The Redshirt

to Stanford’s English Department, and before her call with Reshawn she’d been on the phone with Professor Grayson, who was himself away at a conference at the University of Texas. Lala’s other estates were stuffed with old newspapers, letters, books privately published or long out of print, advertisements dating to the Civil War, and legal documents all the way back to when Georgia was a colonial dumping ground for criminals and the insane. But here the thrilling news came with the bad, as the fight between Lala’s three sisters was putting the accessibility—indeed, even the continued existence—of many of those artifacts in doubt. Cly-burne, the eldest of Lala’s sisters, was in real estate herself and of the opinion that her older sister’s belongings were so much junk cluttering what was really valuable, the mansions, and thus should be disposed of posthaste. On the other hand Lucinda, the next oldest, viewed those artifacts as assets that could make their departed sister’s magnificently rich estate worth even more money, and she was of a mind to sell the artifacts to private collectors. Into this fray had stepped the Savannah State professor who’d made the original discovery, and he convinced Faye Anne, the youngest and most ambivalent of the sisters, that scholars should at least have a chance to look over everything and see what might be relevant for historical purposes. Faye Anne prevailed on her older sisters to give the Savannah State professor and his researchers access to the materials for a quick and dirty sifting-through, and the professor had called Grayson to ask for assistance. But, like I said, Grayson was away, as was his longest-serving research assistant, and the question Jamie had called Reshawn to pose was this: Could he drive to Savannah and sort through the materials, look for anything that might be of interest to the project? Reshawn answered yes, absolutely yes, he’d be on the road tomorrow evening.

It was as exciting an assignment as an aspiring scholar of American literature could hope to receive, not to mention the latest sign of the extraordinary trust Professor Grayson placed in Reshawn. We left the computer cluster and rode the elevator to our room, where Reshawn began packing a duffel bag.

—Can I borrow your car? he asked.

—What about spring ball?

—Don’t worry, he said, not looking up. It’s … when I agreed to come here, Zeller promised I could take whatever classes I wanted during the off-season.

Getting to take whatever classes he wanted and skipping one of the last days of spring ball didn’t seem to align; but I’d never seen Reshawn this animated, and I knew better than to threaten his mood. And besides, if anyone was in a position to ask our head coach for a favor, it was Reshawn. He had put on six pounds of muscle and yet was somehow even faster than he’d been in the fall; he had mastered the offensive package to the point where Coach Donato, our new running backs coach, sometimes asked Reshawn for clarification on a package; and, in a nod to how completely he’d dominated spring ball, players had started calling Team Period “the McCoy Show.”

Reshawn and I got to the Team Room early the next afternoon. As soon as Coach Zeller walked in, Reshawn popped out of his seat to explain the CSK discovery, so eager (and nervous) that he jumbled the story. Coach Zeller got the gist, though, and quizzically cocked his head.

—You bein’ funny with me?

The pause that followed was torturous. I rose from my chair, thinking I should let them talk in private. But Devonté and a few other players arrived, making my departure moot. I sat back down.

—We don’t have practice tomorrow, Coach.

—Still got meetings. And team lift. Spring game’s Saturday, son.

—I know, Coach.

—On Sunday you can fly to fuckin’ Timbuktu for all I care.

—But they need my help now. You promised I could take any class I wanted.

I could see Devonté and the other players were intrigued by the mention of a “promise.” There was only one promise any D1 player could expect—a full scholarship in return for doing whatever the coaches ordered.

—No, son, Zeller said. No. You need to start thinkin’ like a leader. A leader don’t skip town just ‘cause some biddy dies in Savannah.

—Coach—

—Enough, Reshawn.

That was that. When Jamie called at eleven that night and Reshawn said he couldn’t go, I could hear her voice coming through Reshawn’s earpiece, lecturing him on making promises he couldn’t keep; on hurting their project by losing access to potentially groundbreaking materials; on making her look bad in the eyes of her mentor. And this is merely the part of the conversation I heard. I’d been pretending to work at my desk while Reshawn was on the phone, and when he and Jamie began to get truly heated he put his hand over the mouthpiece and told me to go for a walk. Told, not asked, not requested or suggested. With that, Reshawn reverted to the angry, aloof asshole of old.

I tried not to hold it against him, knowing there was a sad subtext to all this. Jamie had loved Stanford and would be moving to Palo Alto for her graduate studies that fall.

My eyes snapped open just after daybreak. It was the second Saturday of April, but the dorm was already so warm we’d left our window open overnight. I lay in bed listening to the song of birds hopping around the blooming cherry branches down on the quad, the tired laughter of two security guards approaching the end of the night shift, the rumble of a wheeled trash can over a sidewalk. I tried to make myself fall back asleep, but it was no use. I was too nervous for the Purple and Gold Game.

The locker room was the same solemn place it was before any home game, with the key, thrilling, historic distinction that rather than me dressing in my civvies and trying not to envy too much the players around me,