I looked down at my plate, studied the casserole.
My father, however, was oblivious. “Don’t you think, Molly? Could you see Bobby starring at Ohio State, or maybe Notre Dame?”
My mother looked at my father and said softly, “I guess I could, if he goes there and I buy a plane ticket.”
I laughed. Her jokes were actually getting worse.
“Wherever he goes is just fine, Donald.”
“Well, USC at the worst,” my father said, exaggerating what we all knew wasn’t true. USC was exactly like his other two, an elite school that had its pick of every quarterback in the country. And maybe I was pretty good, but I was pretty sure somewhere in the United States there was someone bigger, and better.
I mean, there has to be, right? Or else wouldn’t I have heard from more schools? And then I started to freak out, sitting there at the dinner table, started to sweat realizing that at this moment there were quarterbacks all over the country who were opening letters and answering calls from coaches and probably had a pretty good idea where they were headed to next year, and here I was, having heard from only a handful of schools.
“We’re both so proud of you,” my mother said, looking at my father and then at me.
“Thanks,” I said, trying to hide that I was having a little freak session in my brain.
“On to other subjects. How’s Carrie?” My mother offered me a jug of water.
I took it from her and poured some into my glass. “She’s good. She found out today she got the lead in Hairspray.”
“I didn’t know she sang,” she said.
“She doesn’t. Should be interesting.”
My mother laughed. “I like her.”
My father grunted. It was no secret that my father was not a huge fan of Carrie’s, whom he’d never actually met, especially after her prank call a year ago. For two days my dad was walking on air, amazed that MTV executive producer Kathy Quimby had called because she wanted to do a reality show about me, the quintessential all-American California high school quarterback.
I was just confused, until the next day, when I saw Carrie in school.
She was walking toward me in the hallway and had this mischievous look in her eye. She could fool other people, but not me. “MTV, huh?” I said, and she broke out laughing. After I told my father, he always referred to her as “that strange girl.”
It was not a terrible description, actually.
I looked at my dad and offered him more pot roast. He waved it away. He wasn’t eating much these days.
“You should give her another chance, Dad. She’s a nice person.”
He concentrated on swallowing. “You can do better.”
“Thanks, I guess,” I said, before taking another bite of my pot roast.
My father reached for his glass, and as he raised it to his mouth, it slipped from his hands, bounced on the table, and fell onto the hardwood floor with a thunderous crash.
It was like a glass explosion. Little shards flew across the floor.
“Nice work,” I said, kidding.
But when I looked at my dad, he wasn’t laughing. His face was beet red. “Goddamn it,” he muttered under his breath. He then pounded on the table with both fists, making all the silverware jump.
Time seemed to stand still. I didn’t think I’d ever seen my father really mad, let alone table-poundingly pissed off because of a simple dropped glass.
My mother stood and rushed over to him, careful to avoid pieces of glass. “Donald,” she said softly, leaning down and enveloping him in a hug. He sat there with his eyes closed, his face still red.
“Sorry,” I said softly. My heart started pounding.
“It’s not you,” my mother said, her eyes a little dazed as she looked up at me. “Can you give us a moment, sweetheart?”
I nodded, understanding that it was time for me to take a walk, which I did, not just from the table, but from the house.
I walked out and stood in the driveway, shivering in the chilly night air, wondering if maybe my lie to Coach wasn’t a lie, after all. Maybe they’re having trouble? My dad always seemed so cold and distant these days, and I searched my memory for any evidence of problems.
I couldn’t think of anything, but somehow, standing in the dark night in front of my house with my mom trying to soothe my dad inside, that didn’t make me feel a lot better.
10
Game nights were all special, but nothing was quite like the first home game of the season. The stands got packed early, and you could feel the air. It was charged. As we ran out onto the field for warm-ups, the crowd gave us a massive ovation that shook the ground.
The La Habra Matadors, in their green uniforms and gold helmets, swarmed the field shortly after we did, and before I could catch my breath, the game was on. The Matadors scored quickly on a long touchdown run, and then stuffed us on our first drive. After a quick field goal to start the second quarter, the Matadors were up 10-0, and it was beginning to feel a lot like it had felt last year, when we lost 19-3. Their line was huge, but more than huge, they were fast; if any of them broke free, I had about three seconds maximum before I got smashed to the turf.
I got sacked three times in the first two drives, and each attack felt worse than the previous one.
We started our third drive off at our own twenty-five-yard line, and the first play Coach called was a screen pass to Mendez on the left side.
I liked the call. Their defense was beginning to overpursue, and if I could get them to bite on a play fake long enough to set up the screen, we could get a big gain out of it.
We broke out of the huddle and I felt a confidence I hadn’t felt all game, the kind I felt when good things were about to happen.
Bolleran hiked the ball back to me. I dropped back in the pocket and looked right, as if I was heading downfield with a pass. It worked. I sensed the defense adjusting, the linebackers headed to that side of the field. Meanwhile, our fullback and tight end snuck out to the left, in front of Mendez. I swung left and lofted a simple screen pass to him, right on the money, and I could hear the crowd sense the big play before it happened.
Mendez caught the pass and did a stutter step, allowing his two blockers a chance to get set ahead of him. I raced out forward and to the left, hoping I could block someone and help spring him farther. I watched as Mendez raced around the left side, his blockers clearing the path, and I heard the crowd noise swell. Then I saw an arm swing out in front of my face, at neck level.
I felt the hit on my Adam’s apple. It was as if someone had shut off my wind supply and snapped my head backward.
I hit the turf, hard.
I lay flat on my back, straining for oxygen. After several seconds I caught my breath and sat up, looking downfield, and saw the action was a good thirty yards away. I pumped my fist and pushed myself to my feet. Breathing was still tough, but I dusted myself off and trotted downfield.
Then I saw the yellow flag.
It was thrown much closer to the play than to me, but I clapped my hands, knowing that we’d be tacking on extra yardage. You couldn’t get away with cheap hits on the quarterback in this league.
I hustled to where the ref was making the call. He signaled face mask, and I was confused, because the defender hadn’t hit my face mask.
Then he signaled with his arm the direction of the penalty, and I was truly shocked when it was against us.
The referee called it on number 81, Rahim, a flagrant foul. Already smarting from the hit to the Adam’s apple, I felt my face heat up. Rahim was not capable of a flagrant foul; he was strong and powerful and talented, but a gentle giant.
No damn way.
I started to run at the referee when for the second time in less than two minutes my progress was stopped by a stiff right arm. This time it was Rahim himself.
“Leave it alone, Bobby.”
“No way! Their lineman threw me to the ground,” I said, nearly hyperventilating.
“Leave it. Can’t cha
nge things now.”
I calmed myself down and we huddled. Coach signaled in a short pass, and my gut wrenched. We were already down by ten, and now we had twenty-five yards to pick up. What was he thinking with this short stuff? No way were we going to break anything against these guys.
I wanted to go deep.
I looked at Coach, and decided to change the play. No one in the huddle would be any the wiser. I called for a long pass down the sideline, hoping to test their cornerback’s speed against Rahim’s. More often than not, Rahim would win those battles. In case he didn’t, I could look short over the middle to Somers. In that case, Coach would get what he wanted anyway, no problem.
It was a win-win.
The ball was snapped and I took a deep drop, seven steps. Somers was open over the middle, about eight yards downfield.
I wanted more. Rahim was racing down the sideline, about even with their defensive back. I waited two extra seconds and threw it as deep as I could.
As soon as I threw it, I knew it was wrong.
Rahim didn’t have the guy beat at all.
If it was catchable, it would be for either of them, and it could be my first interception of the year. I’d lost my cool, and it would cost me. Luckily, I overthrew both of them by a good five yards.
I sighed, relieved.
“Framingham!” Coach yelled from the sideline. “What the hell was that?” He signaled for a time-out, and violently motioned for me to come over. “What the hell, Framingham? You see something I don’t see?”
“No, Coach.” I took out my mouthpiece and waved it in the warm night breeze.
“So what were you thinking?”
“I wanted to test them deep.”
“Why?” I could see the veins popping out from Coach’s forehead.
“Because I was pissed off,” I said.
Coach shook his head as if he’d never been more certain of anything in his life. “Unacceptable, Bobby. You don’t cost this team a chance to win because you feel something. No damn way. Next time you do that, you’re out of the game. Not to mention a thousand stadium steps a day for the following week.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, looking him directly in the eye.
I felt confident. I’d made a mistake, let a momentary emotion get the best of me, and I was taking responsibility.
Coach nodded at me, accepting my apology, before he turned away to tend to the game plan. I trotted back out to the field, confident that this new change of character would result in a win, and be the major story of the game.
It turned out I was half right. My change of attitude did help the team, and it was one story of the game.
Not the only story, however.
Some of the others involved a hard-nosed Durango team that overcame a bunch of early mistakes to take a fourth-quarter lead at 17-16. Our stellar defense really clamped down on their running game, keeping it in check. Mendez scored once and Rahim scored on a short touchdown pass in the right corner of the end zone that culminated a long, patient drive for us.
Rocky had kicked a thirty-yard field goal to give us a lead early in the fourth quarter.
With less than three minutes remaining, we were trying to run out the clock, driving toward midfield. The crowd was loud and I felt their energy in my hamstrings. On a third-and-long call from our own thirty-five-yard line, I got set in the pocket and saw their biggest defender, number 99, bearing down on me.
My feet froze.
I saw a quick flash of maroon jersey behind him, near the sideline. It was Mendez, and I quickly lobbed a pass toward him. It was a smart idea, but he didn’t see me throw it.
One of their linebackers saw the gift pass and received it gracefully. Had he not inadvertently stepped out of bounds with his next step, he would have returned the interception for a score.
The crowd got quiet. It was the first real mistake I’d made all game, all year. I expected all hell to break loose from Coach and the other guys on the team. I ran to the sideline slowly, deliberately, petrified.
“That’s just a miscommunication,” Coach said, slapping me on the rear. “That happens when you don’t get good protection. Head up, Bobby.”
I looked around. Was he for real? I’d probably just cost the team the game, and I wasn’t being screamed at? Who was this coach?
When I saw my teammates weren’t cursing at me either, but were focused on the game, I bucked up and stopped thinking of myself.
La Habra got to our fifteen-yard line as time ran under thirty seconds. We were out of time-outs, so they let the clock run down to about five before bringing their kicker out. Basically, Roger Gordon was money.
I watched as Gordon lined himself up, talking to himself, settling himself down. I prepared myself for how I would feel after the kick, knowing he wouldn’t miss, and that my senior season wouldn’t end with us undefeated, as I’d hoped. It was prayer time.
The long snapper snapped the ball back and I watched as the holder received it cleanly and placed it under his finger at the correct angle. I watched Gordon stride toward the ball.
Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw a disturbance around the left side of the line of scrimmage.
I saw the maroon-and-gray jersey first, couldn’t make out the 81 on the back, but knew it was Rahim.
He flew untouched past the right-side blocker and extended fully, aiming his hands not toward the ball exactly but toward where it would be a moment later. In the silence, I could almost hear the scrape of ball against bone.
The ball continued upward and I held my breath, wondering if it was possible that Rahim had blocked the kick but that it would still be good. I imagined Rahim’s finger attached to the ball as it sailed through the uprights, but was relieved seconds later as the trajectorychanged and the ball wobbled well short and to the right of the goalpost.
Sometimes you feel like you might explode out of your body. The power of your happiness overwhelms your body and can’t be held by it, and you feel it rush out of you through your fingers, your hair, every part of you.
This was one of those moments.
The scream from our sideline was nearly deafening, and it was joined quickly by a roar from our home crowd that threatened to carry for miles. I rushed out to find Rahim, who was underneath a pile of our guys who were screaming and hollering and beating down with celebratory fists. I looked for other bodies to envelop, and found, first, Mendez. We tangled into each other and jumped up and down, ecstatic. Then I saw Austin. I lunged toward him.
“Careful of the ribs, dude!” he yelled.
I finally found Rahim, who was exhausted from the pileup and soaking from the Gatorade shower the guys had given him. “I owe you one!” I yelled as we hugged.
I was psyched up after the game, talking to reporters, when my mother and father found their way to me.
“Yahoo, Bobby Lee! Sensational!” my mother shouted, throwing her arms around me. I hugged her hard, laughing with giddiness into her shoulder.
“Thanks, Mom!” I yelled, over the blaring noise of the crowd around us. I looked to my father, who was standing by her side, smiling contentedly at me.
“Hey, Dad,” I said, hugging him hard. He felt warm and wet.