Out of frustration and anger, I throw the ball at the stands and hear it hit the wooden stairs. There’s a strange hollow echo. I stand there for a moment realizing that there might not even be a place for me on another team. I’m not huge. I’m only five foot ten and lanky for a fullback, but Coach likes how I play. He’s put a lot of faith in me this year, and I’m only as good as I am because of his coaching.
“What if we’re at different schools? On different teams?” I ask Anton.
His face becomes hard. The two of us have played on the same line since our freshman year, and before that we were always on the same team—even during our elementary school recess games. I’ve made it my main focus to protect Anton out on the field. It was the only way that we could get Anton’s mom to sign the forms to let him play football in the first place. I promised his mom that I’d watch out for him. And so far I’ve kept my word.
Coach comes out on the field. He’s wearing a blue and silver baseball hat and matching shirt. He walks to the center of the field where the rest of the team starts to gather around.
“We can’t let them break up this team. We can’t let them just close our school,” I whisper to Anton.
“Nothing has been decided yet. The board still needs to vote,” Anton says as he walks with me to the stands to retrieve the ball I’ve thrown up there. “If we win and keep winning—if the whole town is cheering us on, it’ll be hard for them to close our school.”
“What if winning isn’t enough?” I ask.
“There’s been too much loss in this town. We need to win,” Anton says with finality. “We will win.”
I climb over the small metal fence and into the stands. I want to believe like Anton does—believe that a win will save our school. But I know the roof leaks, and last winter the boiler broke down three times. It was so cold inside, we all wore our coats and hats to class, but it was also fun. It was one of those experiences that could only happen at Warren High, and we look back on it with pride.
My cleats clunk up the white, wooden staircase. I find the football in the third row, and when I reach down to pick it up, I see all the names carved into the bleachers. The names have been painted over, but they’re still clearly visible. Letters etched so deeply in the wood that no amount of paint could cover them up fully. My dad’s name is on one of these benches. He showed it to me once. My grandfather’s name is here too. It’s something all the seniors do when they graduate from Warren High—find a bench and carve their name in it, letting the world know they were a part of Warren history.
I trace over some letters and wonder if I’ll ever get a chance to carve my name alongside the rest. What will happen to these stands? To this field? To these names? We can’t let this be the end.
“Busby! What are you doing up there? Get over here,” Coach yells at me.
I hold up the ball for him to see. It feels heavier than it did before. It feels for a moment as if it’s filled with sand. I head down the stairs and over the fence. Anton and I walk towards the fifty yard line where everyone else is gathered.