“And now let’s welcome the greatest Woodsmen of all…” Coach Roberts said, letting his voice trail so that the fans could start cheering. They did, clapping and yelling, foot stomping. Jesus and Mary, I knew who was coming out next.
“Warren Wilde!”
My father stepped from beside a tent and onto the artificial grass. He waved at the excited fans in the bleachers and for just a moment, a sharp breath lodged in my lungs. I hadn’t seen him for a long time and despite myself, I looked to see if he was healthy, ok. He was tan, probably from the time he had spent in Florida with my sister, and smiling. He looked more relaxed and happier than I’d seen him in years, really.
Warren Wilde walked very slowly to meet Coach Roberts, because he wasn’t using the canes he needed to help him with his mobility. He’d had knee surgeries last fall, but I knew he still needed a few more operations to repair the body that football had ravaged. Those knee surgeries had led to him getting a very strong prescription for pain, and he had decided to take that medication with scotch. And that bad combination had led to him informing me that he, in fact, wasn’t just my uncle, one of the worst moments of my life.
Ellie insisted on keeping me informed about him now, all the “good” news that she thought would make me change my mind about our father. She had told me that he wasn’t having the other surgeries until he could be sure that he could deal with the recovery afterwards without taking prescription pain relievers. According to her, he wasn’t drinking and wasn’t taking any pills, not after what had happened the night when he had made his announcement to me. Because after he had dropped that bomb, he had swallowed down everything in both bottles, his medicine and his scotch, and he ended up getting his stomach pumped out in the hospital. I started to feel sick, thinking about it.
"…ok?”
I realized that Katie was talking, asking me something, and I was just staring open-mouthed at the field.
“Great,” I told her, not really sure if I was answering correctly. “Sorry, I’m zoning out because these speeches are so boring. Hey, César was telling me that you’re a painter. I don’t know very much about art, but I’d love to hear about it. What do you like to paint?”
She started to tell me about her work and her favorite mediums and how a gallery in California was representing her, and she got really excited and happy talking about it. It turned out that Daisy was hugely into art, also, so she got dragged into the conversation. That took Katie’s mind off what was starting to happen on the field, where Davis Blake and most of the other Woodsmen were donning their helmets. The quarterback had a look on his face that pretty much prophesized death for his opponents, an “I’ll kill you with my bare hands if this is an exhibition game or not” expression.
I remembered Warren Wilde looking the same way before games, like he was going to do whatever it took to win. He was like that in every part of his life—it hadn’t ended when he left the field. I watched Katie’s animated, happy face as she talked about her art and hoped that she didn’t get crushed by her boyfriend, like Warren Wilde had done to all of us. I looked around for my father but he wasn’t sitting in the bleachers, so maybe he had left.
César was standing with the cheerleaders, talking to them. I watched him laugh at something one of the women had said. He had his helmet in his hand until Davis walked by and hit him on the back, then he laughed again and pulled it on, and jogged out onto the field talking to his quarterback. I told myself that it was great that César was back to enjoying football, after he had been so miserable in the fall. So miserable that he had gotten drunk off his ass on tequila and slept with me!
Holy shit, I was on a fast train to Pity Central at the moment. I made myself get off that and watch the game. I hoped that Davis Blake would play well after his time away, I hoped that the new coach would see what a great pairing he had in Davis and César and that he would make César the centerpiece of his offense. I also hoped that a cement truck would drive onto the field and take out the Woodsmen cheerleaders whom César had been talking to.
“Here we go,” Katie muttered, her whole body tensing, and I watched the QB take the snap. He didn’t look any different from the hundreds of other times I’d seen him play. Fluid and easy, Davis Blake threw the ball to César, who moved through the Junior Woodsmen defense until they lightly grabbed him. Ok, that was how they were going to play. Good.
“Are you a Woodsmen fan, Camdyn?” Danielle, one of the excluded girlfriends, asked me.
“Well, I grew up right down the road from here, so yes, of course! But aren’t we all?” I asked, looking around at the crowd of wives and girlfriends.
“I am a fan—now,” she said, laughing. “Before I met Freddy in college, I didn’t give a crap about football. I played soccer my whole life.”
“Really?”
