I had intended to tell my dad at the dinner table, when my mom could be an ally. I knew that was a little cowardly, but cowardice had taken a big step forward in my playbook since my teeth has been pulverized and I’d started my involuntary liquid diet. But my brother Carl showed up for dinner with his wife, Anne, and I didn’t want to turn this into a big family discussion. Carl had been an All-League middle linebacker whose life in high school had revolved around football and the weight room, and I knew he would think I was chickening out.
So I waited till they left, and then I played a computer game and cleaned my room, and after half an hour I ran out of ways to waste time and headed downstairs.
Mom was in the kitchen, reading a thick novel. She’s a part-time librarian in our town library and she’s always bringing home new books to read herself before recommending them. “Want some ice cream?” she asked. “Might feel good on your mouth.”
“Not hungry.”
She glanced up from what looked like page five hundred. “Since when do you turn down ice cream?”
“Mom, I’m not going to play football.”
She understood immediately and nodded. My mom raised a family of intense athletes, but she never played any sport beyond a little friendly tennis, and she’s never pushed me to do anything. Maybe the truth was that she’d had enough of standing in the snow, rain, and wind, cheering on her first two sons and shivering. “When are you going to tell him?”
“I figure it’s better to face the firing squad sooner rather than later. Want to give me a blindfold?”
“No blindfold necessary. Just be honest,” she advised. “He’ll understand.”
“Sure he will.” I couldn’t keep the skepticism out of my voice, and maybe there was just a little bitterness, too. I remembered my dad’s hand on my shoulder and his whisper that I had made him proud, while I tasted my own blood and teeth.
“Give him a chance, Jack,” she urged.
“I hope he gives me a chance,” I said, and headed into the family room.
My father was sitting in the leather armchair, sipping a beer and watching the Yankees get clobbered by Boston. “Swing the bat, damn you,” he growled at the batter on the screen.
“Dad, he can’t hear you,” I said. “That’s a digital image of a man who’s in the Bronx.”
“He’s lucky he can’t hear me,” my father muttered. “If there’s one thing I hate it’s guys who take a called strike three with men on base.”
I glanced around the room. Sports memorabilia was everywhere, from a black-and-white photo of the Mick belting a home run, to a framed Giants jersey signed by Eli Manning, to our family trophy case. The glass case took up a whole wall, and while it was smaller than the case at Fremont High, for one family it was pretty damn impressive. My father and brothers had been studs at every possible sport, and mixed in with the forest of football trophies were gold men shooting basketballs, and silver wrestlers with their arms spread wide, and bronze batters with bats cocked.
“Got a minute?”
“Sure.” He clicked the game off and pointed to the couch. “Have a seat. How’s the old mouth?”
“Better,” I told him, remaining standing.
“Try not to take the pain pills unless you have to.”
“Okay, no pills tonight. Dad, I made a decision.”
“Good,” he said. “About what?”
I opened my mouth but I couldn’t get the words out. I finally settled for just one: “Football.”
I think he sensed the truth, but he didn’t help me. He just waited as the seconds dragged by.
“Sorry,” I finally told him. “Not going to happen.”
Muhldinger had called up to tell my dad that I had a place on the varsity team, and I think it was the proudest he had ever been of me. Now he studied my face as if trying to read an answer there. “You’re afraid you’ll get hit again,” he finally said. “That’s normal. I used to feel that way sometimes after I got popped. I know you don’t believe me, but it’s true. Everyone has those moments, Jack. You took a real hard shot. But you weren’t wearing a helmet, and you’ll see that playing with pads feels a lot safer, and they’ve taken new precautions so—”
I cut him off and my words came out loud and angry. “It’s not ’cause I’m afraid. I just don’t want to play on the stupid football team.”
“Because?” he asked softly.
“That’s not who I am.”
“Okay,” he said, “then don’t.” His gray eyes looked sad, and when he spoke again his voice held no anger, but only sympathy, as if he could see me making a big mistake and wanted to help. “But, Jack, are you sure you know who you are? Because sometimes we only find that out by trying something new. Brian was offering you an opportunity. One of the most exciting chances you’ve ever had to step up and challenge yourself. Are you sure you just want to chuck it in the garbage can and go on with business as usual?”
I stood facing him, and the case of glittering family trophies on the wall behind him, and I wished I could have answered: “This is who I am, this is what I’m good at, and here’s what I plan to do with my life, or at least my senior year. I want to explore this subject at school, date that girl, and get into such and such a college so that I can spend the rest of my life doing something that I love.” But this was a moment for truth, and the truth was that I had no such answers. I’d never had a girlfriend, there was no subject I was particularly good at or drawn to, I was only applying to a few mediocre colleges, and the map for the rest of my life hadn’t arrived in the mail yet, so all I could tell him was: “Maybe I don’t know who I am, but I do know for sure that I don’t want to be on the football team. I know how much it means to you. And it’s not a stupid team—I’m sorry I said that. A lot of people get great things out of it. But not me. I don’t want it and I’m not gonna do it.”
Dad shrugged his big shoulders and clicked on the game again.
He settled back in his chair and focused all his attention on the TV, as if I had already left the room. “Throw your fastball,” he growled at the Yankees pitcher on the screen. “Challenge him with a heater.”