Page 8 of Final Down

I slap the ball with my opposite hand and clutch it at my chest as I nod in question.

“And what feeling is that?”

Reed’s head falls back as his grin spreads.

“Game day, on a pro-level, is like nothing else. On any field. But on ahomefield? It’s downright euphoric. Running out to the huddle, being the guy. You know?The guy.It’s like starring in your own damn movie, the way it all happens in slow motion, and the way you get to write and direct the script. For three hours on the gridiron, there’s nothing but you and the game. All the other noise in life takes a rest. And sure, that stuff doesn’t goaway. It’s waiting for you when you take the pads off. It’s there when you hang up the cleats. But for a few hours every week in the fall and winter, I got to be a superhero. I don’t know if I’d be the man I am right now without having gone through it. Who knows, maybe I would be a better man. But I wouldn’t bethisman.”

He flattens his palm on his chest, and my own heart beats harder. I’m imagining it all, the feeling he described, the way the crowd sounds, the faces of young kids wearing my jersey. The glory is awfully tempting.

“It comes with sacrifice; I won’t lie to you. It takes a toll on the body, sure, but you’re also going to miss things off the field. First words, first steps, dance recitals, Little League games . . .”

My heart cracks at his examples. I don’t want to miss those things. My dad did sometimes, and I remember all the big moments I wish he had been there for—and he wasn’t a professional athlete. He was a firefighter.

“Hey, Coach Stone?”

Brady’s voice pulls me out of my spiral, and I’m grateful to see my favorite skinny sophomore right now.

“Hey, man. What’s up?” I toss the ball to him, and he fumbles it. Reed and I exchange a glance, in complete agreement that this kid does not belong on the fall roster.

“Uh, I was hoping to talk for a minute. I . . .” He drops the ball again. It rolls my direction, so I hold up a hand and pick it up myself.

“Sure, what can I do for you?” I toss the ball to Reed and take a seat on the bench. Brady joins me while my father-in-law goes back to reliving his glory days. Brady is completely uninterested in watching him show off, which sort of amuses me.

“I wanted to find out how to turn in my spring jersey? I think . . . if it’s okay with you, I mean . . . I’d like to try track and field?” He’s vibrating with nerves, and I feel bad that he seems tobe afraid of disappointing me. If anything, his decision gives me relief.

“Absolutely, Brady. I think you might just be a stand-out on the track. Your times out here are solid.”

Brady’s proud and hopeful expression flashes up from his lap to meet my gaze.

“Really?” His face puzzles, but the smile is itching to be set free.

“Oh, yeah. You are always in the top ten for time. And if you don’t have to hold on to a ball when you run, imagine how fast you’re going to be.” It’s not so much the ball as the defender running at him that slows him down. The ball, however, is also problematic for this kid.

His grin inches higher.

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. Anyway, I spoke with Coach Skye, and she said I could work out with them as they finish up the season, then maybe pick it up again for the summer. You think . . . maybe you’d come to a meet?”

I give Brady a half smirk. I did promise him I would.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say, reaching out a hand to shake on the deal. His long, thin fingers wrap around my palm, and his fist pumps with a decent shake. Not bad for a kid with zero body fat.

“Just drop the jersey off when?—”

Brady is already pulling it out of his backpack, so I snap my mouth shut.

“Got it. Well, you’re all set, then,” I say. It’s strange, but the same warmth that coats my chest when one of our quarterbacks finally gets something I’ve been teaching him is settling inside me now. Maybe I just like the idea of guiding someone.

Brady nods again, somehow seeming taller. I bet he’s been carrying the weight of forcing himself into football ever since he started spring ball. I wonder if his uncle pushed him into it.He was a player here after Reed graduated, and was kind of a superstar on the high school level.

I watch the kid head back up the hill toward the library, every step a little longer, his bounce higher. I want to feel like that. I’m just not sure which path comes with the light, puffy clouds, and which one has the gray, gloomy kind.

“You know, if you’re in Portland, you won’t be making many of those meets,” Reed breaks in behind me.

My shoulders sag, but only briefly before I turn to face him.

“Oh, not true. Track is in spring. After the Super Bowl. I can make ’em all.”

It’s partly a joke. Mostly a comeback to my father-in-law’s usual quick wit. But it’s also the first time I’ve spoken as if this new future is a possibility. And that has both of us a bit stalled for conversation. It also puts a bit of a smug grin on Reed’s face.

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