A Life Intercepted

by Charles Martin

  He rotated it in its socket. “Tired, but good.”

  “Ice it. Ice is your new best friend.” I turned to him. “We can’t undo in a day what a coach imprinted over two years. It’ll take time. But it’s doable. So hang in there.”

  He looked at me suspiciously. “Are we done?”

  “Finished.”

  “What?”

  “ ‘Done’ is what happens in the oven. Out here, we’re either finished or we’re not.”

  “You sound like somebody else I know.”

  “She’s the one who taught me.” I pointed up the hill. “And no, we’re not finished. You know the drill.”

  He smiled. “Race you to the top.”

  I reached down and grabbed both of the harnesses. “Wearing this.”

  His head tilted sideways as he traced the lines of the harness I’d handed to him. It was tied to a tire. A large tire.

  He pulled on the harness, leaned into the tire, and groaned. “Dude… your old-school coaching is killing me.”

  I sprinted past him. “Come on. That pain you feel is just weakness leaving your body.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”

  “Where?”

  “It’s painted on our locker room wall.”

  “That’s ’cause I painted it there.”

  He mumbled behind me. “Figures.”

  A few minutes later, we stood at the top, staring down over the field in the distance. A coach stood on the field blowing his whistle and shouting orders at a quarterback and several receivers. The quarterback was muscular and looked more like a weight lifter than a football player. The coach was animated, screaming loud enough for his echoes to be heard atop the Bucket, and the throws, while powerful and fast, were acutely inaccurate. Not only was he inaccurate, he was prone to fits of rage that I can only guess he picked up from his dad. While we watched, he screamed and pointed at his receivers. We couldn’t hear what he said, but his body language suggested he was blaming them for balls they didn’t catch. “I guess that’s your coach and his son?”

  “Yes,” he spoke slowly. “That would be them.”

  We watched as more and more balls sailed wide and high. With each successive throw, his body language grew profane, as did his fathers’. “Wow. That guy has a temper.”

  “You haven’t seen anything. He’s just getting warmed up. Wait till he starts throwing the ball in their face while they’re standing in the huddle. Or when the coach smacks them across the face mask with the clipboard.”

  I chuckled. “I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I’m pretty sure those receivers aren’t having any fun.”

  “Coach Damon says fun is what happens when you win.”

  “I certainly had more fun when I won, but it wasn’t limited to that.”

  He paused purposefully. “Can I ask you a question? And will you give me an answer even if the answer hurts me?”

  I heard the echo of my wife in that question. “Did Audrey tell you to phrase the question that way?”

  He smiled. “Yes.”

  “Sure. Go ahead.”

  “You’ve seen enough of me now to know whether or not I can fix what needs fixing and play both”—he pointed at the field—“down there and at the next level.” He waved his hand across the earth stretched out before us. “So can I?”

  I unclipped both tires, turned them on end, and sent them rolling down the hill, where they bounced and crashed into a stack of cars some four hundred yards below us. Coiling the rope from the harnesses, I asked, “You want to?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what I think doesn’t matter.”

  “ ’Course it does.”

  I shook my head. “Nope. Only thing that really matters is what’s—” I tapped him in the chest. Above his heart. “In here.” I nodded down at the field. “Look, we might as well get this on the table right now. Much is made of quarterbacks and their skills. Who’s got the strongest arm. Fastest feet. Best vision. The media constantly gets this wrong, and yes, at one time, I got all hung up on that, too. To some extent, all that is needed. And yes, if you need to hear me say it, you have all those tools. Maybe more than most any kid I’ve seen in a long time, and certainly more than that rock-’em, sock-’em blockhead down there. But in truth, the best quarterbacks aren’t the guys with the greatest skills but the biggest hearts. The question you need to ask yourself is not, ‘Am I better than steroid boy,’ but, ‘How deeply can I love.’ ”

  He looked confused. “What?”

  “For a quarterback, football is not a game about how great you are, but how great you can make others.” I pointed at the receivers. “Take those five guys. Right now, would they take a bullet for steroid-boy or use him as a human shield?” He laughed. “The guys in your huddle don’t care what the statisticians say. Or how you rank in some bean-counters lineup. They want to know how deep into your well you’re willing to dig when everything in your body is telling you that you can’t or won’t. And when you do, they want to know if you’ll do it again.”

  “What if I don’t get the chance?”

  “Don’t get axle-wrapped ’bout what you can’t control. You’ll get your chance. Your job is to make the most of it when you do. You might only get one. And you want to make such an impression that Coach Clipboard,” he laughed, “will lose his job if he doesn’t play you again.” The wind dried the sweat off our faces as more shouts and screams erupted off the field. “When the whistle blows and you’re in a war down there—and make no mistake about it, it’s a war—the guys in that huddle need to see in your eyes something that can’t be measured. Can’t be coached. And it isn’t made better with steroids. The five greatest words to ever come out of your mouth are, ‘We can win this thing.’ Those guys down there want someone they can believe in. And I’m pretty sure they don’t believe in that guy. The answer they’re looking for doesn’t come from your arm strength, forty-yard-dash time, good looks, or the fact that your daddy is the coach. It comes out of here.” I tapped myself in the chest.

  We watched the bodies run routes on the field. A ball left the quarterback’s hand and flew wide right. I spoke both to him and me. “It’s a great game, maybe the greatest. I had a lot of good memories on that field.”

  “You’ll come watch me play this year?”

  I squinted one eye. “Sure. But not from down there. Maybe you can use Audrey’s cell phone and call me at halftime.”

  “You don’t own a cell phone.”

  I pushed him sideways, knocking him slightly off balance. “For you, I’ll figure something out.”

  As we turned to jog down the Bucket, something caught his attention that made his eyes grow larger and wider. I turned and found Audrey walking toward us. She’d climbed up and was carrying her scarecrow dismantling stick on her shoulder. She didn’t look too happy. She marched up to me, pointed her finger in my face, and whispered through gritted teeth. She spoke slowly and articulated every syllable, “You don’t dictate anything to me.”

  I had a feeling she wasn’t finished, so I waited.

  She hefted the stick in her hand. Eyes welling. Her last word was barely audible. “Ever.”

  Having spoken her mind, and decided not to crack open my skull, she turned and left. Dee watched her leave. He leaned in. “What’d you do?”

  “Made her mad.” A pause. “Again.”

  He whispered almost to himself, “I’ve never seen her like that.”

  Audrey disappeared as dark surrounded us. A couple of mosquitoes began buzzing our ears. We started walking down, and I patted him on the shoulder. “Tomorrow morning. Same bat time. Same bat channel.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Before your time. I’ll see you in the morning. Right here. Same time.”

  I turned and started walking off toward the cabin. “Coach?”

  I’d not heard him say that before. “You better call me Matthew, or Matty.”

  He stepped close enough for the streetlight to create a shadow a
cross his face. He picked at the cleats in his hand. “Did you—did you do what—” He nodded over his shoulder. Into the past. “All that stuff like they say you did?”

  “Why?”

  “Just…” He shrugged.

  “Dee, why should you believe anything I tell you?”

  He shrugged again.

  “Innocent or guilty, I can’t prove it.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not asking you to prove it. I’m asking you to tell me. Straight to my face.”

  “You’ve no doubt done your homework. What do you think?”

  “I think if you did, then you got what you deserved. And”—he glanced over his shoulder in the direction of where Audrey had disappeared—“you’re still getting it. And if you didn’t, then…” He lowered his head, then looked back up at me and shook his head. “I’m real sorry.”

  “I think it’s best if you and I keep our eyes on the ball. I don’t know how long we’re going to get to do this, and if I dodge your question, like I’m doing now, and we don’t talk about it, then when you’re asked about your relationship with me, you can answer honestly. Might make things easier on you in the future. You can tell them I said this. Agreed?”

  “Can I ask you one more thing?”

  “Sure.”

  “You still love Mama Audrey?”

  The name surprised me. “You call her that?”

  “She says that when she first met me…” He paused to calculate in his mind. “I guess this would’ve been a few weeks after you went to prison. She was sleeping in the room with me at night ’cause I didn’t like being alone in the dark, and somewhere in there I got scared and called out, ‘Mama.’ Her face always showed above my bed. I guess she didn’t feel right about me calling her that around the other Sisters so she added ‘Audrey.’ Now that I’m older, I call her Ms. Audrey or Sister Lynn around them and in public. But when it’s just us… she’s ‘Mama.’ ”

  I crossed my arms and stared in the direction of St. Bernard’s and the convent, turning my head slightly so he couldn’t see my face. I had yet to answer his question.

  I’m not sure why he continued with his story, other than it was comforting to him and I had the feeling that he felt it would be comforting to me. Which told me a lot about Dalton Rogers. He chuckled. “She used to put me to sleep with bedtime stories about great quarterbacks. Countless. Each one led to another that led to a rivalry or another championship. She knew how to string it out and stretch the tension. I couldn’t get enough of them. ‘One more,’ I was always asking. I had no idea they were true until I got older. For a long time, I didn’t know you two were… Somewhere in the seventh grade, we were watching a video of one of your high school games, and when she didn’t turn it off quick enough I saw her and you after the game.” He shrugged. “I put two and two together.” He pressed me further. “Mama says you love this game more than life. More than her.”

  I nodded. “I do miss it.”

  “So why aren’t you trying out? Making a go of it.”

  I weighed my head side to side. “It’s complicated.”

  He pointed through the trees toward the convent. “She’s pretty sure you’re packing up any day and flying out on some team owner’s jet for a tryout. Keeps telling me not to get my hopes up about you sticking out the summer. To get what I can and not get attached.”

  That was her pain talking. “Dee, I’m not flying out on any jet.”

  The complexion of his face changed from innocent curiosity to honest admission. “I spent some time on the Internet yesterday.”

  He was baiting me. I waited. “And?”

  “Old articles. Video clips from your trial.”

  More silence. More bait. I played along. “And?”

  “That woman, Ms. Custodia, she was… convincing.”

  “Her name is Ginger, and the jury agreed with you.”

  “It’s tough to tell, but it looks like you on the video.”

  “That’s what the jury said.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t believe her.”

  “That’d put you in the minority.”

  He looked over both shoulders. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m half white and half black. Grew up with the nickname Oreo. I been of the minority my whole life.”

  I chuckled. His quick ability to poke fun at himself was refreshing. It also suggested confidence. “I’m sorry about that.”

  “That’s not why I’m telling you.”

  “Okay. Why’re you telling me?”

  “ ’Cause I appreciate what you’re doing and don’t want you to think I’m out here using you for all the ways you can help me while looking at you through the lens of you’re-a-sick-pervert.”

  “What lens then?”

  “I think you may be, or could have been, one of the greats to play this game, and I consider myself lucky to be standing here and you standing there.”

  “Dalton, there are going to be people who, if they find out about you and me, will see my standing here and your standing there as my sick attempt to persuade you. To cause you to believe in my innocence when even my own wife doesn’t believe me. And you need to understand that. The closest person to me on the face of the earth believes I’m a liar and that I betrayed her in the worst way. Add to that, my best friend and one of my former coaches don’t really know what to think. If you and I are caught—found out—folks will call you gullible and impressionable and they’ll call me worse stuff than before. What’s important is this: if you want, and it’s your choice, I’ll coach you—whether you believe in my innocence or not.”

  He smiled and tapped his chest. “I feel you, dog.”

  There it was again. I pressed him. “You sure you understand what’s at stake?”

  He cracked a smile. “I’m a big boy.”

  “Well, take your big boy self on home. Get some dinner. Drink plenty of fluids, and I’ll see you here in about ten hours.”

  He trotted off through the woods. I hollered after him. “Dalton?”

  He stopped, turned, trotted back, and raised both eyebrows. “I think it’s best if you call me Dee.”

  I chuckled. “Okay, Dee… what if you’re wrong about me?”

  He flexed his muscles and smiled widely. “When I get bigger, I’ll come back here and beat you like you did that guy in prison.”

  “You read about that, too, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  He trotted off and I hollered after him again. “Dee?”

  He stopped, turned.

  “Yes, I still love my wife. More than this game we’re playing—and I’d give my left arm right now to lead a team the length of the field on a Sunday afternoon. Or,” I smiled, “Monday night.”

  A big smile. “Thought so.”

  He disappeared through the trees, and I heard myself whispering after him, “Kid, I’d say you’re big enough already.”

  To our left, along the tree line I caught a flash. Like sunlight on glass. Or a lens. I squinted into a dark shadowy space in the trees, and I thought I saw two limbs separate and then return but, given the half-mile distance, it could’ve been the breeze. Or it could’ve been nothing.

  ’Course, it could have been something, too.

  I walked into the cabin, then quickly out a side door that could not be seen. I circled around through the woods, making my way to the fence where I thought I saw the reflection. By the time I got there, I had convinced myself that it was nothing and I was just being paranoid. Empty coffee cups, footprints in the dirt, a half dozen cigarette butts—one still smoking—convinced me otherwise. From their vantage point through the fence, they had a pretty good view of both our practice inside the junkyard and the real field below. Given the older butts piled a few feet down the fence and the matted grass, it was probably practices. If they’d had a camera, like one with a telephoto lens attached to it, they’d have had no problem counting the hairs on my face or the serial number on my anklet. The trail out led to the railroad. I heard an engine crank, so I
took off running after it. When I reached the road, all I saw were red taillights fading into the distance. Below me, a dark-red oil spot stained the dirt, suggesting a leaky transmission.

  Damon and his guys had been working out at the same time as us. Someone had been watching, and possibly recording, either the team’s workout, or ours.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I had given a good bit of thought to this morning’s workout, so I was ready when Dalton showed with a smile on his face. He looked at the yard and everything I’d spread around us. He squinted one eye. “Looks medieval.”

  “I pulled a few tricks out of my bag.”

  He surveyed the torture apparatus around us. “Definitely older than old-school.” He pointed at the rear axle and gear housing of an old three-quarter-ton Ford pickup. “What do you expect me to do with that?”

  “Throw it over there.”

  “Then what?”

  I pointed. “Throw it from there… to there.”

  “And I suppose we keep doing that until you get tired.”

  “Exactly.”

  He stared down at a tractor tire five feet in diameter. “And that?”

  “Flip it over there.”

  “How many times?”

  I shrugged.

  He scratched his chin. “This is going to hurt, isn’t it?”

  I squatted and placed my hands beneath the tire, readying to flip it. “I won’t ask you to do anything I don’t do first.”

  He nodded. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Over the next ninety minutes, we hopped, skipped, ran ladders, pulled sleds, flipped tires, swung a sledge hammer. I took him through various foot speed drills, single leg explosions—some weighted, some not. I strapped a harness to an old Honda Accord that had been stripped of most everything but the tires, and we pulled it back and forth across the yard. Forty yards one way, and forty yards the other. The entire time I was talking in his ear, “Can you sustain power for four, possibly five, quarters of football?” When he started to get tired, I pressed him. “When your primary is a go route, and your secondary is a slant, but they line up in cover 3 with the free safety cheating and the middle linebacker is screaming at your slot receiver, ‘Inside,’ what’s your throw?”