—Want to go somewhere else? Horace asks, which tells me I’m not hiding my panic very well.
—No no. This is fine.
The fans are harmless, as football folks go. They aren’t pounding tequila shots or climbing onto the bar, and when one bumps into our stools, he sincerely apologizes rather than calling us faggots with his eyes. But I’m still having trouble concentrating on what Horace is saying, struggling to watch him rather than the game that’s flashing in my peripheral vision. Horace himself is growing agitated, and I worry this is my fault until Green Bay scores and the group erupts into boos. With that, Horace sets down his beer, raises his eyes toward the ceiling, and sings out:
—Enjoy it while it laaaaaaaasts.
He lifts the long a up an octave, his voice tight and tart. The fans don’t hear it over the broadcast. Horace sighs and says to me:
—That game is dying. Peewee enrollment, plummeting. Ratings, too. The bodies are going to run out, then the money. Nobody is going to even know how to play football in a hundred years. And good fucking riddance.
Defensiveness rises in me for the game I despise, but speaking out now would only force me to confess everything, so I fake a laugh and clink my glass with Horace’s. After taking a sip of his beer, Horace lays his hand on my thigh. He asks again if I want to go somewhere else—except the way he’s looking at me signals that “somewhere else” is no longer a different bar, it’s one of our apartments. I say yes and he smiles and hops off his seat, excusing himself. I watch him walk to the back and join a long bathroom line of full-bladdered Arizona fans.
I am fine, I am better than fine—until I look up and see that Reshawn, my Reshawn, is on TV, or at least a photograph of him is. He’s wearing dreadlocks these days, designer dreads, short and tight and henna-tinted, forming a kind of starburst around his head. He’s gotten so muscular that he looks slightly unconvincing, like a sculpture by an also-ran Renaissance artist who mastered individual muscles but lacked the skill to make the muscles cohere into a living, breathing whole. But the eyes work, they’re just as I remember them, dark brown, smolderingly intelligent, and I can’t believe I’m seeing him, Reshawn.
The photograph occupies the top right corner of the screen while a halftime news announcer says:
—The legal saga continues between the Seattle Seahawks and Reshawn McCoy. McCoy, a six-year veteran tailback, was a lock for the starting spot this season when he unexpectedly announced his retirement from football during training camp. The Seahawks have initiated proceedings for breach of contract. McCoy was in the middle of a three-year, four-million-dollar deal.
The announcer moves on to the next item without giving more information. For years—for my health—I’ve abstained from reading anything about Reshawn, but I can’t help myself now and take my phone out to search for mentions. He must have been euphoric when he made the announcement. He must have waited until the worst possible moment to retire, just so he could throw his team into chaos. It’s over. He’s free.
The first articles I read focus on the legal battle, but then I land on a more in-depth write-up of what happened. And there, in the second paragraph, is a sentence that makes me feel as if someone has plunged his dirty hands into my gut and roughly flipped my stomach inside out:
McCoy’s mother died of a treatment-related infection two days before the announcement.
Heat gathers fast in my eyes, the phone screen starts to blur. An insistent phrase—it was all for nothing—repeats over and over in my head, pairing with the image I have of Reshawn’s mother, an image that’s years out of date, an image I know doesn’t reflect all the ravages visited on her body since I last saw her. I try to keep the tears at bay by keeping myself perfectly still, like holding a cup filled right to the brim. That’s when a hand lands hard on my back.
—Have faith, brother!
It’s the man whose jersey I’d been staring at; he must have been keeping a curious eye on me all this time. Beads of sweat tremble on the top rims of his glasses, and he’s so soused that his other hand, the one not resting on my back, is holding on to the bar to steady his wobbly self.
—We’ve got a whole, a whoooooole other half to play! Those guys—
He lifts his chin scornfully at the television, which has returned to the game and is showing the Green Bay sideline.
—They’re a bunch of jokers. Jokers. We’ll pull through!
Something between a sob and a laugh escapes from me. How could I have expected this moment to go any differently?
Horace returns from the bathroom. He sees my eyes are red.
—What—? he begins to ask.
—He’s glass-half-empty! the drunk exclaims, clapping my back again. I told him just wait, wait till we get going!
—I’m okay, I tell Horace, attempting a smile.
The drunk ambles back to his friends, leaving us to try and recover our momentum. But it’s no use. Horace gently hints that he knows I’m upset, and I play dumb. I can feel myself going cold, resenting Horace for his solicitude, hating myself for resenting him.
Soon we’re splitting the tab and stepping out into the warm, clear September night. The air is scented with the rich smoke of a nearby halal cart, and down the slope you can see a tiny Statue of Liberty glowing green in the harbor.
—Should we get you a cab? I ask.
—Cab? he says, mock-offended. That’s not what we agreed to.
I’m about to say I’m too tired, but before I can, Horace hooks his arm around mine and asks the way to my apartment. I give in and lead him up 9th Street, passing between brownstones and a line of sycamores where
