Page 18 of The Progressions

I kept track of when Dad left the house, and it had been thirteen days since the last time. “I don’t have to go there either,” I said. “You and I could do something else. Didn’t you need more ties to hold up the tomato plants?”

“You can’t miss seeing this opportunity,” he said. I passed over a napkin, and he carefully dabbed the side of his mouth. “We can go to the hardware store another time. Take pictures.”

I would, as I always did.

More information had come from Tyler while I was asleep: “10” and “Pass is on the table.” I guessed that it was some kind of pass to get inside the parking lot, because there was a guard shack and they were very careful about who was allowed to enter. From my house, the condo complex was the opposite direction from that place, so I hurried over to get the pass at Tyler’s and then drove out into the country. My dad called me on the second leg.

“Hello, it’s your father,” he said when I answered.

“I know,” I told him, smiling. He always said that.

“I read about what the team is doing today,” he continued. I had bookmarked several good Woodsmen fan sites on his tablet, and he kept up with the news and gossip pretty well. “Their families are coming to have a lunch.”

“Really? It’s like a party?”

No, there would be a practice, he explained. It would be light, though, and family members were invited to watch. Then they would have a big meal together so everyone could meet before the players left on their team trip to Mackinac Island. After they came back from that, it would be time for the preseason.

“I didn’t know they had this event,” I said, and my father explained that it was new as of this season. They were working harder on team relationship stuff, and part of that was trying to bring together the players’ families. “Family” was a constant theme for the whole organization: the fans, players, and employees were all part of the Woodsmen family. We belonged.

“But I’m not really related to anyone and I barely know Tyler.” Barely Tyler. Bare Tyler…there I went again. “Why would he have invited me?” I asked, refocusing. I looked at my dashboard where I had carefully placed the parking pass. Later, I would put it in a plastic baggie and tape it into my autograph book—and that was in my purse, just in case any of the players wanted to sign it.

Dad didn’t know the answer to my question. “Be careful taking pictures,” he warned. “They may not appreciate it, since this isn’t like Fan Day. It’s not for publicity.”

But there was some publicity stuff happening. I discovered that when I arrived at the practice facility, the ugly building painted in the beautiful shade of Woodsmen orange. I pointed out my pass to the security guard and he waved me right into the lot, which looked more crowded than when I’d been here before and had spied over the top of the fence. There were many extra people, including some real photographers. One was snapping shots as we got out of our cars and I tucked back my hair and smiled into a lens, having no idea why she’d want to record my presence.

“Can you send that to me?” I asked. I could give it to my dad.

“We’ll share a link to a website with all the images,” she said, and I went with everyone else toward the big building.

This was a very, very different experience from Fan Day. I had been part of that as a spectator, someone watching the players from across a table and monitored by Woodsmen employees. Not that it wasn’t great, but this? It was amazing! They were all here, including guys from the old teams. I spotted a retired member of the D-line, Vashon Shultz, and I loved him. I almost got teary when I saw him again—and there were so many others. Gunnar Christensen! Good grief, I did have to wipe away tears, even though I could see him whenever I wanted. He and his wife owned a bookstore nearby, and they were often there with their kids.

I was just overwhelmed, because not only were those guys milling around but all the current players were here, too. That included the one I actually knew and who approached when hesaw me. “Hi,” I told Tyler. “Thanks for inviting me to this. Why did you?”

“Hi,” he answered. “I thought you liked the Woodsmen shit.”

“I do!” I said. “I’ll come to all the Woodsmen shit if you ask me. Are you going to practice now?”

“You get to watch,” he said.

“I’ve never been to an actual practice, and I’m really excited. Except, are they going to try to hurt you?”

“We’ll see.”

I looked around more. “Is Shay Galton here?”

“No, she’s in Miami at a club opening.”

“Do you have other family attending? Your mom?”

But then one of the coaches was calling all the current players, and the rest of us followed them toward the indoor field. There were bleachers set up with individual cushions with the Woodsmen logo, and I wondered if they were meant to be souvenirs. My father would have loved to have one.

The family of the new Woodsmen offensive coordinator sat next to me on their own cushions. His wife introduced herself as Alicia Nour and she was very nice, and her kids were funny. They knew as much about the team as I did so we talked for a while, but they got quiet when I said that I was here for Tyler.

“Tyler Hennessy?” one of the daughters asked, and she exchanged a look with her little brother. “I’m not going to say anything.”

“What would you say?” I asked.

“Dalila!” her mother interrupted. She shook her head sternly. “We don’t know him very well, not yet. I’m looking forward to getting to know him better.” Her daughter made a face as if she’d just found a hornworm on a tomato leaf.

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