“I don’t know.” The lightness left his eyes. “Coach can’t let me ride on the bus. Remember, I’m off the team until the charges are lifted.”
I nodded and looked behind me. Pops was wiping his hands on an oil-stained rag as he walked toward us. He slung the cloth over his shoulder, then handed me the keys to his truck.
“This is a hard fix. Go on and take my truck.” He looked me in the eye for the first time all week. “This is only for tonight’s game. And I don’t want to see any new scratches or dents when you bring it back.”
Marion’s gaze moved to the small dent on the driver’s side door. I shook my head at him, a warning not to bring it up. Pops’s head would explode—just when we were so close to getting our lives back on track.
Shut up, dude.
He looked away, hiding his smile. Pops didn’t know a thing about the vandalism, and I wanted to keep it that way. We’d washed the mess away and scraped the word garbage off the back window, but the pain still lingered. Brad had done a lot of damage to us in the past few weeks.
Soon, Brad would get what was coming for him. With the emergence of new video evidence showing him as the aggressor, he was going to be in hot water, and Marion would be in the clear.
For the first time in weeks, I felt my jaw muscles unclench.
“Thanks, Pops. We’ll bring it back in one piece.”
“You decided to go?” Pops raised his eyebrow at Marion.
“Yeah.” Marion nodded slowly. He slapped my shoulder, then clasped it tightly. “Yeah, I’ll go.”
17
Darrell peered at my phone screen while he rewatched the video of the fight. He brought his fist to his mouth and winced when Brad slugged Marion in the face. Terrance leaned over the back of his seat and snatched the phone out of Darrell’s hands. He pressed Play, leaning closer to Karim so they could watch it together.
“So, they’re gonna drop the charges?” he mumbled, looking up from the video.
“They have to,” I said, holding my hand out for my phone. I didn’t want the battery to die. I’d need to check back with Marion after the game to get a ride home. “Does that look like disorderly conduct and assault?”
“Hell, nah. And I don’t see him resisting arrest neither.” Karim turned around to wave at Marion through the back window. I turned in my seat as well and looked at Marion, driving Pops’s truck, trailing the bus as we made the short trek to Jasper.
“See? The whole kneeling thing wasn’t even necessary.” Darrell’s eyes tightened as he grinned at me, an accusation still lingering behind his playfulness. “He’ll be back on the field by our next home game.”
“Let’s hope so.” I smiled, too excited about the prospect of Marion playing with us on our home turf next week to let Darrell get under my skin. “But I stand by the knee.”
“Forget you, man.” Darrell waved a hand at me, sinking back into his seat.
We still didn’t see eye to eye on this.
Coach wobbled in the aisle, his eyes hooded as he ran his gaze around the school bus. His hefty figure swayed as our thirty-minute bus ride ended and we pulled into Jasper’s stadium. He chewed a wad of gum as his nails dug into the seat’s green leather. I could see the pulse throbbing in his neck. This was our first game since I’d taken a knee and ripped the cap off Shreveport’s stadium. Anticipation laced with apprehension was in the air.
As we rounded the south end of the stadium, right near the concession stands, we caught sight of a bevy of reporters gathered near the entrance. Coach cussed under his breath.
“I guess this is going to be the new norm.” He straightened his baseball cap and set his jaw tight. “All right, remember what I told y’all. Head straight to the locker rooms. You don’t need to talk to them.”
His eyes narrowed, and he looked at me as if his message was meant specifically for me.
I bristled. Still, Marion’s new surveillance video had soothed my nerves, helping me hold my tongue. A clear and complete view of the fight from start to finish would speak volumes to the prosecutor. It was only a matter of time before the charges against Marion were dropped and he was back on the field. That made me smile.
Marion turned into the visitor lot, away from the pool of reporters along the side of the stadium. At least he’d avoid the minefield. My smile grew wider.
The bus screeched to a halt. Coach Fontenot grabbed his clipboard from the first row, then gave the driver the nod to open the doors.
“Don’t let this zoo rattle you,” he said over his shoulder as he stepped down the stairs.
As soon as the doors opened, a barrage of questions and camera flashes filled the bus. Coach swatted them away. He mumbled “Git!” as he charted a path for us through the crowd. They only circled tighter around him.
I tried to follow Coach, but the reporters closed in around me too. I squinted as camera flashes exploded. Karim grumbled behind me about wanting to get a move on, but I think he was secretly grateful not to be in the limelight. Coach muscled his way back to our cluster in front of the bus doors.
“Coach Fontenot, are you losing control of your team?” A reporter from KILA ABC 11 held a microphone above the heads of her colleagues.
“No, ma’am.” Coach rubbed his short hair, a cocky grin on his face. Sure, Coach had told us we didn’t have to talk to reporters, but he obviously wanted to set the record straight on his coaching abilities. “We’ve issued a full apology for last week’s incident. Now, we just came to play some ball.”
“Do you condone kneeling? What are your thoughts on the NFL’s policy on this issue?” another reporter yelled.
“I have nothing more to say, except that we love our country, and nobody meant to disrespect the flag.” He shook his head.
“Will you be looking to take a knee today, Russell Boudreaux?” The Channel 11 reporter pointed her microphone over Coach’s shoulder toward me.
Cameras pivoted upward, along with dozens of eyes and microphones. Coach bit the side of his cheek. I stammered, warring between speaking out against the blatant racism that existed in our towns and keeping my mouth shut in the interest of the team. Coach’s glare seared into me, and my teammates behind me fidgeted nervously. Feeling trapped, I shut my mouth and looked away from the cameras.
“Like I said. We are confident that justice will be done for our suspended player.” He held a hand up. “We just came to play ball. And nothing else. Excuse us.” He shimmied past the masses, making an avenue wide enough for us to follow him.
Confident that justice will be done.
Coach’s words struck me, but I didn’t know why. They bounced around in my head through the press swarm, all the way to my cubby in the guest locker room. It took me a long time to realize why his words stuck with me. Did I have any confidence in the criminal justice system?
Absolutely not.
Marion still couldn’t play. The prosecutor had overwhelming evidence to exonerate him, and I was more hopeful than ever. But the criminal justice system still had its hooks in an innocent Black man. That was far from justice.
Those hooks could be there for years, through trials and probation. I didn’t understand why Coach was so oblivious to the enduring trauma of police brutality—he was a Black man. Maybe he was so broken down by the system that he’d lost the will to fight for what was right.
And what about all the other Marions out there—the ones without video evidence or a good lawyer? The ones who ended up in jail or worse—dead in the streets. Where was their justice?
If this was justice, then maybe I didn’t understand the meaning of “liberty and justice for all.” I suited up in silence, determined to take a knee and continue speaking out for all of us who were in danger of the same fate as Marion.
* * *
“This is your moment, y’all.” Coach pointed to the locker room door. It was almost time to run throug
h the tunnel and line up on our sideline. He pointed that finger at his chest. “It’s not up to me. I ain’t gonna win this game. Y’all will. Understood?”
“Yes, Coach.”
“I said, y’all are gonna go out there and win!” Coach shouted, sweat dripping from his temples. “And I mean win big. Tick the scoreboard sky-high and take no prisoners!”
The team erupted, the baritone of deep cheers reverberating off the metal lockers. Sufficiently pumped up, we grabbed our helmets and started jogging down the stadium tunnel. I followed, but Coach sidestepped me, blocking the exit.
“Russell, let me talk to you,” he said from the threshold of the locker room. He looked over his shoulder, waiting for the stragglers to be out of earshot before turning back to look at me.
I pressed a palm against my chest, hoping that the pressure would slow my heart rate. His tone sounded serious. I hoped he wasn’t going to renege on his promise to let me play tonight.
“I spoke with Jim Regan.” He leaned forward with a knowing look. “You know, from Clemson. He called this morning.”
And then my heart really started hammering. Clemson University had one of the greatest football programs in the nation. They’d won every game they played last year, and with the way they were playing this year, they’d do it again.
“Head Coach Jim Regan?” I asked, but I didn’t need to. I knew exactly who he was. And if the head coach had taken the time to call our tiny football program to ask about me, it could mean only one thing—a scholarship.
“He had a lot of interest in our program, particularly with regards to you.” He jabbed a finger into my shoulder pads, chuckling under his breath. He slapped the doorframe. “What did I always tell you? You’ve always had a rare talent at this game.”
“Clemson wants me?” I gripped the edge of the nearest locker to steady my balance. Clemson was the reigning NCAA football champion. Clemson was the dream. “Did he really say that?”
Coach Fontenot erred on the side of wishful thinking when it came to his recruitment process. A form letter became a lifeline, assured interest from a top school. He’d make it a point to tell the whole team that the college in question was definitely interested in scouting us. But they weren’t—not really. We hardly ever had recruiters come to our games or follow up with us.
Needless to say, I was suspicious of Coach’s recruiting call with Jim Regan.
All of my insecurities about the team record this season flared up. We were out our MVP, playing a second-string quarterback, had one loss under our belt, bad press in part because of me, and serious team cohesion problems. A top-five school was unlikely to be sniffing around a small-town team like Jackson, especially with all of that going on.
But Coach’s face remained steady, firm in his conviction. This was the real deal.
Clemson was actually interested in me.
“Regan said he watched your tape three times, and he’s impressed.” Coach nodded proudly. Slipping his thumbs in his belt loops, he rocked back and forth on his heels. “He’ll be in the stands at the end of next month, and he’s coming here to watch you play.”
“That’s the rematch against Westmond.” I swallowed hard, wishing Regan was coming for a different game. Westmond was our toughest competition. I hoped Marion would be back on the team, so I could impress the recruiter.
“That’s right. And if you keep playing like you’ve been playing, you’re set.”
I’m set?
I stood there, unmoving except for my heaving breaths. I let the news sink in, trying to accept this new reality. If I finished the season strong—like I did every year—the prize at the end of the tunnel would be a Division 1 scholarship to the best football program in the country.
I’m set! This is what I’ve been working toward!
Coach held his meaty hand out, and I took it, shaking it firmly as he beamed at me. His eyes watered, and I felt mine tearing up too. The only thing missing was my family. My parents would be thrilled—this was the realization of an impossible dream. And Marion—what would he think?
I couldn’t have caught Clemson’s attention without an equally talented counterpart. I didn’t have to look at my highlight reel to know that 90 percent of the balls I’d run were because of Marion’s phenomenal aim. If a Division 1 scholarship was truly within my grasp, Marion should be getting one too.
My hand faltered, my grip slackening. I wasn’t prepared to claim victory until both of us could. I scrunched my nose and looked at the empty surroundings. I should be on the field with my team.
Something felt off. Coach could have given me this news earlier. Why was he telling me now, right before the game?
The notes of the anthem blared down the concrete tunnel. I released Coach’s hand, understanding. He pursed his lips unapologetically.
“I couldn’t let you do it. Not with Clemson sniffing around.” He leaned forward, so close I could see his pulse thump through his veiny forehead. “I couldn’t let you kneel.”
18
Heat waves bounced off the asphalt of Calumet Street, blurring the street lines as they wafted upward. I stood across the street from Marion, too distracted to throw the ball back to him. I had mixed feelings about my conversation with Coach Fontenot, and it was all I could think about. Marion clapped his hands, snapping my attention back to our makeshift practice. I lifted the ball to my chest then sent it flying across the lawn.
“Of course, I’m grateful for the opportunity to showcase in front of Regan. I mean, that’s big-league shit.” I yelled across the road at Marion, who stood below the porch steps—so close to Mama’s flower bed that if I’d thrown the football harder, he might have fallen into it. “But he had no right keeping me cooped up in the locker room during the anthem.”
“I don’t know, Rus.” Marion pawed the football in his hands, shaking his head. “He’s just looking out for you.”
“But it’s the way he told me.” I was still ticked off.
It had been smart, dangling Clemson in front of my face. I’d give him that. And Coach had wasted no time clueing Pops in. The two of them were prematurely patting themselves on the back. I could see it in the bounce in his step—Pops felt vindicated. He’d squeezed my shoulder and gruffly apologized for missing the game. The conditional strings of love were back in their rightful position. I was redeemed in his eyes.
It made me even more annoyed.
I looked over Marion’s shoulder at Pops, who had loudly cleared his throat. His brow furrowed as he tinkered with a suction motor outside the shed, but I knew he was only pretending to work. When he thought I wasn’t looking, he stopped and watched our makeshift practice. But I was a seasoned football player, trained to have eyes in every direction as I covered the field. I saw him.
“Yo, dude.” Marion cupped his hands around his mouth, his hips cocked to one side. “Do you want to practice or not? I thought you were going to help me get back in shape.”
“Sorry,” I said, and it wasn’t just an apology for being a crappy throwing partner. It was also an apology for talking to Marion about the Clemson recruitment. I was starting to feel like an asshole for even bringing it up again—especially since Marion was still suspended. “Any word from your lawyer about the video?”
“He sent the newest video to the prosecutor. Now we wait for him to do the right thing.” He shrugged.
“Gimme one down there.” I pointed down the street, hoping to catch a running pass.
My tennis shoes chomped at the pavement as I ran down the hot asphalt, anticipating a long pass from Marion. The ball whizzed to the right, but it fell short and dipped to the grass long before reaching the road. It wobbled and came to a halt near the sidewalk.
“Damn it.” I cussed under my breath as I leaned against my knees, hands sweating, slipping against my skin. I winced, flashing back to the game last night. Ricky couldn’t make the acc
urate throws Marion could. And when he couldn’t make the passes, I couldn’t do my job. I wished Marion was back on the team, but now his throws were faltering too.
“I’ll get it on the next one.” Marion slumped against the porch railing, squirting his water bottle into his mouth. “But it would help if you just chilled. Y’all won the game last night. Even Ricky did all right. And Coach held you back to tell you some seriously great news. No harm done, right?”
“I guess.” I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand and stepped onto the neighbor’s grass to allow a car to pass. Maybe it was time to let the kneeling thing go.
I ran across the front lawn and down the sidewalk before I threw the football at him. Marion had barely straightened out of his slouch, but he easily caught it. Even on his worst day, he was decent with a football.
We’d done drills out here for as long as I could remember—since we were kids. That was how we’d become so attuned to each other’s playing style. I needed Marion to slip into his familiar groove. He flicked his head, signaling me to run right.
The ball soared, spinning tightly, and landed it my outstretched hands—a perfect pass.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” Marion pumped his fist in the air. He kissed his fist then pointed to the sky, as if sending God a little prayer. He waved his fingers, asking for the ball again. “Mark my words, Rus. I’ll be back on the field in no time. And we’re going to crush it.”
I threw the ball, wanting to believe him, praying that the prosecutor would do the right thing and fast. Our Westmond rematch was in two weeks, and I needed Marion in the game.
* * *
The screen door snapped shut on my heels as I carted the trash to the bin. I slung it over my back, feeling the elastic band dig into my shoulder, then breathed in the muggy night air. I was grateful to have an excuse to come outside, even if it was to take out the garbage. Our tiny house made for tight quarters, and it didn’t seem big enough to hold the chill between me and Marion and my parents.
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