by Chris Lynch
“I sure hope so,” I said, pulling her closer under my one-arm bear hug.
I felt her stiffen. Not quite resist me, but not quite fall all in, either.
“Don’t get carried away with it, though, huh?”
“No,” I said, feeling myself doing my own version of the stiffen-resist. “No, not carried away, no.”
We sat through a minute or two of silence, the cold feeling cold now, before she removed my arm and escaped from under my hold.
“It’s time, Arlo,” she said, hopping to her feet.
“Yeah, I guess so,” I said, standing up on the step, facing her, both of us being awkward.
“The Starlo thing,” she said, “is pretty funny.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“I won’t be calling you that, though, even if it does get to be a thing. Might not be mentally healthy, y’know?”
“No.” I laughed in what I thought was a convincing way. “I don’t know. But you, miss, can call me whatever you want and I’ll still come running.”
“Hmmm, we’ll see about that,” she said, and slipped away inside.
Cheers
“Do we really think this is a good idea?” Sandy said when I came over to her in the stands, pumped so full of adrenaline I could hardly see straight. Honestly, I had to look at her and Jenna at an oblique angle to get them in focus.
“Of course it’s a good idea,” Jenna said to her.
It was halftime of the first varsity start for both Dinos and me, and I had come to the railing to talk to them while Dinos crawled to the locker room, winded and speechless. Or rather, I came to listen in as they consulted about me as if I wasn’t there.
“Just because they say he’s fit to go back in doesn’t mean he’s fit to go back in,” Sandy said, looking at Jenna while gesturing at me.
Jenna cackled like she thought Sandy was really joking. “That is exactly what it means. If they tell him he can play, he’s okay to play. Don’t be such a girl, Sandy. You sound like you’re his mother.”
She did, worryingly so.
Truth was, I had had my bell rung on one fast-moving pass play during which somebody blocked me at the knees when I was at full speed. Landed on my face mask. Then on the next play I had collided full tilt with a tight end as big as me. I was pulled off the field after that for precautionary measures, that was all.
“You got rocked, Arlo,” Sandy said.
“Maybe so,” said Jenna, reaching and slapping me a high five that I caught just in time. “But that tight end’s not coming back into the game. You, however. Look at you. You’re fine as wine.”
“That’s what they tell me,” I said, laughing, with Jenna laughing.
Sandy, though, failed to see the humor.
Second half, Dinos was happily resting on the bench, but I was brand-new. Shook off the earlier dings, and felt like I could do anything out there. The bounce back after getting banged up could produce a surge of energy and clarity. Like the body was so pleased about feeling fine after feeling not-so-fine that there was a slingshot action that shoots it up into better performance. Almost better than never getting smacked in the first place.
I was in on practically every tackle, part of the pack if not the man himself. We were jumping up and howling after pretty much every play, and it felt fantastic. We weren’t even trying to rub it in. This was pure football, fun football, a real war, dominated by both defenses.
Then late in the fourth, their quarterback suddenly figured out he was allowed to throw the ball, and he started slinging it all over the place.
Our rhythm on defense was all messed up from having our own way all day. I was out of position on two twenty-yard pass plays, and I was furious at myself.
They had a third down inside our thirty with under a minute to play. Only needed three yards for the first down, but I was certain they were going to keep at it and go for the big gain in the air. We were at 7 – 3 and in trouble.
Coach Fisk was thinking the same thing, because he called for an all-out assault pass rush. Our corners were playing man-to-man on their two deep-threat receivers, our safeties bumping up to play more like linebackers watching their slot guys across the middle. Linebackers got the green light to go after the passer.
There must have been spittle gathering at the corners of my mouth, I was so hungry for this.
The quarterback started barking out signals, then “hut-hut,” the snap, and we were off.
The play seemed like it was already a replay, rolling out in high-def slo-mo before me, and that was great because I already wanted this to last as long as possible. I tracked the passer like a number 9–seeking missile as the trench warfare of the line-play churned in front of me. He stayed in the pocket an impressive amount of time as his blockers did stellar work fighting for his space and time. But as everybody seemed to be fighting to a standstill, the quarterback did a spin move, rolling to his right as he left the pocket and legged it far to his weak side sideline looking for his deep threat in the end zone.
It was totally unexpected and I never lost him.
I turned on the burners, beelined it right for him. A big, slow left tackle rolled out, braced for me, and blasted up toward my chin.
My legs and upper body were like two complementary machines doing very different jobs. My lower half continued like I was just doing another of the endless sprints I had run to prepare for exactly this, and my upper half went into no-prisoners attack.
I slammed into that guard with both forearms up, then I jammed him with my right, tipping him the other way. Before he could right himself, I took my left and just smacked him with everything I had, smashing him toward the right sideline, where he crashed at the feet of my coach and screaming teammates.
The quarterback was my reward. He had pumped and was looking to unload his Hail Mary when I leaped, towered over him, cast a death shadow that just erased him before he tucked and I crash-landed on him so hard I was sure there would be nothing but a stain there when I got up.
I was still on the ground when the place erupted. Teammates came over to mob me as time ran out and the game was ours. They pulled me up off the quarterback, who writhed on the ground howling and pawing at his throwing shoulder.
When they had hauled me, jumping and laughing to our sideline, the big tackle I had dumped was screaming at my coach and pointing at me. “Head slap! Head slap!” he yelled over and over as Coach Fisk merely shook his head no at the guy before banging me hard on the shoulder pads and leading the team to the locker room while the home fans roared us off.
After showering and dressing I looked around for Dinos, but he had been quicker than me for once. I hurried to where we were supposed to meet Sandy and Jenna in the parking lot, but when I approached the spot, Sandy was alone, arms folded, on the hood of the wheelless old Ford that had sat in that same parking spot forever. She did not look thrilled.
“What’s the story?” I asked.
Then the story revealed itself.
“You really do get it,” Lloyd said, popping out of the Ford’s driver’s seat and startling me like a corpse emerging from a grave. He wore a black polyester track suit I had never seen before but already looked like it needed washing.
He was a funny old mix of things there, excited and sad, crystal clear and distant. His mouth was smiling but his eyes were definitely not.
“Thanks,” I said. “What are you doing there?”
“I’m taking it for a test drive, thinking of buying the thing. What do you think I’m doing? I came to watch you play.”
“You . . . were at the game?”
“Yes,” Sandy said irritably as Lloyd slammed the car door and sat on the Ford’s front fender, close to her. “Apparently he was.”
“You can play, dammit,” Lloyd said, pointing at me in case I didn’t know who he meant. “You reminded me of me. Even more than last time I watched. Progress, or what!”
That would not have sounded like a complim
ent to anybody else, and all things considered it didn’t to me, either.
“Thanks. Well . . . you were right, I have to say. About hitting. As long as you hit ’em correctly you can hit them as hard as you like and you’ll never feel a thing. Except great. I feel great.”
This left Sandy well underimpressed and me wishing I hadn’t said it. She slid down off the hood of the Ford, and looked anxious to get going. “You’re a stud, Starlo,” she said, using her unfavorite nickname like a pointy stick. She walked right up to me, with her back to my brother.
“Starlo,” Lloyd said with a grin, pointing at me again. Then he hopped off the fender, turned and abruptly walked away.
“Hey!” I called after him. “What are you doing? Where are you going? We were going to grab a pizza or something, why don’t you come along?”
Both of Sandy’s feet were suddenly stepping on mine. I shrugged at her, like what else could I do, even though I had no clear idea why I did it. Because I was feeling all-powerful while he was now all-pitiful? I hoped that wasn’t it, and now I hoped he wouldn’t accept.
“Can’t,” he called as he kept walking.
“Why not?”
She grabbed firmly on to my sides. “He looks, and smells, like he should be eating in a Dumpster, not a restaurant,” she whispered forcefully. Then her nails started digging in around my kidneys.
“I just told you. ’Cause I can’t.”
“Tea for two then, huh?” I said to Sandy as I watched him skulk off into the not-quite sunset.
“Excellent idea,” she said, keeping her firm grip and walking me backward in the opposite direction.
“What happened to D and J?”
“Well, they were waiting, then J met your brother, and suddenly they were too wrecked to go out.”
I sighed. “He sure can tire people out.”
“Oh yeah,” she said. “Wait till you’re playing in the Rose Bowl or something, and he shows up rank and half wasted to tell you for the fiftieth time how much you remind him of him. Imagine how tiring that’ll be.”
I inhaled deeply, sighed loudly. “I can imagine it, since it’s got me pretty exhausted right now.”
***
We sat across from one another in the same old booth in the same old place that I had been going to for as long as I could remember. And it looked just this old, with yellowed mirrors and cracked vinyl upholstery, for as long as I could remember. Every little school or church something, like honor roll or First Communion, would bring all or part of my family here to celebrate. Little League all-star game when I still saw the point of baseball, then peewee and Pop Warner late-season victories would be cause for modestly marking the occasion. These guys did a series of burgers named after New England states and I always got the Vermont. And their thin-crust pizza was the equal of anybody’s, partly because they stuck with it and kept it consistent even when half the city seemed to be switching to stone-baked, flatbread stuff that tasted like pizza toppings smeared across a paper plate. My mother still loved football, in this old place. Lloyd and I laughed at every stupid thing, in this old place.
Sandy and I sat on opposite sides of a shared sausage and black olive pizza, with two vanilla Cokes from the fountain.
“So,” I said as I reached for a slice, “do you love me more now?” I was, admittedly, still running on an overdose of adrenaline that made me as stupid as a football player.
She reached for a slice. Then she put it back.
“I can’t possibly come to all your games, Arlo.”
I had folded the pizza slice in half and bitten off pretty much everything up to the crust. So I had to let that float in the air while I chewed. Sandy took a sip and waited for me.
“How can you say that now, when it’s all just getting so good?”
“It’s torture to watch. My stomach still feels like it’s full of bees. And they’re stinging.”
“You should eat something then—that’ll smother ’em.” I gestured in the direction of the pizza for good measure.
“It’s not hunger, thanks. It’s . . . gruesome stuff going on down there on that field.”
“But you’ve always loved football. You told me that yourself.”
Now she took up a slice. She bit it in such a tentative way the thing looked like it had healed over again when she put it back on the plate.
“I did say that,” she said. “But that was before.”
“Oh,” I said, “you mean, before my mother started filling you up with the propaganda.”
“No,” she said. Shaking her head emphatically, she added, “Yes. But more than that. I loved the game before anyone I cared about was playing it. That says something, don’t you think? That has to say something.”
I stopped eating. I started nodding, without even meaning to.
“Yes indeed,” I said. “It means you care about me. Ha.” I was this close to jumping up and doing a foolish quarterback sack dance and jeopardizing everything.
Sandy sighed. “Yes, Arlo. That. Of course, that. But beyond that—”
“There’s nothing beyond that. Have some pizza.”
“There is a whole world beyond that. If I can love a sport, but then only love it if I don’t love anybody inside it . . . There is something wrong with that. Can’t you see what I’m saying?”
The involuntary nodding returned, and brought a doofus smile with it. “Love. Love is what you’re saying, right? What a day I’m having. What an amazing day.”
She stood up, leaving all the pizza but taking her drink.
“I’m going to go now,” she said.
When I moved to get up, she reached over and pushed me back down into my seat with her palm flat on the top of my head. The spot was surprisingly tender, like I had a bruise up there.
“I don’t think I can talk about this with you right now. You’re still buzzing from your big game, and that’s only right. But I’m not going to be able to feel the same way, so we’ll talk another time.”
When it was clear she had subdued me, she came around to my side, kissed me on the cheek.
“Someday, Sandy, I’m going to replace all those awful stories in that file with good ones, great ones, about my achievements. Magazines, newspapers, the works, all positive stuff. Change The File, change the story, change everything—that’s what I’m going to do.”
“It’s good to have goals,” she said softly, kissed me again, and left.
I watched her go, looked at her empty seat, looked at the uneaten celebration food. Eating the whole pizza by myself was not a problem. Getting blown off by both my friendless brother and my girl on a day like this was.
Fine. Starlo would eat alone, celebrating in the same old victory place. It was still a celebration.
***
Sandy dodged me for over a week after the game. At first it was a case of me chasing after her—calling, texting, angling to intercept her in the hallways at school. She was too invisible for it to be anything but deliberate, and it was too effective for me to pretend it wasn’t getting to me. I tried arriving at her house early enough to walk with her, but it was never early enough because she was always gone.
Finally I got myself out of the house stupid early, woke up the birds, walked through the dark to the coffee shop, and then staked out the school entrance. I was even blowing off my morning workout over this, and she had better be impressed when I pointed it out to her.
I was waiting on the low wall in front of the school when Sandy walked up. She was the third person to arrive, after the custodian and me. Next to me was one large café mocha and one large empty café mocha cup.
“Remember?” I said to her, pointing kind of sideways at the coffee like it had just coincidentally followed me there.
“I do,” she said, taking it right up and peeling the cover off. She didn’t sit down next to me, but when I patted the spot with both hands she relented. She took a sip.
“Iced coffee, Arlo? At this time of year?”
“It was steaming when I got here. Stakeouts are harder than they look in the movies.”
“I guess you mean business.” She drank the coffee anyway. “This isn’t bad, actually.”
“I’ll bring you one every morning if you’ll quit punishing me for whatever it is I’ve done. It’s been awful, you avoiding me like you’ve been doing.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I haven’t handled this very well.”
“Well, what is this anyway? I don’t even really understand the this that you’re handling so very unwell.”
“This football thing,” she said, breathing in the coffee before sipping on it.
“Well, that’s easy. Leave that to me. I’ll handle the football thing.”
“Thanks, Arlo, but I still have to handle my own thoughts about it. When I see you out there . . .”
“You should have seen me last week, Sandy. Oh, man, I wish you could have seen me. It was the best—”
“I did.”
“Huh?”
“I did see you. I went. Thought I should. To give it another try. To see if maybe I’d feel differently.”
“Good,” I said, truly hopeful about this development.
She was shaking her head sadly, looking down.
“Don’t say no, Sandy, say yes. I played really well. I know I did. Everybody told me so. Coach told me so. Said if I keep progressing at the rate I am, who knows where I can go. Who knows, is just what he said. . . . Please, stop shaking your head.”
“When I see you out there trying to hurt people . . . and people trying to hurt you—”
“That is not the objective. When you play the game right, and you play it hard . . . there’s a lot of complication to it. It’s a very sophisticated game, a psychological game as much as anything.”
She took a long drink of coffee, then continued.
“When I see you out there trying to hurt people, it has an effect. I don’t like it.”
“So then what? Are you telling me to quit football?”
“Never. Never would I. You need to play, for you. You’re great at it and, yeah, who knows. You might even be the perfect football player.”
You could probably hear the unspoken but at the end of that from ten blocks away.
