and Hubcap, eat at Renfrow’s, drink coffee with Nat Sawyer.
And when the name of Eddie Rake was mentioned, he would smile and maybe laugh and tell a story of his own. One with a happy ending.
