When he reached the truck, I asked, “What is?”
“My son is seventeen years old and headed halfway across the world to fight in a war because of you.”
“Gil, I’m so sorry that Roger left. I’ve already been praying for him. But what are you talking about? I never wanted him to go. You know that.”
“If you didn’t want him to go, you wouldn’t be coaching,” he said. “You know I wouldn’t let my son play for no lady. Why didn’t you just cancel the season? Why did you have to put yourself out there and embarrass us all? Embarrass the whole dang town?”
The thought of Roger going off to war sickened me. He was a boy. Maybe he was seventeen, but he looked not a day over fourteen. I wanted to cry for Roger, but in that moment, I was flabbergasted by Gil’s accusations.
“You don’t understand,” I said softly. “I don’t expect you to understand. But this one is on you, Gil. This one is on you.”
I put the truck in reverse, backed out of my spot, and left.
Once home, I realized it had been at least a week since my last trip to the market. The refrigerator was bare but for a bit of leftover meatloaf. I warmed it up and whipped up some mashed potatoes.
John was unusually quiet during supper. I was clearly distracted myself.
“Moonshiner cornered me after practice. Said if I’d just minded my own business and stayed away from football, Roger wouldn’t be heading off to war. Not now, anyway,” I said.
“Blames you, huh? That SOB.”
“John!”
“That just ticks me off, Tylene. That really chaps me.”
I let a few minutes pass.
“What if he’s right?” I calmly asked John. I pushed my plate, still nearly full, away from me and turned to John. “John, talk to me. What if he’s right? I couldn’t live with this.”
John—now calm, too—took my right hand. “You had nothing to do with this. This was their decision. And without you, it may have been the decision of every other senior on the team.”
I leaned my forehead into my left palm and closed my eyes.
“Are you okay?” John asked. “Is this starting to take its toll?”
“I’ll be okay,” I said.
I knew something was bothering John, too. I suspected business had been getting slower by the day, but I wanted him to tell me in his own time, so I didn’t ask. We finished dinner in silence.
I began to pick up the dishes when John headed for the back door.
“I’ll be in the garage,” he said. The garage was his sanctuary.
After I cleaned up and washed the dishes, I grabbed my purse and headed to the garage, where I found John sitting at his workbench making fishing lures, a hobby he had long enjoyed. He said it relaxed him, helped him keep his mind off our troubles. I told John I was going to check on my mom and then stop by the football field once more to gather my thoughts.
After an hour-long visit with my parents and Bessie Lee, I pulled into the school parking lot. It was empty. I parked as close as I could to the football field, turned off the engine, and stared at the fifty-yard line. I allowed myself to reminisce about what led me to that moment, about what my father had taught me: Every road in Texas leads to a football field. You pass by one, and you’d swear you can smell the leather of a well-worn helmet. You sit in the stands alone at dusk, stare at the field, and you can see the footprint of every football player who ever suited up, some so quick they left defenders in their stocking feet. Little kids grow up watching their favorite high school team and go to bed at night dreaming of their turn to play.
I took a deep breath and hopped out of the truck, walked down to the field, and paced the sideline. I then stopped and stood at the bottom of the bleachers. As the sun began to set before me, I spotted the section my father and I had sat in when he had begun teaching me the nuances of the game: the upper corner, just right of the press box. I was certain the setting sun had cast a shadow that oddly appeared to resemble the two of us.
I climbed the bleachers, and as I got closer, I began to feel my father’s presence and wished for a moment that he were there with me. I found our spot on the bleachers, sat down, and closed my eyes. In my mind, I could see the band standing at midfield, playing the school fight song. I spotted my childhood babysitter, Corine, playing the French horn. My favorite sounds began to fill my head as if I were hearing them for the first time.
Here come the Brownwood Lions!
I could see the boys running onto the field, hearing the cheers get louder as the team approached its sideline bench. I could see everyone standing: men in their ties, jackets, and fedoras; women in flower-print dresses, heels, and straw hats; children in play clothes and saddle shoes. I saw Shorty Wilkerson and considered gnawing on my nails.
Suddenly, I was startled by the sound of the field lights being turned on. I opened my eyes and saw the dim lights begin to warm up. I looked toward the field house and spotted a silhouette just outside the building’s entrance.
“That you, Miss Tylene?”
“Yes, Wendell, it is.”
I had not seen Wendell’s face, but I had immediately recognized his voice. After all, Wendell was the town Yankee. He used words like yous instead of y’all. Or he added letters to words like warshed instead of washed. Sometimes he even changed a word altogether, like when he said ham and cheese was his favorite sammich.
“Didn’t mean to startle you, ma’am!” he shouted.
“I’m fine. Just about to leave.”
“Don’t rush on my account.”
A few minutes later, I walked down the bleachers and over to the field house.
“How does everything look?” I asked him. “Are we ready for the big game?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m just doing a dry run. Don’t want no surprises come game time.”
I thanked him and turned away. Not two steps later, Wendell whispered, “Miss Tylene?”
I turned back.
“They’re afraid of us, afraid of change,” he said. He smiled. “Go get ’em.”
I smiled back, nodded in solidarity, and headed toward my truck.
I DROVE HOME, eagerly anticipating my game-day visit with my father in the morning. But my enthusiasm was immediately squelched when I arrived at the house. I found John nervously pacing in the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest.
“What’s wrong?” I asked as I placed my purse on the kitchen counter.
“Look at you, you’re so composed, and I’m a nervous wreck,” he said. “Damn Moonshiner.”
“I shouldn’t have told you.”
“It’s more than that, Tylene.”
“Are you having second thoughts?” I asked.
“Yes, actually, I am. It’s taking a toll on you, Tylene, whether you’re willing to admit it or not. I can see the worry in your eyes. I can see that you don’t sleep as well. You’re not eating enough. You’re often distracted. And I can’t get last night out of my head. I didn’t want to bring it up during supper, but we need to talk about this. If the game doesn’t look good fast, they’ll turn on you, Tylene. They’ll turn on a dime. You might be strong enough for that, but I’m not so sure I am. Wednesday just confirmed it. I didn’t see that coming.”
“Now, John? You’re going to do this now?”
“Tylene, I was down at the barbershop this afternoon. You’re the talk of the town, and not so much in a good way.”
“Certainly, that didn’t surprise you. Not after all we’ve been through.”
“No, it didn’t. But the game is tomorrow night. Tomorrow night, Tylene. Our lives here are going to change tomorrow night, and I’m just not sure we’re ready.”
I sat down and folded my arms on the kitchen table.
“I’m not naive enough to think all eyes will be on the boys,” I said.
“They’re going to watch your every move, Tylene. They’re going to look for reasons to mock you.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” I asked, snapping at John.
&
nbsp; “I can’t stand the thought of this town turning on you.”
“So that’s what you’re expecting?”
“Look—the first three-and-out, and you’ll lose the crowd. They wouldn’t expect a perfect game from a man, but that’s what they’ll expect from you. Can you be perfect?”
“Stop it, John! Don’t ask me a question like that!”
“I’m angry with myself for talking you into doing this.”
“Don’t be. If you hadn’t, I might have just volunteered anyway. Look, John, we have to calm down. If we turn on each other the night before the game, then what?”
“I’m not turning on you, Tylene. I’m just so wound up. I had shaving cream all over my face, and the fellas were making jokes as if I weren’t there. Made me wonder what they’d be saying if I hadn’t been there.”
I didn’t respond. John sat down at the table beside me. Minutes passed, and neither of us spoke. He stared at me. He stared for so long, I had to break the silence.
“Please, John, not tonight. Please.”
After a bit of silence, he stood up, and with that, the moment changed. He grabbed a bottle from the highest cupboard in the kitchen, just above the refrigerator.
“Is that what I think it is?” I asked.
“Walter gave it to me at the shop the night you left for Stephenville. Said we might need a swig or two later this week. Watch this. I’m about to break the seal.”
I laughed.
John busted the seal, then reached for a pair of our delicate, hand-painted teacups, dangling on hooks just above their matching saucers.
“Not exactly what you’d expect for Irish whisky, but it’ll do,” he said.
“Oh, I don’t know about this, John.”
“A sip won’t hurt.”
He was right. It wasn’t about the alcohol. I knew I’d only let the sauce dab my lips. It was about the mood. And it worked.
He poured a tiny amount into each of the two cups and handed one to me. He then lifted his up in the air and encouraged me to do the same.
“Here’s to your first game.”
We clinked our teacups and took our sips.
At that moment, we heard a knock at the door.
“It’s about Stanley, Miss Tylene,” Moose said.
Chapter 10
Friday: Game Day
Around three o’clock in the morning, I gave up trying to sleep and sat up. I didn’t expect to wake up John with my slight movement, so I was surprised when I heard him say, “I think I’ll get up, too.”
“I might have dozed off for an hour or two, I hope,” I said. “There’s no way I’m going to get any more sleep tonight.”
I started the coffee and we sat at the kitchen table, both of us still in our robes and slippers.
“I’m thinking I could make the pep rally this morning,” John said.
“I’d like that.”
“Nine o’clock, right?”
“Nine o’clock sharp.”
The Brownwood Bulletin was still hours from delivery.
“You haven’t shared the game plan with me,” John said. “I know you have something up your sleeve.”
I smiled.
“What is it, Tylene? The Statue of Liberty? A fumblerooski?”
“No, no gimmicks. Just some solid football and a few decoy plays.”
“Decoys? Nice.”
I filled our cups.
“If the game is tight, I might go to Bobby Ray on a couple passes. I don’t think Stephenville expects us to pass much, so I hope to catch them off guard. A deep pass or two.”
“Deep?”
“I had them practice it a couple times. Jimmy’s got the accuracy. It’s just an idea.”
John smiled.
“What do you think of a bootleg on fourth down beyond midfield?” I asked.
“If you think it’ll work, my guess is it will,” John said.
By the time the newspaper arrived, I was buried in my notes and mostly oblivious to anything else around me. Eventually, I noticed John open the paper and glance up at me. I could just imagine the headline, but I didn’t want to know. John smiled, and I returned to my notes.
BY SIX THIRTY, I was heading to my parents’ house. When I arrived, I was thrilled to find my mother sitting at the kitchen table. Bessie Lee was cooking bacon and eggs. As I had expected, my father was outside. The back porch faced east, and he seldom missed a sunrise. He swore it was the best part of every day. I grabbed a cup of coffee and walked out to join him. I found him visiting with Enrique Montano, not only his trusted ranch hand but his best friend.
Enrique was a rancher, born and raised in northern New Mexico in a small village called San Jose. He said he was related to nearly half the village residents and was hesitant to leave it twenty years earlier. But when Enrique’s wife, Elena, passed away a year after the loss of their only child, he needed to get away. With limited English skills and few possessions, Enrique headed east on a two-horse buggy with no destination in mind. He didn’t expect to venture halfway through Texas, but he said nothing “sang” to him until he hit Brownwood.
He met my father and began working for him, learning English and working alongside him nearly sixteen hours a day. Enrique insisted there was nothing else he’d rather do.
Upon seeing me, Enrique hugged me, wished me luck, and headed to the stalls.
“If I know my Petunia, you’ve been up the better part of the night,” my father said as we hugged.
“I haven’t slept much in days. I’ve also been doing a lot of thinking about us. Remember our first game together?”
“You thought I didn’t know you were flipping that coin in your bedroom and running coast-to-coast with your doll,” he said.
I paused. “I sat in the stands, Dad, last night at sundown. Thought you should have been there with me.”
“Getting the lay of the land?”
“In a way. I really just wanted to remind myself of why this means so much to me. You know, Dad, you changed my life with football. And it’s not just the game I love—it’s what it’s meant to the two of us. It sticks in my craw when I hear men talk about football as a father-son experience.”
“I guess the world ain’t ready to talk about football as a father-daughter experience,” he said. “But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“The world isn’t ready for a lady coach experience, either, Dad.”
“They don’t know you like I do. But I also know why you’re doing this, Tylene. The town may have forgotten, but we never will.”
“Why is it that the pain never goes away, Dad, even after so many years?”
Just then, Bessie Lee peeked from behind the screen door and declared that breakfast was ready.
“I have to head to school. We just need another minute,” I told her.
“Suit yourselves,” she said. “Dad, you know you don’t like your eggs cold.”
“I’ll be right there,” he said.
“Any nerves?” he asked turning toward me.
“I think I’ve got them under control. Once we get that first game behind us, the scuttlebutt should subside, and we can finally sink our teeth into football.”
“Tylene, I’ve been proud of you for many reasons. But this? This is different.”
“Funny,” I said. “Men do it every day. I guess I still don’t get why the fuss.”
I extended my hand to help him up. He got up slowly, as always, favoring his bad hip. He limped behind me, but insisted on holding the screen door while I entered the kitchen first. I had already eaten breakfast, so I left for school. I had a morning meeting scheduled with Jimmy at 7:15 A.M. and the team at 7:30.
WHEN I ARRIVED at the field house, I found Jimmy sitting at his locker, pumping air into footballs. I walked over and sat beside him. Each time Jimmy inflated a ball, he’d toss it into a basket placed a foot away. He had gotten through only two. He finished the third and handed it to me. Neither of us spoke as I looked down at the football I was gripping.
Twice, I cupped it in both my hands, flipped it into the air a few inches high, and caught it. I was still holding on to it when Jimmy broke the silence.
“Excited?” he asked.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“I’ve been here since six o’clock. You do know Wendell never locks the place up.”
“Any second thoughts, Jimmy?”
“Not one.”
“Is that what you plan to tell the boys this morning?”
“Yes, ma’am. I got my speech all written.” He patted his back pocket to indicate where he had it stashed away. “I’m trying to memorize it, though. I think it’ll be more powerful that way.”
“You know, without you there’d be no game tonight.”
“It really was Stanley, Miss Tylene. He knocked the sense into me. Strange that it took a sailor with an amputated leg to remind us we were acting like fools.”
“Did you know Brownwood canceled a football season once?”
“No, ma’am, I didn’t know that.”
“Nineteen eighteen. The boys should have been playing football instead of fighting a war. Like y’all, they were far too young. You have to do things when you have the chance, Jimmy, and not everyone gets a chance. When you do, you can’t throw it away. You just can’t.” My voice tapered off into a whisper as if I were talking to myself. I tossed the football into the basket and stood up.
“What else needs to get done before the fellas bust through that door?” I asked.
“We’re good. Nothing else, really,” Jimmy said.
“I have to run to my office for a minute, but I’ll be right back.”
As I turned to walk out, I could hear Jimmy continuing to inflate footballs. I knew he had four more left.
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, I was back at the field house. Every member of the team had already arrived. Moose was sorting through the uniforms. Wendell was mopping the floor.
“Fellas, let’s gather ’round,” I said, using my right arm to indicate a circle I wanted formed around me. The locker room was small, so the boys clustered tightly, each down on one knee. I stood in the center.
“Finally, boys, the day is here. Excited?” I asked exuberantly, lifting my arms into the air, imitating the touchdown signal.
When the Men Were Gone Page 14
