Family and friends waited outside the stadium gates to greet players coming out of the Hay’s third floor, and thanks to our win today (we were now 3–4) the scene was happy. Younger siblings hyper with candy chased each other around; parents doled out compliments about other peoples’ kids and made subtle one-ups about their own; girlfriends from back home tried to seem mature beyond their years as they fussed over infants dressed in floppy purple King Football fishing hats. My own parents wouldn’t be here—we agreed it was better they save their money until they could actually watch me play—but I received collateral love on my way to the parking lot, saying yes sir, I know my time will come.
—Miles.
Reshawn was hailing me. He stood with his parents, and as I redirected toward them I was surprised to see his mother leaning on two metal walking sticks, the kind that clasp around your forearms for stability. She must have been keeping them down by her feet during the game. Had she been in an accident?
—This is my dad, Reshawn Senior. My mom, Ali. They wanted to meet you.
Reshawn looked none too happy about that request. We shook hands.
—Your folks here, Miles?
—No sir.
—Colorado? —Yes sir.
Mr. McCoy clapped me on the shoulder.
—Call me Senior. What do your parents do?
—My dad owns a restaurant.
I’m still not sure why I lied. Maybe I was embarrassed by the truth, which was that my old head coach had set my dad up with janitorial shifts at Sillitoe High to help supplement his temp work.
—Small business owner! Mr. McCoy exclaimed, rolling his shoulders back proudly. I’m in sporting goods, myself.
As Senior and Ali continued asking about my family, I noticed that what I’d initially thought was Reshawn’s annoyance with me was in fact a nervous vigilance about the crowd bustling around his mother. He was watching his brothers, who were slaloming between adults’ legs as they chased Cornelius’s eight-year-old sister and Devonté’s nine-year-old brother. I had never seen Reshawn look so solicitous, so vulnerable, and in spite of myself it made me like him just a little bit more.
—after the diagnosis, Mr. McCoy was saying.
—Sir? I said, refocusing. What diagnosis?
—I have MS, Ali said. Primary progressive. Reshawn didn’t tell you?
Of course he hadn’t. And I didn’t understand what any of what she’d said meant, other than that it was bad enough that the mere mention of it sapped Senior of his energy.
—I’m sorry, I said.
—You give me these genes? Ali responded. The sharpness, the barely bayed sarcasm, were exactly what I would have heard from her son.
—Great game, Reshawn!
Devonté’s father pulled Reshawn in for a hug, and at that exact moment the kids were running by us again. Reshawn’s brothers knew to keep far from their mother, but Cornelius’s sister didn’t, and when Devonté’s father and Reshawn blocked her path with their hug, the little girl dodged toward Ali, in danger of colliding with her. I caught her just in time and sent her running in a different direction.
Ali went protectively stiff. Senior was smiling nervously, looking weak. Reshawn let go of Devonté’s father and said angrily to his parents:
—I told you this was a bad idea.
We walked to the handicapped spot where the McCoys’ rental was parked. Reshawn helped Ali into the passenger seat, her arm around her son’s shoulder, wincing.
—We should get back to the hotel, Senior told me. But, rain check? We’ll take you out to dinner next time we come for a game.
—I’d like that, I said, shaking his hand. I waved goodbye to Ali, who was wriggling in her seat, trying to get comfortable. She forced a smile.
I wouldn’t own a laptop until the next year, and in order to use the Internet I had to sit in a computer cluster on Stager Hall’s ground floor. I looked up primary progressive multiple sclerosis and learned about the prognosis. Affecting nerves in the brain and spinal cord, it manifests initially with a weakness of the legs and worsens over time, expanding to affect vision and speech, causing fatigue, incontinence. Ali’s body was attacking itself, and would continue to do so for however long she lived. I also looked up Senior’s store and found an article from five years ago in a local Oregon paper. The article described Mr. McCoy’s plans to add two stores to the one he already owned, and it quoted Senior as saying one day McCoy’s Sporting Goods would challenge corporate behemoths like Sports Authority and Dick’s. But a second article from a year and a half ago—just a paragraph, really—served as a postmortem for his gambit: all his businesses had filed for Chapter 11.
I could now piece together a rough timeline. Reshawn at some point had fallen out with football and decided to attend Brown. That would have coincided with the implosion of his father’s business—and, judging from Ali’s symptoms, would also have happened around the time she got her diagnosis. But knowing this ultimately frustrated me, since it just raised questions to which I had nothing like an answer.
The more time I spent with Chase, the more I realized
