“Hey man, you know this was totally out of my control, right?” I said, as if I, in fact, had any power whatsoever being the athletic director’s son.
“Yeah, brother, no worries. I know that. They’re not even gonna get suspended for a game or anything. It’s just symbolic. Really left up to Coach.”
Silas spoke like a true African, wise beyond his years.
We took turns spotting each other on the bench press. Silas had envious upper-body strength and could match me set for set, even though he was known primarily for his (regrettably named, completely distasteful, utterly ironic) “slave feet.” Coach Porcello attempted numerous times to entice Silas to play on the football team, even attempting to strike a chord with his Namibian roots and likening the sport to rugby, but to no avail.
“Eyy! Ferraro!” Coach Porcello called out from his office. “Eyy Badenhorst, would’ve been a heck of a player for me. I heard your little brother plays youth ball? Real American sport, Badenhorst. But hey, you’re a good kid.”
“Thanks, Coach P. Come on, Vic. Seven… eight… nine…”
“Eyy Ferraro, I got a call from Wyoming,” he said as he approached the bench.
“Wyoming?” They played in the Mountain West Conference and were one of the smaller Division One schools, but it was still big-time ball. My Jersey heritage would be exotic to the wholesome women of the Great Plains. Plus their nickname was the “Cowboys”—far more respectable than “Millers.”
“No, no. Lycoming. Small school out in Williamsport.”
“Oh…” I said, racking the weight.
“Coach seems like a great guy.”
As Silas and I started to switch positions, Jabie, my Dominican comrade, trotted into the weight room short of breath. “Yo, Vic, you…you gotta see something.”
“What?”
“Dude, someone…someone put up a pic of you on your dad’s office door.”
I left the bench, almost dropping the barbell on Silas’s chest, and met Jabie in the middle of the weight room.
“Of what?”
He looked at Coach and shook his head.
“What, Jabie?”
“You drinking,” he said, lowering his voice, “when you were in Boston visiting your brother.”
Jabie followed me as I rushed out of the weight room, down the hall, and up the steps, knocking over unsuspecting underclassmen with oversized backpacks that pulled them from one side to the other, to my father’s office on the second floor.
“Did you take it down?”
“Uh… no, man.”
“Why not?!”
“Shit, I don’t know! I didn’t know what was going on!”
I came to a screeching halt, knocking more underclassmen, who had formed a semicircle around the printed-out photograph taped to the glass, out of the way.
There I was, in my drunken glory, yellow stains on my white t-shirt, with my eyes barely open, half-empty bottle of Hayman’s whiskey in hand. I ripped down the photo and swung around to yell at the group that had gathered around the door, but they had already scattered. Only Jabie stood behind me, silent. I peeked through the glass, but my father’s chair was empty. His secretary scribbled away about something with the phone tucked between her shoulder and ear.
“Carol, why didn’t you take this down?” I said, swinging the door open, the crumpled picture in my hand.
“What’s that, dear? Whatcha got there?” She had no idea. Carol was a yacyadonne, constantly on the phone with her “movie star” son out in California who was “on the verge” of “making it big.” “Sorry, dear, I’m on the phone with Jimmy. Your father is in a meeting.”
Perhaps I caught a break. Maybe the picture went up after my father had left for the meeting and this whole thing will blow…
Fuck you, Frankie Valli!
Click. “…Hey, Dad.”
“Vito, it’s your father. What the… what the heck is this I’m hearing about a photo of you drinking?”
“Yeah… it’s from when I was up at Tony’s.”
“I thought I told him not to let you drink?!”
“Come on, Dad. And it’s like, not of me drinking. I’m just holding a bottle of whiskey. But I took it down.”
“Okay. Well, I can’t say I’m happy about this, Vito. Ya know? What if the recruiters hear about this, huh? Oh, did Coach tell you about Lycoming?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, great. Maybe we’ll take a trip out there. Oh, and Vito, who do you think put up the picture?”
Pierce Stone had always considered himself a member of the soccer team—the Jew Crew was very much represented on its roster—even though his daily wake-and-bakes and lunch volcano hits rendered him inept at jogging twenty yards without dry heaving. Therefore any perceived injustice committed against his Crew by my family would result in swift retaliation—he might as well signed have his name at the bottom of the damn picture.
“I don’t know, Dad,” I said, a blatant lie.
I left my father’s office in a frenzy so terrifying even the teachers and custodians stayed out of my path so they wouldn’t get trampled by the football captain turned orc. It was the threshold of fifth period and I thought if I rushed to the seniors’ parking lot I might be able to catch the bastard before he departed for lunch.
“Vic, man, what are you doing?” Jabie, my voice of reason, followed behind at a trot. “Yo, don’t do anything stupid.”
“I’m gonna end this motherfucker,” I said, broad-shouldering through the hall like some sort of stereotype I had never imagined becoming—I suppose it beats being the squashable cockroach.
Text from 973-555-7767: Vic, I heard you’re getting suspended for drinking.
Text from 973-555-7767: What happened? You can talk to me.
I ignored Maria’s texts and continued to plow through the hallway until I burst out of the high school and into the parking lot, spotting the bright yellow Hummer against the sun-soaked pavement—if there was life on Mars, those green-heads would be able to see this vehicle from outer space.
Audis, BMWs, and Acuras parted for me like I was Moses mid-metamorphosis into Mr. Hyde as I approached Pierce Stone, guffaw-deep in an absolutely lovely anecdote with John Thompson, Josh Glassman, et al. expanding and taking over
