Hightower was already in the linebackers room when we filed in, a case of Natty Light at his feet.
—Thought y’all deserved a treat for putting in the time, he said, extracting a can and popping it open.
The linebackers were delighted, since alcohol was usually forbidden in the Hay. As Cornelius handed out the beers, I hung back, thinking I would have to get my own can; but once everyone else was served, Cornelius tossed a can my way. I felt so grateful when I caught it, so relieved. I had been unfair to Cornelius. I just needed to give him time to adjust to the idea of me.
We sat while Coach Hightower remained up front, leaning his shoulder against the whiteboard as he sipped his Natty Light.
—We had, what, one televised game when I played here? he asked himself.
—Was TV invented back then, Coach?
—Fuckin’ funny guy right there. We played SMU in—must have been ‘83 or ‘84. Best team in the country. Fuckin’ monsters, man. Two national championships in the ‘80s. One of the greatest programs ever, you ask me.
—Y’all lose?
—We did, we did. But we kept it damn close till the fourth quarter. That was the first season I started Will. My grandma didn’t have a TV, so my uncle picked her up and drove her two towns over so she could sit in a bar to watch me.
He smiled at the memory.
—First time that woman ever stepped foot in a bar, I can tell you that. She went to church every day of her life. Used to beat my ass raw if I said “darn” in front of her. But she went to a bar to see her Radon—drank a club soda with lime and told every lush in there that was her grandbaby playing on the TV.
I was surprised to find Hightower looking directly at me.
—Who you gonna be watching the game with, Furling? —I’m—I don’t know yet, Coach. He nodded.
—Ain’t you gonna be watching it with … help me out, McGerrin.
—Gwen.
—Right. Ain’t you watching it with Gwen?
I kept my face neutral, my breathing even. Meanwhile, out of sight, I pressed my palms up against the underside of the table and tucked my feet beneath my chair. I rotated my right foot so that only the pinkie toe touched the floor, then rested my good foot atop my wounded one and pressed down, pressed until it felt like an electrical wire was severed in my ankle, twisting wildly, spitting sparks.
—You hear me, Furling?
—No sir. Sorry.
—I said is that shit true?
—No. McGerrin’s a fucking liar.
The pace of Hightower’s words quickened.
—Yeah? Is Cornelius lying, too?
He took a final swig of beer and dropped the can in the waste-basket on his way toward the computer in back. He killed the lights and started the projector.
And who could I watch the game with? Not the bottom feeders and walking woundeds who’d be watching at Stefan Knows, people who’d either called me Gwen or done nothing to stop others from doing so. They’d probably have tolerated my presence if I showed—a teammate was a teammate—but they would also have made it clear that was the best I deserved. So what about Dombey’s, or another bar? I couldn’t bear the idea of sitting in ugly anonymity. I knew I might explode if I had to listen to drunk men bludgeon each other with their expertise on my teammates, our strategies.
So where? Maybe I should just remain in our TV-less dorm room and sink into the self-pity Mom warned me against, listening to the happy voices of students out on the quad.
That seemed to be my fate until, just after sundown Saturday, there was a knock on our door. It was Silas, the boy from Melville class. He’d seen me limping into the seminar room and put it together that I wouldn’t be traveling to South Bend this weekend, and he asked if I wanted to watch the game with him and some friends. A compromise, then, between Stefan Knows and a strange bar—a room full of boys who’d know who I was, but not what.
Silas’s room was full already, with boys sitting on the two beds and on beanbags of various sizes and squishiness. As the injured/honored guest, I was given both desk chairs: one to sit on, one to keep my ankle elevated.
Silas handed me a Solo cup filled with a screwdriver.
—You must be so pissed, he said.
—You’re Reshawn’s roommate? another asked.
I nodded.
—He knows calculus better than I do.
—That’s not saying much, Gary! A pillow flew.
The television channel was changed, and I had the shock of seeing my teammates stretching on prime time. They were dressed in our new away uniforms, which were the inverse of the one Jimbo modeled in the locker room, the jerseys and pants white with a purple scimitar slicing down both sides. They were luminous. Players have preferences for home or away jerseys the way whiskey drinkers do for rye versus scotch, and I had always been an away man.
Meanwhile, our coaches wore white polo shirts, pressed khakis, black leather belts, and purple tennis shoes. Some of them buried hands in pockets and strolled stiffly between rows of stretching players, too tense to speak. Others knelt next to a wide receiver or defensive end to neurotically review audibles and assignments for the thousandth time. The shot switched to Coach Zeller, who was meeting Notre Dame’s head coach at the 50-yard line. Both men’s arms were crossed, conferring like prebattle generals.
The main commentator, an oaken-voiced white man of indeterminate age, promised to return with the kickoff after this commercial break. I’d already chugged my screwdriver, and after Silas made me another he went around the room distributing cans of Natty Light.
—Okay, he said. So that Ichiro doesn’t go to the hospital again, we’ll go slower than last Saturday.
Ichiro was a bite-sized international student sitting on one of the beanbags. He blushed.
—We’ll do a swig of beer every time King
