“The famous Bobby Framingham, to what do I owe this great fortune?” She opened the door and enveloped me in her soft arms. When she felt my weight she pulled back and looked at me. “Child, something is not right here. What’s wrong, Bobby?”
I didn’t speak, at least not right away. I stood in the doorway feeling like some other person, totally unable to talk, while Mrs. Bell’s face got more and more illuminated with each passing second. Her eyes got real wide, and then her mouth, too. I wondered if she thought I was taking drugs or something.
“Standing in the doorway like you’re not part of the family,” she said, grabbing my hand hard and leading me into the living room, where Rahim was playing Xbox football. He looked up and quickly paused the game, springing to his feet to greet me. “Sweetheart, help me sit this boy down on the couch,” she said to Rahim, who helped lead me to a seat. “Too much media? Someone looks a little overwhelmed.” Mrs. Bell smiled, and I tried to smile back, but failed. “Child, talk to us!”
“My father has cancer,” I said, and Rahim’s face immediately registered regret.
“My Lord,” Mrs. Bell said, and she came to me and held me tight. I stood there, limp in her arms. Rahim stood back a few steps. I was embarrassed. In a very short time I’d become a problem person, the kind of person I always hated, who needed everything to be about them. I was afraid to look up at Rahim, afraid that he could see how pathetic I had become.
“You up for a walk, B?” asked Rahim. “Fresh air would do you good.”
I nodded, and without a word we headed outside. Rahim’s subdivision is a lot newer than ours. Where we live the houses all look a little different from one another, but here they all looked alike. Carrie called them McMansions once. I didn’t care, I liked them.
“I gotta get my mind on the game,” I finally said, studying the ground as we walked.
“You don’t have to do anything but take care of yourself,” he said.
I turned to him. “How can you say that? There’s gonna be media from across the country there. The team needs me. How can I turn my back?”
We stopped walking. Rahim stretched his arms up at the sky, and I looked up, and suddenly felt very small, there on the sidewalk of a suburban neighborhood in Durango, California. The sky was huge. We’re big guys, but not so big when you think about it.
“You can’t take care of everyone else’s problems. You got issues. I say, deal with your shit before trying to take on all sorts of other people’s shit.”
“So you wouldn’t be pissed if I didn’t play?”
Rahim smiled at me and put his hand on my shoulder. “Doesn’t matter, Bobby. Who cares what I think? You have every right to do the right thing for you.”
I shook my head at him, resigned, and he understood, and we walked on. “You’re probably right, but you know I’ll be behind center tonight, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I know,” he said.
“How’d you get so smart?” I asked.
“My mom, mostly. She has a lot of answers. Lots of questions, too.”
Rahim left his car at home and we drove to school together. We didn’t talk. My mind kept pulling up images of my dad—in the stands watching me in the playoffs last year, swimming in the ocean with me when I was ten—and each one sent a shudder through me.
I felt totally unprepared.
If the only thing separating me from playing in front of a huge crowd was about two hours and my uniform, that maroon-and-gray jersey had better have some serious magic powers, I thought.
We parked, and as we got out of my car, we saw a group of people with picket signs standing near the entrance to the school. Rahim and I quickened our pace, curious to see what was up.
It was a group of weird-looking people holding up the signs. ROT IN HELL, BOBBY FRAMINGHAM, one read. FAGS GET AIDS, read another. A third one, huge black letters on red poster board, read GOD HATES BOBBY.
I felt nauseous, like a huge bubble was stuck in my chest. Their apparent leader, a short, squat older man with a very pink face, saw me and Rahim.
He recognized me immediately.
“Die, Faggot Die!” He began the chant, pointing at me. Soon all of them were pointing and chanting.
Rahim grabbed my arm to pull me away, but I had already lost it. I felt the acid in my chest start to bubble, and then like a volcano it exploded, and I threw up, at them. Rahim jumped away. The protestersrecoiled in horror, as if I’d found their kryptonite. Once finished, I stood up, feeling better. I wiped my mouth with my hand, wiped it on my pants, and turned and walked away with Rahim.
“That’s one way to get back at them,” he said, and I shrugged, feeling like I’d woken up in a parallel universe, where nothing was the same as it used to be.
In the locker room, I sat by my locker and stared into space while Rahim told the story. Most of the guys had seen the signs, and had been pretty shocked by it all. Rocky said it was a church group from Irvine that is big in the pro-family movement, whatever that means. Apparently they once protested the funeral of a gay kid who got beaten to death in Los Angeles.
Dead. I couldn’t get past what I had felt when they all were pointing at me. They hate me. Me. They want me dead.
The locker room was noisy as I started undressing, psych-up music and rowdy offensive linemen. I felt like I was watching it on TV. Rahim walked over and touched my shoulder. “You want to tell Coach about your dad?” he asked quietly.
“Should I?”
“It’s up to you. I would,” he said. I nodded, put my shirt back on, and walked into Coach’s office. He was eating his pregame orange. When I entered, he looked up, distracted.
“What is it, Bobby?” he asked. His tone said: The Answer Had Better Be Nothing.
I took a deep breath. “My dad,” I said, focusing on a crack in the wall behind and to the right of Coach.
Coach blinked quickly. “How’s he doing?” He sucked some pulp out of an orange section.
I cleared my throat, feeling very mature and controlled. I wanted Coach to see that I was a team leader. “He’s in Arizona getting radiation therapy,” I said, as straightforward as possible.
Coach closed his eyes and sighed. “Oh, Bobby,” he said, standing and quickly swallowing what was in his mouth.
“Yeah,” I said, standing tall but totally numb inside. “He has lymphoma, I guess. They think he should be okay.”
Coach ambled over and hugged me, and I tried to be as nonchalant as possible in receiving the hug. “How you holding up?”
“I’m fine,” I said, swallowing hard.
He pulled back and looked at me. “You look terrible. You’ll sit this one out, Bobby.”
I felt an involuntary tug in my abdomen. “I have to do this,” I said. My face felt like it was twitching and I wondered if I was just tired. “They’re all here to see me.”
“You’re in no shape—”
“No!” I said, fending off another twitch. “I can do this.”
Coach sighed and put his hand on my head and left it there. I stood still, feeling like a marionette awaiting a tug, something to make my arms move. “You’re a strong guy, Bobby Framingham. Have to be, going through all you’re going through. I think you’re making a mistake here, though.”
“I can do this,” I stressed. My mouth was bone-dry.
“Well, get through this one game, and we’ll talk later. Can you do that?”
I needed water. Water and a place to sit and be quiet. “No problem,” I said.
“If anyone can do this, it’s you. Keep your eye on the prize.”
I nodded and stumbled out of his office, hoping I looked strong, but completely unsure of my ability to quarterback a team to victory in front of a huge crowd.
The stadium was jam-packed, even more than the usual homecoming crowd. There were TV cameras everywhere, and the first one was in my face as soon as we exited the locker room and hit the tunnel that leads to the field. A guy with a bushy mustache blinded me with a bright light in my
face. “Sorry, poor lighting,” he said.
I felt wobbly as we got to the end of the tunnel. Austin came up behind me and knocked me gently on the head with the back of his hand. “Rahim told me,” he said. “Play the game and I’ll catch you later.” I nodded again. We ran out onto the field and were hit with a deafening cheer from the stands, louder than any cheer I’d ever heard, sort of like a thunderbolt that shook the ground beneath us. “Holy shit,” Austin said as he left me, sprinting out onto the field. I followed, and as I began to run I heard the chanting.
It sounded like two chants, like a radio tuner in between two stations. I heard “Bob-bee, Bob-bee” loud and clear. But there was another, shorter one, too. It took me a few seconds to adjust, and realize they were saying “Fag! Fag! Fag!” in unison. I saw a commotion in the lower stands to my left. There was a fight. I tried to swallow it all down, push the feelings down below my stomach.
We circled on the field and did warm-up drills. Rahim ran over to me before we started and punched me lightly in the shoulder. “Tune it out, B, tune it out,” he said. I looked to the sidelines as we did calisthenics, and watched as several news reporters stood in front of the cameras, microphones in hand, saying God knows what.
I wanted the game to be over. I wanted a blanket over my head. I wanted my mom.
“Cracks are showing, Bobby, toughen up!” said Rahim, next to me, as we bent over, touching our toes. I immediately bolted upright, and felt for the back of my uniform pants. Rahim saw this and started to laugh, really loud. “Not that crack, B!” and when I realized he meant emotionally, I started to laugh, too, and pretty soon I was feeling a bit looser. This is what you live for, play your game.
We led 10-3 going into the second quarter, despite my wandering mind and the fact that I was not all there. Certain plays were vivid, every sound, every sight, every smell, every feeling heightened as they filled my senses. Other times, it seemed like I was watching the play from above, totally disconnected.
I took the snap and saw the breakdown in our blocking and then felt the defender’s shoulder pads as he hit me directly in the sternum. I felt the air pushed out of my mouth, my nose, my eyes. I was on the ground, gasping for air, and the defender who took me down got in my face.
“Fuckin’ queer,” he said, spewing his words into my face. I came away wet with his saliva.
I walked back to the huddle with my head buzzing. Hey! Where are my teammates, my brothers who don’t let other teams talk to me like that?
The next play, I rolled left and found Somers for a nice gain, maybe fifteen yards. Just as I released the ball, I heard the hit before I felt it, a shot to the side, and once again, from the ground, I was greeted by a defender from Los Amigos in green and white.
He put out his hand as if to help me up. “Brave man, Framingham,” he said. I stared at him, unsure if I should trust his hand. “What you did is really cool. God bless you.”
I took his hand, nodded to him, and he helped me off the ground.
Up 17-10 and driving into their territory with time running down in the second quarter, I lost my footing on a running play and wildly tossed the ball back to Mendez. It didn’t go anywhere near where he was, and the ball was loose in our backfield. The crowd roared. A lineman fell on top of me, and I struggled to free myself from him. I watched from the ground as Somers tried to recover it, but one of their linebackers scooped it up and went the distance for a touchdown. After the kick, the game was tied, and it was my fault.
I could hear boos from the crowd, and I tried to shake it off, but I couldn’t. I just kept playing the bad toss over and over in my mind, and by halftime, I was a wreck.
“No harm, no harm,” Coach told me at the half, grasping my shoulder.
That’s when I noticed it. I couldn’t feel his hand.
“Keep your head in the game, Bobby, you’re doing good.” But as he said it, I looked down at my hands and they were shaking. My hands were moving, vibrating, wildly out of my control. I hid them from view and didn’t tell anyone.
I can control this. It’s all in my head.
We got the ball to start the second half, and my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I saw my father’s face when I looked at Austin in the huddle. I looked away. I fumbled the first snap, but luckily we recovered. In the huddle, I tried to apologize, but the words came out funny. My mouth had dried up. A paste had built up around my lips. I swallowed, seeking the wetness of saliva, but there wasn’t any. “Messy,” I said, when what I meant was, “I messed up.” The guys looked at me funny. I finally got the words out to call for a long pass to Rahim.
I looked down at my fingers and told myself to get a grip. The hiked ball hit my jittery hands, and I knew there was trouble. My whole left arm was shaking as I dropped back. I saw Mendez’s eyes as he was blocking for me and they said it all; I was more out of control than I could have ever believed. My throwing motion was fine, but my shaking arm undermined everything. I pulled back my arm and struggled to not hit myself in the face with the ball. I unloaded, shaky arm and all, and unleashed a pass about twenty yards shy of where I was aiming, and slightly to the left. It was a gift to the same linebacker who had just scored a touchdown prior to the end of the first half. He caught it and made a nice gain on the interception return before he was tackled.
My arm was gone.
I walked slowly to the sidelines, aware of the damage I had done, and the fact that I had no confidence that I could shake it off. Coach saw it in my eyes as I took my helmet off. He came over to me and put his hand back on the top of my head. I could feel the heat of his thumb as he lightly pushed down.
“We’re going with Haskins,” he said to me quietly. I looked up at him and tried to speak, but by now the whole world was shaking.
In my head, the phrase had come as Are you sure? I can try harder, Coach.
“T-t-try?” I said, stuttering.
He put his arm around me and guided me to the bench. I couldn’t speak. Coach went over to Haskins and got him to warm up. I sat and hid my head in my hands, rubbed my temples gently with my thumb. I wished no one could see me from the stands, but there were television cameras everywhere.
So I hid my face. While I sat like that a funny thing happened to me. Suddenly it was like I was alone out there, in my own private space, with my head hidden in my hands. And my thoughts had a chance to gather and things calmed a little.
I pictured my arm flailing in the wind. I can’t even control my own body. But instead of feeling horrified and embarrassed, I felt nothing. And then I pictured my father lying in a hospital bed, out of control as well, with all these tubes connected to him, and he had this yellow glow on him, like he was radiating. And I felt a jolt in my tear ducts and knew that I should be crying, but instead my mind was strangely calm.
And all I really wanted was to be alone, out of the football stadium, with my own thoughts.
As I heard the crazy noise swirling in the air around my head, I realized that I shouldn’t have played, I shouldn’t be there at all. I was full. Okay, I thought, okay. I let all the catcalls go. The screaming floated like a cloud over and around me.
“Yeah, boy-eee!” Rahim shouted across the locker room toward Austin and me. The game was over, we had won 31-17 after our defense took over. Haskins played well enough at quarterback for us to win.
I didn’t see a minute of it.
In the locker room, I don’t know if people were avoiding me or not, but everyone was excited. I pasted a smile on my face, gave Rahim a long-distance thumbs-up, and buttoned up my shirt.
They should celebrate. I just need to be alone.