“Hey, at least that guy showed up today,” Greg says. “Good thing, too, since I think he’s going to see plenty of action.”
I stand and head toward the kitchen for another beer, but reply, “You know, if you’re going to be a dick, I’m going to go home and watch this alone.”
“I’m not being a dick! I’m stating the facts,” he shouts after me.
To be fair, I’m likely a bit testier than I would be if this was the opening game of the season that everyone was expecting two weeks ago. I guess we’ll never know, though. I’m nervous about Jet, but the past week with the Keaton Busch scandal (dubbed “The Bedroom Bowl” and all sorts of other crude plays on words with the tight end’s last name) has fried the nerves of everyone connected to the team. For the guys on the field today, it’s a major direct factor, considering the front office made Busch inactive (you should have seen and heard all the jokes about that this week) until an official decision is handed down by the league. The reporters want to keep the story alive, but they’re hitting brick walls with players, coaches, and owners, so they’re seeking out peripheral people like me, hoping one of us will slip up and give our opinions about the offenders’ behavior, since we’re not technically under the NFL gag order. I did blindly sign a confidentiality agreement over the summer, though, so I’m not saying a word.
Unfortunately, the media’s not giving up. It’s easy for them to gain access to me. They call me at work, wait for me at my car in the parking lot, and park in the cul-de-sac in view of my house, waiting for me to emerge for the mail or come home at night. I’ve stayed at my parents’ house twice this week. I’d stay at Jet’s, but I’d have to sleep in one of his guest rooms, and that’s too depressing for words.
Not helping matters is my continuing standoff with Rae. We might as well be under a gag order with each other. I’ve heard nothing from her since she stormed from Jet’s house Monday night, and I’m sure as hell not going to be the one to reach out, after what she said to me. It probably says something not-so-flattering about me that I’ve tolerated her utter disregard for other people’s feelings all these years, but reached my limit as soon as she aimed her vitriol at me.
I’m more upset, however, with the way she talked to and treated Jet that night at dinner. It wasn’t fair he had to bear the brunt of her ire for something he didn’t do and would never condone. Her disrespect was unacceptable.
Now Deirdre follows me into the kitchen. “I don’t know how you do it,” she says, nudging her head toward the living room. “I couldn’t watch at all.”
“It’s not that bad,” I lie, because I don’t feel like going into it with her. It’s disturbing how much I suddenly sympathize with Gloria.
One night during Jet’s family’s visit, after dinner, we were sitting around and laughing about yet another one of Jet’s false memories regarding Knox family history. Stretching from the top of the arch leading into the living room, he blamed it on too many concussions.
“Don’t kid about that!” Gloria scolded. “Every time you fall and your head hits the turf, I want to cry.”
David snorted. “Why do you still watch, Mom?”
She pressed her hand to her chest. “He’s my baby, and I’m proud of him!”
Keith and David made good-natured gagging noises, while the ladies mock-scolded them.
“Aw, Mom!” Jet drawled, abandoning his stretches and bending down to give her shoulders a squeeze. “You worry too much!”
Jet’s physical safety isn’t my only concern. I also feel obligated to defend everything he does—or doesn’t do. I’m worried about what he’s thinking and feeling. And already anticipating what I should say, if anything, if they lose this game.
This caring shit is for the birds.
Anyway, there’s still plenty of game to play. Unfortunately.
Suddenly, from the other room, Greg bellows, “FUMBLE! GET IT, FAT BOY! RUN! RUN! RUN!”
I make it to a spot where I can see the TV in time to watch Demarcus Jackson, one of the biggest defensive guys on the team, cross into the end zone and collapse on his back, huffing and puffing while clutching the ball to his chest.
“YES!” I yell, hopping and sloshing beer on my Knox jersey.
From his standing position next to the couch, Greg performs his ridiculous touchdown dance, writhing like a chubby, balding belly dancer, kicking his feet like a drunk, uncoordinated Cossack, then performing the Tomahawk Chop (so many cultures offended) before jerking his pelvis back and forth. “Touchdown! Kansas! City! Who needs offense? We’ll let the defense do all the work today.”
“Hey!” I protest for the sake of propriety. Really, though, I’d be okay with that.
The camera follows Jackson to the sideline, where the first hug he receives is from his quarterback, who grins and slaps his teammate on the butt.
“Aww! Look how much they love each other!” I say, giddiness and relief closing my throat.
Colin giggles. “‘Kiss me, you beast!’” he says, providing a silly dialogue for the exchange between the teammates. “Oh, my! He did nearly kiss that bloke on the cheek. Jealous, Lady Maura?”
“Nope. They’re buddies. They get emotional out there.” I retake my seat. “I’m so glad we have points on the board now. Much less pressure.”
“Jet still needs to step it up. That score’s not gonna hold forever. The defense can only do so much.” Greg says, resuming his spread-out lounging position and digging his hand back into his bowl of Cheez Doodles on the floor next to the couch.
“Yeah, but special teams can get in on the fun, too. It doesn’t all have to be on Jet’s shoulders.”
“That’s why he gets paid the big bucks, Mo.”
We’re still arguing the meaning of “team sports” several minutes later, after
