by Mick Foley
I thought I was going to die. I looked at Terri’s mom and thought she might die, too. Two deaths at the hands of Tietam Brown’s words.
Fortunately, Terri came down, somehow managing to look both wonderful and feminine in a denim jacket, jeans, and work boots, her long wet hair drawn back in a ponytail.
“Hi,” she said. “You must be Andy’s father. He said you like to be called Tietam.”
“That’s correct, and may I say, Mrs. Johnson, that you have a lovely daughter, and may I say to you, Terri, that you have an exquisite mother.”
“Thank you,” they both said in unison.
Tietam smiled broadly, and for just a second I thought I saw what women saw in him, even with his smashed nose and still horribly swollen face. His smile turned to a sly grin, and he said, “Hey where’s Mr. Johnson, I could probably use a man of God in my life.”
“We could all use him,” Mrs. Johnson said, although I couldn’t tell if she meant him or, you know, Him. “But unfortunately, Mr. Johnson is at a meeting with Billy Graham right now in Charlotte.”
“Really,” Tietam said. “Billy Graham the wrestler?”
“No,” Mrs. Johnson replied tersely, “Billy Graham the reverend.” She paused briefly. “May I ask, Mr. Brown, what happened to your face?”
My dad’s eyes, the whites of which had turned red over the past few days, registered surprise. “You mean you don’t know?”
“No, but I sure as the dickens would like to.”
“Well Mrs. Johnson, I guess I was spoiling for a fight and I got what I deserved.”
I breathed a sigh of relief, as did Terri. Mrs. Johnson breathed a sigh of indignation. “The Lord tells us to turn the other cheek,” she said, her tone pure holier-than-thou condescension.
“I did turn the other cheek, Mrs. Johnson,” my dad said. “And he punched that one too.” With that my dad burst out laughing, and I guess his laughter was infectious, because Terri and I joined in too. The infection didn’t spread to Terri’s mother, however, who just glared. Finally, my dad broke the silence.
“Well Mrs. Johnson, as the Good Book says, all have fallen short of the glory of God. I guess I just fell a little shorter than usual on that day.”
“You know your Bible, Mr. Brown—”
“Tietam, please.”
“Mr. Brown, may I suggest that you live its words.”
“That’s very good advice, ma’am,” my father said.
“I will pray for you, Mr. Brown. For you and Coach Hanrahan, so that he may make this town proud.”
“Well thank you, ma’am,” my father said as he walked to the car. “I need those prayers . . . and I have a feeling the coach will too.”
With that my father departed the house, climbed into the Fairmont, batted the fuzzy dice for emphasis, cranked up the Manilow— yes I did just write “cranked up the Manilow”—and waved good-bye.
I studied Terri’s mother through the windshield as Tietam backed out of the drive. A mixture of puritanical and capitalistic values. Dedicated to God’s word and the surgeon’s knife. A woman, I guessed, who would not be licking my dad’s ass anytime soon.
My father was the first to speak. “I hope I didn’t offend you, Terri, with my reference to the Bible.”
“No sir, but my mother offends a little bit easier than me.”
“But I was a little surprised that your mother didn’t know about the, uh . . . origin of my face.”
I was surprised as well. Terri must have lied about four times to her mother, which didn’t seem to fit in well with the Christian motif of the house.
“I know,” Terri said. “It’s just that there are two things that you don’t question in our house. God and Coach Hanrahan. I’d like to, but I . . . just . . . can’t.”
Tietam laughed. “You just pay attention to the coach today. I have a feeling he’s going to surprise a lot of people.”
Terri held my hand in the backseat as we made our way to the big game, as Barry Manilow provided the soundtrack to our own little love story. My dad, of course, sang along. But true to his words, he caused me no embarrassment, the fuzzy dice notwithstanding.
He even gave us our distance as we walked to the field, allowing us a hint of intimacy as the Togas stretched and the band played “Tusk” off in the distance of the playing field on the campus of Cornell.
Amid the pomp and circumstance, Terri leaned in close and whispered into my ear, “How does two weeks sound?”
“Two weeks?” I said, not quite catching her drift. “Two weeks for what?”
“Two weeks until . . . you know.”
“Two weeks? Really?”
“Really.”
She leaned forward and kissed me. I looked at my dad, who gave me a big thumbs-up and a silent, fist-shaking cheer.
The game itself was marked by some rather odd choices on the part of Coach Hanrahan, who was sporting a dramatically shorter haircut for the big game.
Three times the Togas tried to run the ball up the middle on third and long situations. A little strange maybe, but hey, who were we to question the winningest coach in section history?
A punt on third down, however, did raise a few eyebrows, and another punt on second down had the Conestoga fans screaming in anger, a reaction that three quarters earlier would have been unthinkable.
Still, the Togas rebounded, and with the team driving late in the game, trailing 12–7 with only a minute left on the clock, the Conestoga faithful had every reason to believe that Hanrahan would use his mighty arms to snatch victory out of the jaws of defeat.
First and goal for the Togas on the nine and the crowd was in a frenzy. A give to the halfback, who followed a Clem Baskin block for a four-yard gain.
Second and goal on the five. A give to Baskin, who, with chemically enhanced legs churning, lunged to the one.
Third and goal on the one, only eight seconds left. A time-out by Coach Hanrahan, who appeared to have shaken off whatever psychosis was responsible for his earlier gridiron goof-ups. He looked poised and calm, ready to guide his boys to a fourth straight title.
Yeah, the coach sure looked calm. Until he looked our way. At my dad to be exact. At my dad, who amid the hoopla just stood at ease, his hand serenely waving as if he was England’s Queen Mother out for a Sunday stroll on the streets of old London. I swear they made eye contact, and I also swear that something happened to the coach. He began to cry. Softly at first, almost imperceptibly, but then harder. Harder and harder, until Coach Henry Hanrahan lay shaking inconsolably in the middle of the Conestoga sideline.
I looked at my dad, who seemed to be savoring some euphoric high. Eyes closed and smiling peacefully.
The whistle blew, but the coach was still down. Delay of game. Five-yard penalty. Fourth and goal on the six, but still the coach could not be helped. His team rallied around their fallen leader, but the 270-pound behemoth, who by this point had assumed the fetal position, was a tough one to handle. Another whistle, another five yards. Fourth down, eleven yards to go, and the Conestoga fans, including an irate, powerfully built red-faced man who I guessed to be Clem Baskin’s father, were ready to riot.
But then the coach was on his feet. Still trembling, but on his feet. Tears streaming down, but on his feet. On his feet and waving wildly. Motioning for the field goal unit to take the field. Now I’m no football expert, but even I knew that a field goal couldn’t possibly win that game. The team needed a touchdown. So if I knew it, everyone knew it, including the three-time defending champions, who were not all that happy with the field goal suggestion. Not happy at all.
Clem Baskin was the first to show his displeasure—by swinging his helmet full force into the back of Coach Hanrahan’s skull. The coach went down, and the Togas pounced upon him like hyenas with protruding foreheads, punching and kicking, striking and pounding.
Clem’s father was the first one out of the stands, sprinting with short, powerful strides and diving on top of the pile as if joining a World Series celebrati
on. He then joined the boys in pummeling the coach. I looked around quickly and saw no sign of sad Mrs. Baskin.
And then there were more. Parents and players, and students and police. Some fighting, some breaking things up, entrants all into a very odd version of a new Superdance, boogying away to the sounds of sirens and screaming.
Believe it or not, I felt sorry for Hanrahan. Even after the taunts and hatred and the punch. When I looked at him crying, even before Baskin’s brave blast, I saw a defeated man. A hulk of a man, who somehow seemed very small. In a way, I thought, he was kind of like Samson of the Bible, his powers lost without the benefit of his mighty mullet.
As for Tietam Brown, he might as well have had a blanket and lotion, for he looked very much like a child at the beach; all glowing smiles at the wonder before him. That smile then turned left, to a brown-haired young woman who’d been trading looks with ol’ Tietam throughout much of the game. She’d looked merely average when the first kickoff was launched, but with each passing glance, she changed in my eyes, so that by the time things turned ugly, she was decidedly pretty, bordering on beautiful.
So while I held hands with Terri and watched the field fill with bodies, my father got up, took a stroll toward his girl, and within thirty seconds returned arm in arm with her. Just like that. (A snap for emphasis.) Like watching Houdini.
“Come on,” Tietam said, “let’s beat the traffic,” and the four of us walked, two couples, to the welcoming arms of the Fairmont’s cracked seats. And then, once inside, that woman filled the car with conversation and laughter. She bonded with Terri like a long-lost best pal. She treated me like a son that she loved. And as for ol’ Tietam, she reduced him to tears. Tears of huge laughter that welled in his eyes as she questioned his Manilow and hid the blue dice.
Ten minutes tops was all that we shared, but we seemed like a family when we stopped at her house. Or her sister’s house, actually, a small shingled ranch where she was staying for two weeks before moving along. Where? She didn’t say, just “somewhere other than here.”
“Will I see you?” said Tietam, with enough of a stammer so that I saw myself in him. He seemed suddenly shy with a woman like this. Self-assured as she was, Tietam Brown was slightly out of his element.
“Sure,” she replied. “I think that would be cool. But don’t fall in love, because I don’t have too long.”
“Should I call you?”
“No, my sister will flip if an old guy like you calls,” she said with a laugh. “She’ll tell all her friends at the bar. But I’ll give you a ring. You’re listed I hope.”
My dad just nodded his head.
“Brown, Antietam, I think I can find it. Now heal up that face. Bye Terri, bye Andy.”
And with that she was gone. A streak of bright sunshine, in a flurry of fringes.
“Wow,” my dad said as he headed for Terri’s. “I’ve been around, but I’ve never seen anything quite like . . . her.”
I had to agree, and Terri did too. In the mirror’s reflection, I could see him smile. A smile that belonged to a man who had never done nude push-ups or perfected the art of the deal.
He drove on in silence, just savoring her smell; a hint of magnolia in a soft summer rain. A comfortable silence that really felt right, as if no words were needed to fill in the gap.
When we pulled into Terri’s, the silence was broken by the sound of good-bye and a thank-you from Terri to my newly smitten dad.
“Don’t mention it, Terri. Did you have a good time?”
“The game was . . . different. But you were really great. And I like your new friend. I know that she’ll call you.”
“I hope so,” he said, and meant it too.
“Can I ask you a favor?”
“Sure.”
“When I get to my door, can you turn your head and close your eyes.”
“I guess so,” he laughed. “Why?”
“Because your son is going to kiss me.”
The old Tietam Brown would have whipped up a reply to ruin the day. But this Tietam Brown, the new Tietam Brown, just nodded his head and did as he was told. I walked with Terri to her door, and he turned his head.
Terri fulfilled her end of the bargain with a wonderful kiss, first soft and then deep. Then she added a little surprise. She touched my balls. Touched them and rubbed them in a secretive way, so that only my boys and I had even a clue.
“Andy?”
“Yeah.” A voice as high as my penis was hard, but thankfully practice had paid off and my undies were spared.
“Did you like that?”
“Yes,” and actually wished it hadn’t been so brief. Wished it was still going on as we talked.
“I’ll bet no one else has ever touched you like that, have they?”
“Only my foster dad,” I said. Damn. The truth really sucks. All I had to do was lie. One simple lie. Lie, lie, lie, lie. Lying doesn’t make a person bad. Hell, I’d heard Terri tell a bunch of them, and she was the nicest person I knew. Why didn’t I have the power to lie?
“Andy. We’re going to talk about that soon. That and your quarters, and all your other little secrets. But right now you’re going to kiss me one more time, reach up real secret and feel my breast, and go home. Okay.”
“Okay.”
“So give me that kiss.”
I did. A nice one too.
“Now that other thing.”
I did that too. All of the pleasure with none of the spasming.
“That was nice. Good-bye Andy.”
“Good-bye.”
I watched the door close and walked away, doing my best to walk naturally, despite the telltale signs of arousal in my trousers. I got in the car and started to whistle. I think everyone whistles when they’re afraid they’ll be busted. If our policemen just looked for random whistlers, crime would be extinct in no time.
I looked at my dad. “Okay, let’s go,” I said.
Tietam just kept smiling that new Tietam smile.
“Andy?”
“Yeah Dad.”
“Did you just feel her breast?”
“Yeah Dad, I guess I did.”
“That’s a good boy.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
And away we went.
November 14, 1985 / Evening
Later that night, as I often did, I thought of the day. Meeting Terri’s mother, watching the game, my dad’s mystery girl, and my good-night kiss and feel. But my mind kept returning to Coach Hanrahan’s face. When he saw my dad. That look on his face like he’d just seen a ghost. Or worse. I knocked on Tietam’s door.
“Dad.”
“Yes, Andy, what is it?”
“Can I talk to you?”
“Sure, son, come in.” A room that was always off limits, up until now. A tone to his voice that exuded happiness.
I walked into the room and saw my dad, under sheets that were now clean and white, a smile on his face, a Bible in his hands.
“Good book?” I asked.
“The best,” Tietam said. “You know I read it a lot, usually looking for loopholes, but tonight I’m not.”
“No?”
“No, Andy, tonight I’m looking for truth.”
“Did you find it?”
“Sure, kid, it’s all around. You just have to sift a little to get to it.”
I saw the black-and-white photo faceup on the nightstand. I didn’t want to be pushy, but I needed to know. Who was this guy. I needed to know.
“Dad . . .” I tried to sound casual, even if our day had been anything but.
“Yeah.”
“Who’s that guy in the picture, the one next to you?”
Tietam glanced down and took the old photo off the table. He looked at its image, and I saw a slight sign of sadness hidden in a small smile. Without looking up, he said, “His name’s Eddie Edwards.”
“Were you two friends?”
“Yeah, I guess that we were.”
“Do you guys still talk?”
Tietam looked up from the photo. “No, the last time I saw him . . . we didn’t leave on good terms. But I’ve been thinking of calling.”
“Maybe someday you should.”
“It better be soon.”
“How come?”
“Edwards is dying.” He swallowed hard. “Hey Andy.”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Did you like that new girl?”
I smiled. Thinking about her caused me to smile. Still does. “Yeah, Dad, I liked her a lot.”
“Me too,” said Tietam.
“What was her name?”
“I never did ask . . . Do you think that she’ll call?”
“I do, Dad, I do.”
“I hope so,” he said, and he seemed suddenly small. Not small like the coach, but like a cute little child with a secret to share. Then, “Remember that night when I gave you the picture?”
“Yeah, I do,” remembered it well. His trembling hands and the tears on his face.
“Well, she reminds me of her.”
I nodded in silence, and suddenly knew. The answer to the question I’d been asking myself since meeting my dad. What did my mother see in this man? Because I saw it now too.
“Dad?”
“Yes, son.”
“What happened that night?”
“What night?” he said, and he sat up so quick that his Bible fell to the floor.
“Well you, you know,” I said, “that night at the coach’s house.”
Then Tietam relaxed and said, “Andy, sit down,” and I hauled myself onto Tietam’s big bed. He looked at me for a long time, too long it seemed, and said, “Why do you ask?”
“Well because, it uh, just seemed to me that, uh, Hanrahan looked right at you before he, you know, flipped out.”
“Yes, Andy, I think he did.”
“But why?”
“Andy, let me ask you this. How did you feel when you went to school that next day . . . after you were hit by the coach?”
“I guess I felt pain.”
“No, I mean, inside. How did you feel?”
“I guess kind of weird.”
“Weird in what way?”
