I twisted in my sheets. I rolled and turned on the light next to my bed. I picked up my phone and saw that it was 2:21 a.m. Shit, I thought. My head vibrated, not from a concussion, but from unspent adrenaline. I grabbed my green notebook from the floor.
He Wasn’t Allowed to Play
No, this wasn’t because his mother had called the coach to tell him she wouldn’t permit him to play. There had been no such communication. No, it wasn’t because the doctor had told him that morning he could not play. What had the doctor said? The boy can return to his normal physical activities. It was punitive. He hadn’t been at practice. He hadn’t been engaged. Not even his teammates wanted him to play.
“Take a load off, bud. Hang close to Coach Dieter. Help make defensive adjustments if we need it,” Coach Reynolds told him.
In every away game he’d played since freshman year, he and Riley had shared a seat on the bus, both to and from the game. On the way, they talked about what would happen in the game—the specific strengths and weaknesses of the offensive and defensive systems they’d be facing and, after they moved to varsity and watched video of their opponents, the specific strengths and weaknesses of the players they’d be facing. On the ride home, they’d debrief. If the ride was long enough, they’d often discuss every play that had taken place during the game, dissecting the larger action, their reactions, their roles in the play’s result. Again, it was tradition. It was what they did. Riley and Isaiah had never been best friends in the way friends are depicted on TV. They didn’t seek solace in each other’s company. They didn’t text each other (not like Isaiah and Twiggs did) to see what was happening. Isaiah had once asked Riley if they’d stay in contact after graduation. Riley said, “Well, yeah, if we play at the same college.” But don’t misunderstand. Isaiah and Riley were best friends. Football made them best friends.
On the way to River Valley High School, a forty-five-minute drive across farmed ridges and into deep, forested ravines, Isaiah sat by himself, in the back of the bus. His normal seat next to Riley had been taken by running back, Iggy Eze. Riley hadn’t even looked at Isaiah when he boarded.
The game unfolded as everyone expected. The River Valley Blackhawks acted like they didn’t want to be on the field with Bluffton. They ran a scared, old-fashioned Wing-T offense. Sweeps with pulling guards (guards who were both small and slow). Dives, bellies, a single tackle-trap led by a tackle who was no more than 5'10" but easily weighed 300 pounds—Riley slid past him like lightning, popped the running back so fast the ball shot straight up in the air and then Riley had caught it, turned into the amazing offensive player he is, juked three different guys before barreling into the end zone to make the score 27–0 in the first quarter.
They were right. They didn’t need Isaiah.
I put down my pen, closed my notebook, turned out the light above my bed. It was 2:47 in the morning. All this adrenaline in my body. I texted Joey Derossi, but he didn’t answer. I walked into the kitchen to get a glass of water.
While running the water to make it cold, I looked out the back window.
Someone stood in Grandma Gin’s backyard, smoking a cigarette.
I went out the back door. “Grace?” I shouted.
She didn’t answer. She reentered the house.
I thought about what Dad had said, about how I should leave her be.
But she wasn’t letting me be. She was staring at my house, waiting for me to come to her.
Honest to God! What the hell was Grace doing at Grandma’s house at three o’clock in the damn morning? I almost went over to find out, but I stopped myself in the middle of the yard. I couldn’t wake Grandma Gin at 3 a.m.