I misjudged the time it would take to get from Georges and Françoise’s place to Villeneuve and then had a hard time retracing my steps to find the stadium. When I walked up, practice had already started. There were about forty players and a handful of coaches. Matt, the Canadian I’d met the day before, was in full gear and lined up at QB, directing the offense in shell drill. It wasn’t the Big 12; in fact, some bits were kind of slapstick. But it wasn’t all bad either.
I watched Matt take a snap and drop back, then slip out of the pocket and take off. Homey thought he could run the rock. And he was wearing number 15—a Tebow wannabe, I was willing to bet.
The Arab, Moussa, saw me on the sideline. He pointed me out to one of the coaches. They jogged over, Matt just behind them.
“Glad you came out,” Matt said, taking off his helmet.
He had black hair that fell to his shoulders, a ready smile. He spoke English as easily as French—his English was kind of formal though. He introduced me to the head coach, Coach Thierry, who threw out his hand for a soul handshake, like the Arab had the day before, and I was like, Tsst. Please.
But I gave it back all the same. “Vous pouvez parler en français,” I told them—You can speak French.
“Bien,” the Arab said, but then he went on in English. “Eight interceptions! You had very much a good season.”
“Pardon?” I said.
“I googled you. I had quite a difficult time guessing the spelling of your family name.”
“An African king, eh?” Matt said, kind of smirking.
Pops was born a Compson. “My father took the name Behanzin when he joined the air force,” I explained. “After high school.”
Matt was steady smirking, like that was funny or something. “You ready to run some drills?” he asked.
I put my senior-class ring in my jacket pocket, dropped the jacket on the sideline and lined up at corner. First we played a two-deep, and I squatted in the underneath zone. Matt tried to lob a pass over my head, like he wanted to test my springs. I got springs. I picked his pass, took it back the other way.
Play after play, he kept throwing to my side. They had some speed at receiver but no real skill. I made a few more plays on the ball.
We broke into individual position drills. I went with an African brother named Celestin, who was coaching the DBs. He ran us through some hip openers, breaking right and left on his command. Some of the other DBs who weren’t directly involved in the exercise tossed a ball around, rugby-style, so I started a tip drill with them. Celestin had the whole group do it.
Then the offense scrimmaged the defense. Without a helmet or pads, I had to watch. I stood beside Celestin and the defensive coordinator, a guy they called Le Barbu—“the bearded one”—even though he was clean-shaven. He and Celestin discussed the best call for each situation, but before making it to the defensive captain on the field, they would look over toward me, to see what I thought or some such. Like, did I agree.
(Later, Matt explained that the junior-team coaches were senior-team players. Even though they were older, most hadn’t played the game as long as him and me had.)
At the end of practice, the coaches had us go to the goal line for wind sprints. Matt and the Arab Moussa (Matt called him “Moose”) made a point to line up beside me, and I was thinking, All right then, bring it. But the white boy had jets! The Arab too. I had to work so that they wouldn’t beat me, and on the last two, the Arab did.
An older guy who had been watching from the sideline (turns out he was the club president, Monsieur Lebrun) came over when we were done, and the Arab introduced him to me. Monsieur Lebrun led me off from the others, a hand on my shoulder, Matt following behind. “You’re obviously a good player,” Monsieur Lebrun said. “Plus, you speak French. You could help our coaches. I’m sure Mathieu has told you, we have a good organization and…” He said something I didn’t quite get. Then: “You would make a good addition.”
And I had an offer, just like that.
A few coaches milled around, acting like they weren’t really paying attention to our back-and-forth when it was clear they were. The Arab stood a ways off too, but he was steady looking over toward Matt, like Matt was gonna give some signal of my response, like I was going to make a decision right then, right there.
“Because you are a foreigner, we don’t have the right to employ you, of course,” Monsieur Lebrun went on, “but we could find you suitable lodgings, with board.”
I didn’t mention the letter of intent or Iowa State. Instead I heard myself saying, “I am living with a host family in Paris. And I would have to ask the permission of my mother.”
He lit a cigarette. “Well, I’m sure we could make arrangements with this family, as we have for Mathieu, if they are willing.”
And I wondered if Georges and Françoise would even want me to stay.
“As for your mother—yes, of course.” Monsieur Lebrun dragged lung-deep on his cig but blew the smoke straight up into the air, clear of us. “If rules pertain as with our American senior-team players, we will need to make arrangements with your school, or enroll you through the CIEE, for your continued eligibility to play in America.”
“The CIEE?” I asked.
“Your American organization for international exchange,” he explained, looking at me like I should know this. “But that should be no problem.” He smiled and offered his hand. “If you are interested, call me. Mathieu has my number.”
Just like that. Two days before I was supposed to leave.
When he walked away, Matt was all conspiratorial-like, leaning in close and whispering, like we would be getting over or something. “Excellent! You and I could tear this league up…”
But all I could think was, Nope, it can’t be done. It wasn’t my commitment to Iowa State I was thinking about—or my boys Ahman and Juan and Jamaal at the bus stop, all Big-12 whooping, Huskies pride. I was thinking on Pops.
The air force captain and the chaplain had turned up at our house in San Antonio the night after we’d Skyped with him. Dinnertime. Tookie was playing Xbox, Tina was in the kitchen with Mama. It was me that opened the door. What do you say to a man that tells you a thing like that?
“Are you sure?” was what I finally managed. “I mean, we just spoke to him. Yesterday.”
The captain did most of the talking, but not much that I held on to. An IED, all available medical resources deployed, something about funeral arrangements. Mama didn’t say anything the whole time they were there.
I held her hand and nodded that we understood, and after they had gone I got Tookie to stop crying long enough to get him to his and Tina’s room and into his Spider-Man pajamas. He would kind of groan and swat at my hand as I worked the top over his head. “Let me alone,” he said, his eyes watery. Tina had already gotten in bed across the room, in this Huskies gray T that I’d given her—it fit her like a nightgown—and she said, “Tomorrow is fish sticks at lunch!” like she’d already forgotten what we had just learned. And when Tookie jumped up and ran to Mama’s door and started banging on it—“Mama, Mama, open up. Please!”—and I had to pull him away, holding him in my arms and shushing him, Tina tried to console him too. “It’s okay,” she said. “Poppy’ll come home when he feels better.”
I pulled their bedroom door closed after finally getting them to sleep. I could see a crack of light under Mama’s door, but when I knocked she didn’t answer.
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Matt was still jabbering on as the Diables Rouges cleared the field, folks walking into the locker rooms, some already coming out dressed in street clothes. Most were Arabs, with jeans slung low and in oversized Ts, some wearing hoodies, a few in knock-off letter jackets. And I couldn’t help wondering, Was the Arab who planted the IED that killed Pops a kid like me too?
Matt just went on and on. “I’ve been here almost two weeks, and they’ve been the best two weeks of my life. No parents, no school, just the City of Light…” He was smiling, like that was what this was about, like running off from your responsibilities was such an all-damn-good and easy thing, the best thing that can happen in your life.