Coach Zeller blew the whistle.
I collided with Kendrick.
Resplendence pealed through me: I made a clean, a perfect tackle, drilling Kendrick into the earth.
When Reshawn was happiest with Jamie, I could go days without hearing a word from him. Text messages wondering where he’d put the laundry detergent, calls asking for advice on a term paper would go unreturned, and once I finally did see him, he would admit he hadn’t even had his phone. He’d done this on purpose, wanted to quarantine his non-football life to prevent contamination by me or anyone else on the team. So it didn’t surprise me that a whole week of camp passed without a word from him: he was in Savannah with his hero Professor Grayson, tracking down more evidence of the extraordinary life of Carmichael Stewart King; he was enjoying the first August in more than a decade in which he wasn’t sweating his weight during practices; he was getting to own the King student’s life as he’d dreamt of doing.
I couldn’t say any of this to Arnold Duffy, who on the second Monday of camp received permission from Coach Zeller to interview me in the Team Room during the afternoon break. I tried to not appear nervous as I took the seat next to him in the front row.
—Been in touch with Reshawn lately? he asked.
—I want to give him some privacy.
—Right. Of course.
Duffy took a tape recorder from his pocket and balanced it on the armrest between our chairs. I stared at the back of his pale left hand and its convoluted, colorful veins. It looked like a map of hell’s subway system.
—I’ve talked to some of your teammates about Reshawn as a player, he said, pressing Play on the recorder. But I haven’t heard much about the rest of his life at King. I was hoping you could tell me about that.
—Okay.
Duffy expected me to go on, but I decided staying as close-mouthed as possible was safest. He smiled.
—Maybe I’ll start. Coach Zeller shared Reshawn’s schedule from last year. Pretty impressive stuff.
—Yeah.
—I could hardly understand the titles of some of his classes. But on top of that, Coach Zeller tells me Reshawn takes time to tutor guys on the team?
—Reshawn does?
Had Reshawn been doing that and I just hadn’t known? Duffy tilted his head.
—You didn’t know?
—No, I … It’s hard to keep track of everything he does.
—Right. Right. I guess that’s what I’m getting at. There’s this team he’s dedicated to. Then his classwork. Tutoring. And his mother’s health issues. Seems like a lot of pressure for an eighteen-year-old. Has he … I don’t want you to betray his confidence here, but has he ever hinted the pressure can get to be too much?
—No.
—Never?
—He—, I began. He has ways of keeping everything balanced.
—Right. Like the Fellowship of Christian Athletes.
That Reshawn had tutored people without my knowing was barely possible, but when Duffy mentioned Reshawn’s membership in the weekly prayer group of King’s Christian jocks, it took all I had to stop myself from laughing. Reshawn referred to the FCA as the “Fund for Christ’s Automatons.” He’d have sooner downed a bottle of Drano than attend an FCA meeting.
—I didn’t know he went, I said.
—Coach Zeller says he attends every week. He said the group leads prayers for Reshawn’s mother.
I got my bearings. Coach Zeller had curated a heroic version of Reshawn for Duffy, one in which Reshawn was the hardworking star of the team, the devoted son, the devout Christian. I saw a safe way out of the interview: just hew close to Zeller’s lies.
—It makes sense he wouldn’t tell me, I said. Reshawn’s pretty humble when it comes to that stuff.
—Right. “Humility” is a word Coach Zeller uses a lot. How do you account for that in somebody who’s got so many talents? I’d be the cockiest man in America if I was him.
I nodded, like I’d wondered this myself.
—Maybe it’s the Christianity? I said. Like, he knows he has God to thank for all the gifts he’s been given.
—Right. Great.
I became a Reshawn alchemist, transforming all the base metals of my roommate’s reality into print-worthy gold. In my hands, Reshawn’s passion for literature no longer stemmed from his need to escape football, but was a natural extension of a love for language rooted in his passion for the Bible’s teachings; his disappearance from the team wasn’t a desperate, angry escape, it was an anguished, righteous choice to nurse his beloved mother. The deeper we got into the interview, the more fun I had. It was like a game: take whatever Reshawn did, said, believed, and present Duffy with the opposite.
We moved on to Reshawn’s relationship with Errol.
—They’re kind of an odd couple, Duffy said. I covered Errol when he was at Auburn. He’s got this big personality. Reshawn seems so private by comparison.
—I think that’s why they work so well together, I said. It’s too bad you weren’t here this summer. I’ve never seen chemistry like theirs.
He nodded, checking his recorder to make sure we weren’t in danger of running out of tape.
—Is that maybe why Errol’s struggling a little in practice now? he asked. Because he’s missing Reshawn?
—Maybe. But nobody’s worried about Errol. We know he can lead us while Reshawn’s away.
Errol, of course, was a fucking mess. Violet bags hung off his eyes; a dripping sack of ice was secured to his throwing shoulder whenever he wasn’t in pads; and his breath stank perpetually of the chocolate-covered espresso beans he was popping to keep his tired self alert. The caffeine only managed to put him even more on edge, and seldom did a conversation pass without him reminding you he was the first player down to practice every day and the last to leave, just as he bitched ad nauseam about how while all
