I may not remember everything, but there’s one thing I can’t forget. The last conversation I had with Coach. Lately whenever I’m alone and quiet—and sober—there’s a chance of it starting to run through my head again.
“Grant,” he says, beckoning me into his office, which is really just a supply closet they converted because he’s the coach of a public high school’s football team, not Paul “Bear” Bryant. He’s sitting on an exercise ball instead of a chair because he says he’s starting to get fat, but really he’s solid as a rock, a barrel-chested man with sturdy arms and legs, the kind of guy you could see running through a line of defense without breaking a sweat. There’s a photo on his desk of him doing just that when he played for the University of Alabama back in the ’80s. It’s turned around to face whoever’s sitting in the chair across from him, which in this case is me.
“Grant,” he says again, “I’m gonna talk to you like you’re a man.”
I guess I appreciate that, even though I’ve never felt less like a man than I do sitting across from my huge coach on his plastic ball of a chair.
“You know I never wanted you off the team. Hell, I still want you on the team,” he tells me. “There’s plenty of leeway I gave you. But then you had to go do something like this.” He frowns. “You had to get the police involved.”
I can’t say I meant to. I can’t say much of anything.
“Boys drinking, hey, it happens. Boys messing around with girls, it happens, too. And plenty of people drink and drive around here, you and I both know that. But the administration has decided to crack down this year, harder than ever. Zero tolerance policy. Not to mention, you made yourself a spectacle. How do I explain you falling all over the field, weaving everywhere, scoring for the wrong damn team? Or operating a motor vehicle, drunk, with the head cheerleader in the front seat? Or crashing that car in a ditch and fleeing the scene? Good Lord, boy. I need this job. And I need our team to win, and I certainly don’t need any nasty rumors swirling about my starting quarterback.”
Even, apparently, if those rumors are true. “I’m sorry, sir.”
He pounds his fist on the desk, and the photograph shakes in its silver frame. “We’re all sorry. Damn sorry. But it doesn’t change anything.”
It sure doesn’t.
It’s been a warm winter, and it’s an even hotter April. He wipes at the sweat forming on his upper lip. “Here’s what we’re going to do,” he says. “For now, you’re off the team. With the new policy, I’m not supposed to give you a second chance.”
I nod. I understand.
He leans in close.
“You’re gonna need to see a headshrinker. Don’t worry, I know just the right person. I’ve already talked to your parents. The police department is on board, too; I’ve been friends with the police chief for a long time, and since you’re Grant Collins and this is most definitely a one-time thing”—he stares at me hard—“they’ll write up the incident as a vehicular problem. Lucky for you, Chassie’s not interested in pressing charges. We’ve convinced her to keep things under wraps. You need to keep this under wraps, too. Don’t tell a soul about what really happened after the game, and I can make it go away. As far as anyone knows, this is a leave of absence due to injuries. If you can get the all clear from Dr. Laura by the time senior year starts, we’ll take you back and you can help us win the championship. Which I know, son, is what you want to do, too.”
I don’t know if it’s what I want to do, but going along with Coach’s plan sounds a lot better than the alternative. Who am I without football?
You know what I’m afraid of? That I’m no one at all.