CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

When I reached the porch, that dog was sitting on the front step. His eyes and nose were trained on the trail that had taken me to school. When I appeared he stood and his tail wagged once. I knelt, held out my hand. He tucked his tail, lowered his head, and walked up close enough to let me scratch his ears.

He was nasty. Dirty. Scabbed. Covered in sores. Flies were swarming. He had either been beaten or hit by a car or both. Fleas were jumping all over him and his front left leg was infected and needed stitches. Lastly, thanks to what I saw squirming around inside the present he left me in the front yard—he also had worms.

“Pal, you fit in perfect around here.”

As long as I rubbed his ears or scratched his tummy, he’d let me do pretty much anything I wanted. As I bathed him, and the dirt, grime, and mud washed off, it became apparent that he, whatever his name was or had been, was a Boston terrier with rather distinct tuxedo markings.

I was drying him off when Dee appeared for our workout. He said, “New friend?”

“Poor guy’s had a rough go.”

“He got a name?”

I shook my head. “Got any ideas?”

He pointed at the dog’s chest. “Tux.”

It fit. “A good name.”

The only way I had to get him to the vet was the bike, so after our workout, I cranked it while Tux stood there looking at me as if I’d lost my mind. When I patted my lap, he walked in a circle, then stood waiting on me. I looked down, and he sat on his butt. I said, “Tux, how’s this gonna work if you don’t do what I tell you?” I patted my leg again. “Now, come on.” He tilted his head sideways, stood, then gingerly climbed up on my leg keeping his back legs on the ground. I took that to mean that something hurt too badly to jump up there, so I lifted him gently. He planted his rear on my lap and rested his shaking forelegs on the gas tank. Wanting to make him feel safe, I wedged him between my arms so he could look out over the handlebars and then we eased out of the driveway. Once we got up to speed, he stood, seeming to like the wind in his face.

The vet was new to town, or at least new since I’d left, and I didn’t know her. I hoped that meant she didn’t know me and didn’t follow football or the major news networks. I signed in and sat in a waiting room along with three other people who paid me little notice. That changed when the lady opened the door and said, “Matthew Rising?” When she did, all three heads popped up like they’d been shot out of cannons. I whispered, “Excuse me,” and carried Tux into the examination room.

The vet looked him over, stitched up his leg, gave him a shot of antibiotics into the infected area of his leg—which he didn’t like—and then gave him two other shots to kill whatever might be squirming around inside him.

She asked, “Is he yours?”

“Found him yesterday. Today was the first time he let me pet him.”

She scribbled a prescription and handed it to me. “Twice a day for a week.” I folded it and put it in my pocket. She continued, “I think he’s had a pretty rough go. He’s malnourished. Very sick. Probably been beat or hit by a car. And I have to be honest and tell you that, even with all the drugs I just gave him, I’m not sure he’ll make it. I also think he’s in a good bit of pain, is suffering a lot. If that continues, you should consider…” She reached up and rubbed his ears. “Letting us put him to sleep.”

Her tone of voice and the look on her face told me she was being kind, not uncaring. “How will I know?”

She shrugged. “If he starts sleeping more, doesn’t move around much, appears to be getting stiff and doesn’t let you touch him, you’ll know he’s in more pain than he can bear and he’s started the slow, and in his case painful, process of dying.”

For reasons I could not explain, that hurt me. I picked him up, cradling him. “Thanks.”

She looked at me with an honest but caring look. “Sometimes we find them too late.”

I held Tux in my arms. “Right now, I’m living on the singular hope that sometimes love heals things that seem impossible.”

She smiled. “That it does. I’ll hope with you. Let us know if we can help.” She gently wrapped her fingers around his good leg and held it. “He’s in good hands.”

Obviously, she had no idea who I was, and I had no intention of correcting her. “Thanks.”

I spent most of what little I had on designer dog food, some high-nutrition treats, a padded lamb’s wool bed, and the prescription. When I got him home, I fed him, gave him a treat, and showed him his bed, where he promptly curled up and went to sleep.

About that time, a horn started honking at what sounded like my gate. When it hadn’t quit after ten minutes, I cranked the bike and idled down the road to where a man I didn’t know stood leaning into his Audi A8, pressing hard on the horn. Early twenties, he wore a baseball cap, khaki pants, oxford shirt, Rolex watch. I pulled up to the gate as he lifted his hand off the horn.

“Sir, can I help you?”

While the engine purred, he strolled around the car, carrying a bag. His shirt read ESPN. The smirk on his face made me pretty certain that I did not want whatever was in that bag. When he reached the fence that separated us, he tilted his cap back and seemed to chuckle. He did not look familiar.

He shook his head. “I can’t believe it’s you.” Another half chuckle. “After all this time, I mean, it’s really you.”

I didn’t respond.

Without warning, he tossed the bag over the fence. It climbed a few feet in the air and dropped onto the dirt at my feet. I never took my eyes off him. He nodded. “Go ahead. It won’t hurt you.” A final chuckle. “Least not nearly as much as me.”

The brown bag had been stapled at the top. I knelt, hefted the bag, and then slowly pulled at the staples. I found a worn and hand-oiled NFL football inside.

I looked up but said nothing. He responded with, “You don’t remember me, do you?”

Still I said nothing.

He adjusted the hat on his head. “Funny. I can’t forget you.” He paused, scratched his chin, then stepped up to the fence and hung his hands on the chain link. “It took me years to see this, but… you’re the worst kind of human being.”

I turned the ball in my hands. It read, Mac, Blessings on your life and dreams. Matthew #8.

The pieces fell together and I remembered. “You’re that kid from the ESPN audience after the draft.”

“And you’re the pathetic lying fraud who betrayed us all.”

I held the ball in my hands as he spat through the fence, turned, stepped into his car, and drove away.

I watched as his car disappeared. I turned the ball in my hands. At one time, it had seen a lot of use. When I looked up, red taillights had been replaced by light-blue headlights. The expensive kind.

The windows were tinted too dark to see inside but when the Bentley pulled up to the gate, I could see a left hand. One large ring stood out. And there’s only one type of ring that is that big and that gaudy.

A Super Bowl Champion ring.

The car stopped, and Roddy stepped out. Designer shades, designer watch, designer suit, designer shoes. He looked like a million dollars, and what he was wearing probably cost fifty thousand. He pulled off his glasses, walked to the fence, and smiled. A large diamond stud in his left ear. A single nod. “Rocket.”

I shook my head. “I wondered when they’d send you.”

He weighed his head side to side. “Don’t shoot the messenger. I was looking for an excuse to get down here anyway.”

I pulled open the gate, and he hugged me. After twelve years in the league, ten Pro Bowls, two Super Bowl MVPs, three World Champion rings, and a slew of endorsements to his name, he was fit and strong as ever. He said, “You got a few minutes?”

I opened the gate wider, and he drove that quarter-of-a-million-dollar car with a five-hundred-dollar detail onto my dusty road. I led him to the house, where we sat on the front porch and he stared at the disheveled mess around my cabin, and the charred remains of the mattress in the front yard. “Visitors?”

“Just some folks expressing their opinion.”

He put his hand on my shoulder. “I saw the prison video.” He shook his head. “It impressed a lot of people.”

“I heard.”

“They asked me to convince you to come out of retirement.”

I squinted. “That’s an interesting way to put it.”

He laughed and opened the brown bag. Pulling out the ball, he read the signature. “What’s the story with this?”

“It’s complicated.”

He stood, mounted a GoPro camera on his window, and tossed me the ball, backing up down the dirt road. “Come on. I know you’re old and rusty, but I thought I’d do you a favor and make you feel like the man you once were.”

The GoPro sat some thirty-plus yards from me. Maybe closer to forty. “That thing on?”

He smiled. “HD.”

I tossed it back, weak, off course, and with too much arc. He raised an eyebrow and returned it to me. “Prison do that to you?”

I caught it and wobbled a duck back in his general direction. He flung it back at me, hard and tight spiraled. “You need me to remind you?”

I shook my head. “No. I can remember just fine.”

He smiled and slid his glasses onto the end of his nose. “Then throw the ball.”

I did as he asked. The ball left my hand, whistled through the air, and dissected the GoPro from its mount on the window. The camera went one direction, the mount the other. Roddy nodded in approval, retrieved the ball, and pitched it back. I caught it, set my feet, and shot a bullet at his head. He just had time to get his hands up before the pigskin split his part. He paused, smiled wider, and tossed it back. This continued a few minutes. After a dozen or so throws, he retrieved a pair of gloves from his car and mimicked shooting a syringe into his arm. “You sure they didn’t feed you some juice in that prison?”

“Orange juice on Monday and Wednesday. Cranberry Tuesday and Thursday. Fruit punch on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Room-temp water anytime you want it.”

Having seen and felt enough, he trotted to me, handed me the ball, and then spread out wide to my left, the dirt road stretching out in front of us. He raised an eyebrow and waited.

I smiled. “You okay running in those shoes? I don’t want you to pull a hammy and sue me when the team releases you.”

“I can handle whatever you dish out.”

“Red muscle thirty-two, sticky free china.”

He chuckled and followed it with a slow nod. “Don’t bite off more than you can chew.”

“And don’t get stuffed at the line.”

He laughed louder and nodded. I snapped the ball and he took off. I loved watching Roddy run. Poetry in motion. And after a decade in the pros, he could fly. I watched him float, thirty, forty, fifty. When he hit fifty-five yards, I released the ball and he caught it in stride seventy-plus yards down the road. He trotted back, breathing slightly, and handed me the ball.

We returned to the porch, where I offered him a warm ginger ale that he accepted. We sat in the quiet a few minutes, neither talking nor feeling the need to. When he did speak, it was purposeful. He sipped from his soda can. “I know you’ve got a few things stacked against you, but they’d like you to consider trying out. Quietly. No press. Just you and me. Asked me to lean on you.”

I stared down into my glass. “Roddy—” I shook my head.

He stood, pulled on his suit coat, and slid his glasses back over his eyes. The diamond glistened, matching his pearly white teeth. He straightened his coat, fixed his tie. When I reached out my hand, he accepted it and held it. He said, “I don’t pretend to know what happened. If it’s true—” He paused. Shook his head. “But I’ve played twelve years. Been with three teams and caught passes from maybe a dozen guys who stood behind center. None of them have what you—” He eyed the road. “Still got.” He let go, walked to his car, collected the pieces of the GoPro, and then paused, holding onto the door. He wanted to say something else, but when it got to the tip of his tongue, he thought better of it and stepped into his car.

He shut the door, and the dust swirled behind him as he drove slowly out the drive. I whispered, “It means more than you know.”