He sat on the floor, towel around his neck, drenched in his own sweat, eyes trained on the screen. Football in one hand, a half-eaten banana in the other, a bottle of Gatorade in his lap. She sat next to him. Jeans. Older sweatshirt. Legs crossed. Remote in one hand, laser pointer in the other. Staring through reading glasses. Her hair had turned. Once deep mahogany, now snow gray. The turn was not unexpected; the timing was. Life had amplified genetics. In her early thirties, she was technically old enough to be his mom, but the last third of those years had not been kind. It wasn’t so much the wrinkles as the shadow beneath them. He was a rising senior, a seventeen-year-old kid strapped with immeasurable talent, high hopes, and dreams he’d only whispered. At six feet three inches—nearly five inches taller than her—almost two hundred pounds and very little body fat, there wasn’t much kid left. She didn’t need magnifiers to see that. When she wanted his attention, she raised an eyebrow, lowered her voice, and spoke slowly, “Dalton Rogers.” At other times, she just called him Dee. He respectfully called her Sister Lynn while in the presence or earshot of others. When they were alone, he called her Mama.
Having some experience with talent like his, she was realistic about his prospects and had been careful to temper his expectations while not dashing his hopes. A delicate balance. The game on the screen moved in slow motion, a frame at a time. In the middle of the field—and the screen—number 8 stood under center. Well known during his time, he was the plumb line by which all others were measured. Which is why they were watching the film. Dee wanted to learn from the best. Few, if any, had been better than number 8.
She pressed pause and lit the screen with a green laser. The focused beam circled his feet. “Everything starts right there.” She tapped him gently on the head with her remote. “Feet. Feet. Feet. They’re the first link in the kinetic chain. When he throws, what comes out of his hand starts in his feet.”
Dee quoted from the article Sports Illustrated had later written about number 8’s performance in this game, “ ‘Million-dollar arm, two-million-dollar feet.’ ”
She tapped Dee on the head with the remote again. “Neither of which happened by accident. Remember…” She laughed once. “Football is chess played in 3-D with a little cardiovascular challenge thrown in for good measure. Not to—”
“Mention the marauding horde.” He waved her off like a gnat buzzing his ear. “I heard you”—he took another bite—“the first five hundred times.”
She smiled and lifted the green dot to his helmet. “Where’s he looking? Show me his eyes.” She spoke in present tense even though the game had been played fifteen years ago.
Dee followed the line of sight to the left cornerback on the opposing defense, who, at the moment, stood lined up three yards off number 8’s primary receiver, a rather gifted individual named Roderick. Better known to his friends and those who worshipped him as Roddy.
Dee pointed him out with what remained of the banana. Mama made Dee eat one a day because the potassium and magnesium helped alleviate muscle cramps in his calves. He spoke through a mouthful. “Three yards off Roddy. Man coverage. He’s playing inside, which means he’s taken away the slant, challenging Roddy to hug the sideline and forcing the Rocket to throw outside shoulder.” It had been a close game, and the opposing team had not been impressed with the undefeated Saints or their star quarterback.
She pressed play and the video continued in slow motion. The quarterback began his count, checked right, and then paused. Noticing movement by both the weak side linebacker and strong safety, he stopped his count, pointed at both of them, and began walking up and down his offensive line hollering a change of play. Given the crowd noise, the quarterback then motioned hand signals to the receivers and the lone tailback. They nodded and made adjustments, spreading out slightly wider. All of this took less than four seconds.
Dee sat mesmerized—eyes large, mind taking notes. Taking everything in. He never grew tired of this. He’d watch these all night if Mama let him. Her film library consisted of more than a hundred films. Most of the high school games were reel-to-reel. By college they’d converted to VHS. Some of the ESPN stuff and most of the championships were HD. To give Dee access to the entirety without having to constantly switch back and forth between three types of technology, she’d had it converted to electronic files now stored by game and date on a Mac laptop that projected onto an enormous TV via an HDMI cable. She didn’t need to watch the screen to see the play developing—she’d been there. Could still hear the crowd’s roar and echo. The pennies rattling inside the milk jug. Smell the cut grass. She saw this and lots of other videos almost every time she closed her eyes.
She advanced the film several frames and the green dot rested on his helmet. “Eyes. Show me. Where are they now?”
Dee’s hand dwarfed the ball when he pointed. “The umpire.”
“Why?”
“He’s got the play clock.”
She circled the umpire with the green light. “Watch what happens when his hand goes up.” The light flashed back across the screen to rest on the quarterback. “What’s he doing?”
“Back under center. Restarting his count. Right now he’s racing the clock ’cause he knows he’s got about three seconds left.”
She smiled. She’d taught him well. The light created a green halo as she circled the number 8 on the screen. “Think about everything going on in his head right now. Yes, he’s physically talented, but the thing that sets him apart is the stuff you can’t see.” She then circled the entire screen. “This is a chess game. He’s just moving the pieces around the board.”
He nodded. Eyes fixed. The Rocket was about to expose a defensive weakness and win a Class 5A State Championship. Again.
She pressed play and whispered, “Checkmate.”
The play proceeded. The center—a giant, fun-loving, faithful Labrador of a man called Wood—snapped the ball and then created a seemingly impenetrable wall of protection. The quarterback faked a handoff to the lone running back as he stepped into the B gap, bolstering Wood’s wall and blocking the blitzing strong side linebacker. The quarterback then took three quick yet long steps backward to gain distance from the line and give the receivers time to make their cuts and get open. When the defensive tackle broke through and threatened to sack number 8, the Rocket turned, rolled right, and began checking down his receivers. While he was dangerous inside the pocket, he could dismantle you when he broke outside. Everybody knew that. In recognition of his talent and speed, SI had coined the phrase “the Rocket.” The name stuck, and more than a hundred scouts and coaches stood in the stands that night, salivating over possible takeoff. The crowd rose to their feet, and the entire stadium sucked in a collective gasp. When he threw the ball, he didn’t throw it where his receiver, Roddy, was. He threw it where Roddy would be when the ball got there.
She turned off the video and clicked on the light. Dee began packing up his books. It used to bother him that she never watched the ending. Then he learned that some memories fester, and if you pick at them, they cause the most pain. They walked outside under the covered walkway that would lead him across the grounds, back to school and his dorm, and her to her cottage, sequestered behind the massive brick wall. Her shield against the outside world. She hung her arm inside his. “You finished calculus?”
He smiled, nodding. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Physics?”
“Test tomorrow. Second period.”
She raised an eyebrow, asking him if he’d studied without having to ask him.
He shrugged. “Some.”
She checked her watch. It was already after ten p.m. “Not too late.” She pointed her finger at him. “And no SportsCenter. You can’t watch that stuff and study for a test.”
He smiled and pointed back inside the room. “He did it.”
She nodded. He was right, he had. They’d watched it together. Some of it had been about him. “And you see where it got him?”
He chuckled but didn’t respond. He knew better. Some things were still tender. A pause. He wanted to comfort her but didn’t know how. “It’s all over the news—he’s getting out tomorrow.”
She nodded and stared toward the garden.
He pressed her. “You made any plans?”
She shook her head.
“He know you’re here?”
A single shake.
“You think he’ll come find you?”
“I don’t know.” She crossed her arms. “I don’t know what he’ll do.”
He felt the heaviness but didn’t know how to help her carry it. And she’d always been careful not to let him. That weight she carried alone. He bent at the knees, bringing him eye level with her. “You need anything?”
She kissed his cheek. “Get some sleep and ace your physics test.”
“You know,” he slung his backpack over his shoulder, “I do have an A in the class.”
She held up a finger. “A minus.”
He lowered his voice, whispering, “It’s an AP class.”
She smiled. “Night.”
She meandered through the walkways, her shadow appearing before and then retreating behind as she passed beneath the overhead lights and under the arms of the towering oaks that blanketed the private cottages. She pulled the door shut and curled up in a ball on the bed. Moments passed and she found her fingertips tracing the edges of the dove hanging from the chain around her neck. She’d always wanted to work with kids. Just not like this.
Two hours later, she twisted off the cap, poured three pills into her hand, and chased them with water. She showered, the pills kicked in, and her eyelids grew heavy. She turned on the TV, clicked resume, and tucked her knees into her chest. She drifted off to the sound of the crowd chanting his name. Rocket! Rocket! Rocket! The last image she saw was familiar to everyone. The whole country had seen it. On the screen, a kid in the stands held up that week’s Sports Illustrated. It was the first time a high school quarterback had graced the cover of SI. Even the angle of the shot was deliberate—the photographer had taken the picture lying on his back on the grass. Number 8 stood on the field, ball in hand, all promise and possibility, goalposts rising behind him, the world at his feet. The title read THE GOD OF FRIDAY NIGHT.
She blinked, the tears spilled, and she drifted off to a time when all her dreams had come true.