Karpinski texted to tell me that practice is stupid without me and I better get the hell back to Bluffton or he’ll quit.
He won’t quit.
We texted back and forth for a while. He totally doesn’t understand what the hell I’m doing right now. I’m not exactly sure either. What’s with me and my commitment to football, Aleah? Do I even care about it?
Yes. Yes, I totally do, but…there’s definitely something going on.
In February, I committed to go to the Michigan technique camp because your dad told me that Michigan might be a really good fit (good sports and really good academics).
As soon as I told the offensive coordinator there that I was coming (he was too psyched—he wooed), I began having nightmares of giant asswipe dudes, other football players, trying to push me around. I dreamed of coaches screaming with crazy idiot voices, like South Park cartoon-freak coaches might scream. I dreamed of running through dorm hallways trying to get the hell away from dudes chasing me.
Seriously, I got all whacked out and sleepless, until Jerri asked me what the hell my problem was one winter morning. (I totally fell asleep while eating a flaxseed frozen waffle.) Because I was weak and half asleep, I told her that visions of this stupid camp were driving me crazy.
Jerri sat back in her chair and squinted at me. She said, “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”
I sat straight up in my chair, all filled with monkey juice. I spat at her, “You don’t want me to go! You hate football!”
She folded her arms and smirked at me. “Felton, I’m trying to comfort you. Do whatever you want. No matter what, I’m firmly committed to being the mother of a dumb jock.”
“That’s not nice!”
“I’m making a joke.”
Jerri has gotten in the habit of making sort of mean jokes, if you haven’t noticed. (Gus totally noticed this summer.)
But here’s the truth: as soon as Jerri said I didn’t have to go, the dreams went away. Pressure release. I never cancelled the camp, never called to tell them I wasn’t going, but in the back of my head I sort of thought I wouldn’t go.
I didn’t go, but not exactly because I was scared of my dreams—Andrew gave me an excuse.
Is Andrew turning into my way out of football? Here I am, chasing him instead of playing the game.
Karpinski texted at one point tonight: You think peyton manning would miss practice week of first game???
I’ve been thinking about that. Do you know who Peyton Manning is? He’s like the Yo-Yo Ma of football. I don’t really know if Yo-Yo Ma is that great a musician. He is, right? Peyton is like a super great, one of the best quarterbacks ever.
So, here’s a good question: Would Peyton Manning drop everything—drills, fitness, training camp—to go find his little brother, Eli, if little Eli were lost on the Florida Gulf Coast?
That’s what I’m doing.
I don’t know how to answer the question. Would Peyton leave practice the week of a game?
He’s a serious professional football player, and that means he’s had to make serious sacrifices, like maybe not helping Eli out when he was in trouble in the past. Maybe? “Can’t save you from those bullies, little buddy. I’ve got passes to throw…”
But, really, I don’t know. Peyton seems nice.
Actually, my guess is that Peyton Manning would go find Eli if he were lost. My guess is that part of the reason Peyton’s such an awesome leader is that he puts people ahead of his own personal gain. That’s why everybody thinks, “Thank Gawd we got us a little Peyton in our lives…”
He’s also not crazy like I’m crazy.
I think I’ve got good reason to be crazy.
Maybe I really would be like Peyton Manning, except my tennis dad killed himself and didn’t play football, like Peyton’s did, and didn’t raise me in a giant mansion with this perfect Manning-style family, so my problems are a lot bigger, much, much bigger than Peyton Manning ever had to deal with, and so I’m not crazy but actually just doing the best a totally broken dude like myself can expect to do.
• • •
Jesus. No way. No way I can freaking sleep.
You know, Aleah, I’ve already been gone from Bluffton for like twenty hours and I’m still in Chicago. I could’ve driven almost to freaking Georgia by now. Haysoos Christmoos.
I don’t want to be a football slacker. I’m going to do some freaking running. Maybe run stairs? I’m going to donkey-run my ass up some stairs.