Stick (6 page)

P
reston spent an hour going over the basics of stuff that my teacher never really explained as easily as he did, and by the time we were done, I actually understood some of it. After I got in my car and took the elevator down, I sat in the parking lot for a few minutes. He really was brilliant. Weird, but brilliant.

He'd told me that everything in our existence came down to numbers.

I breathed a sigh of relief when I got home. Dad wasn't there. No note on the door, which meant he was still pissed. Fine. Let him be pissed. I hoped he was at the bar in Lincoln Heights, getting wasted enough that he'd stumble in later and pass out. I flipped the TV on and my phone rang. It was Mike. “Hey,” I said, listening absently to the news in the background.

“Stick, what's up? Why the no-show at the game?”

I turned the volume down as the newslady rambled on about a carjacking attempt downtown foiled by a good citizen. I focused on Mike. Here it was. The big question. I knew it had been coming, and I knew it would come from Mike. “I quit the team.”

Silence. Then laughter. “Okay, good one. You really sick?”

“No.”

“You didn't wear your jersey to school Friday.”

“I didn't.”

“You visit with the scout yesterday?”

“Yeah.”

“They offer you a scholarship?”

“Yeah.”

“Awesome! Damn, I knew you'd get it. In the bag, man.”

I flipped the TV off. “I didn't take it, Mike. I declined.”

There was an awkward silence. “You're serious.”

“Yeah.”

“Why? Coach? Your dad? What happened?”

“I don't know. I'm just tired of it. Everything. It's not fun anymore.”

“Dude, we totally got creamed last night…and all because you aren't having fun? What kind of chickenshit answer is that? Everybody relies on you, and you just bail on us?”

“Is that what you rely on me for, Mike? Winning games?”

He ignored the question. “Don't do this, Stick. We need you. We'll lose any chance at the championship if you quit.”

“I guess so, then.”

“You guess what? That you're screwing us over?” His voice rose. “That you're being a selfish prick?”

“So, the only reason we're friends is so you can win, Mike?”

I waited for an answer, but the only thing I got was a dead line. I stared at the TV, phone in my hand, my insides empty. Everything screamed in me that I was being selfish. Everybody needed me. Coach, my dad, Mike, the team. But why did they need me? For their own selfish reasons? Did they really want me to play because they gave a crap about me, or did they want me to play because I could get them something?

Just as much as I was screaming at myself for being so selfish, I knew the resounding answer was that they wanted me for themselves. For the game, for the win, for the trophies, and for the championship. Bragging rights. Bullshit. Everything that made me hate playing football was pressuring me to play football, and my best friend had just proved it.

I felt hollow.

I stood, walked to the kitchen, and opened the fridge. I grabbed a bottle of Coors Light and twisted off the cap. I took a long swig. Screw it. I'd had four beers in my life, and as far as I was concerned, I could have one now. No doubt my dad was huddled at the bar with Coach or his buddies talking about how they could bring me back into the fold. Get me back straight.

Preston was right. It was none of their business, and I knew the answers because I was standing in my kitchen drinking a beer alone. Everybody else was worried about themselves, and it was time for me to do just that. Worry about myself.

I tanked the beer, threw the empty in the trash, and grabbed another. I walked back to the living room. I felt the buzz, light and heady, and sat. Maybe my dad had the right idea, after all. I looked at my phone. One text message. I flipped it open.

Killinger.

It read:
Herd u quit. U set me up. See u 2moro for sure.

I downed half the bottle, remembering what I'd said to Killinger in the hall Friday. With the beer skimming over my brain, I laughed. Fine, Lance, bring it on. I texted:
Thought u culd nail a dime at 40 yards.

I flipped my phone shut and drank the rest of the beer. I went back to the kitchen, ditched the bottle, and grabbed another, which I downed before grabbing yet another. My phone buzzed. I flipped it open. Killinger.
Ur gonna pay for that.

I laughed.
FUCK YOU,
I texted, feeling giddy. Stick Patterson didn't say things like that. Stick Patterson did what he was told. He worked, he worked harder, and he took it. He toed the line, followed the rules, and did what his daddy said to do.

For the team.
My dad's mantra. I looked at the full beer. Drink it because it doesn't matter. Drink it because nobody can tell you not to. I held the bottle up, toasting my dad. “You want me to be you, Dad? Well, here's to me being you,” I said, then swilled it down, my eyes watering, my stomach revolting, and my mind swimming. I gagged, then opened another and drank.

I stumbled into the living room and looked at the picture on the mantel. My mother. She died having me. When I was ten years old, I realized I had caused her death. When I asked my dad, he told me that she'd have done whatever it took to bring me into the world. She loved me.

She was pretty. An angel, really. Dad told me she held me. She kissed me before they had to take me away. I was premature. I didn't think about her often, but sometimes I talked to her. When things were bad. When the world closed in and I felt like I had nobody.

I wondered what she'd say. If she was here now, what? Would she tell me to play? Would she tell me I was being selfish?

I stared at the picture. “What should I do?”

I stood at the mantel, my insides twisted, mind reeling, eyes blurry. “Why aren't you here? Why can't you be here?”

Silence. Nothing. No answers. There were never any answers.

“W
ake up.”

I opened my eyes, my mouth dry as cotton, my head pounding. The world spun. I blinked, looking around. My stomach turned. Empty beer bottles. Me on the living room floor. My dad glaring down at me.

“Get up.”

A strong hand on my arm, pulling me.

“I said get up!”

He yanked, wrapping his arms around me and dragging me across the floor to my room.

His voice was rough. “You don't drink in my house, you stupid fuck.”

I tried to focus, shaking the spins away. My words came slow, and it was hard to form them. “Only you can do that, right? Well, I'm you. Good job, Dad.”

He slung me on my bed. I closed my eyes. I smelled beer on his breath. He leaned over me. “You're lucky I don't beat it out of you,” he said, and the next thing I heard was my bedroom door slam shut.

I
woke up to my alarm. Pain. My head pounded, and my stomach felt like it had a basketball stuffed in it. My muscles were stiff and weak. I looked over the side of the bed. A bowl filled with puke next to the bed said that my dad had come back in. Probably just to save the carpet. My stinking life in a nutshell.

I lay there, then turned on my back and stared at the ceiling. If I could stay in bed for the rest of my life, I would. Just be here. Without the headache. But no. Monday morning. I had to get dressed and train, and without thinking, I slung my legs over the side of the bed and looked for my running shorts.

With the dull roar in my head as a backdrop, I realized I had no reason to get up. I had an hour and a half before school. I was free.

I didn't feel free, though.

A few minutes later, I got up, thinking of the night before, with my dad standing over me. The look in his eyes. The hardness. It wasn't much different from the way it was after a game. I could catch for a thousand yards and the only thing he'd have to say was that I could have done better. That if I wanted to make it to the NFL, every little thing counted.

I remembered one time I took a short pass on our fifteen-yard line and ran for eighty-five yards, scoring the winning touchdown. On the way home, the only thing he said was that I should have tucked the ball deeper into my arm. Nothing was ever good enough for him.

I was like a machine to him. Tighten a bolt here and bang a hammer there and it would work better.

I showered, willing the hot water to rinse away the alcohol emanating from me. When I came out, he was in the kitchen, reading the sports section of the paper. I opened the fridge and grabbed the milk. I looked at it, and my stomach turned. I put it back and opened the cupboard and poured four ibuprofen from the bottle.

He turned the page of the paper. “I don't know what your problem is, son, but I'm not going to watch you let your future slip away.”

I ran the tap, filled a glass, and swallowed the pills. “Or what?”

He stopped reading, then set the paper down, staring at me.

I rinsed the glass and put it back in the cupboard. I shook my head. It was useless. “I'm going to be late,” I said, even though I was a half hour early. I walked to the front door, picked up my bag, then went to grab my keys. They were gone. I looked under a stack of mail, then searched the floor.

My dad came to the living room entry. “I took your keys.”

“Why?”

“Because you don't deserve them.”

I clenched my teeth, my head pounding. “I paid for that car. It's mine.”

“You want to talk about money, Brett? How much have I spent on your training? Your camps? You know how much it cost to send you over to Seattle every summer? It's money we don't have, but you get it. You get it all. And now you want to throw it all away.”

It hit me right then that no matter how much somebody said they wanted something
for
you, there was always something they wanted
from
you. My dad was no different. “I didn't ask for any of it. I just wanted to play.”

“I didn't raise a quitter,” he said, then turned and walked away.

I got to school five minutes before class started. I had to run the last two miles to make it in time, and I was winded when I hit the front doors. I felt like I was in some sort of stupid high school movie. First one person, then another, then ten more, then everybody in sight stopped what they were doing and stared as I walked down the hall. Word traveled fast. The quitter had arrived.

I tried to make myself not care, but I couldn't. My shoulders tightened, my stomach turned, and the headache I had woken up with returned, throbbing like a massive gong in my brain.

I kept my head down and walked upstairs to my locker. I sighed when I saw it. Somebody had scrawled “STICK THE PRICK” on it with black marker. Instant humiliation coursed through me. I heard several people laugh as they saw me read it, and I wished I was dead.

I stared at the words, my heart hammering, and took a breath. This was me. I'd made the decision, and this was only another reminder of why I hated playing football. But I had something to do, and I intended to do it today.

I saw him at lunch. He was leaning against his car, a bag of chips in his hands, talking to Kim Wayans. I walked up to them. “Hey, Mike.”

He looked at me, and his expression was hard to read. “Hey, Stick.”

I smiled at Kim. “Mind if I talk with Mike for a minute?”

She giggled. “Big-guy-football-player talk?”

I gave my best fake grin. “Yeah. Something like that,” I said, then watched her walk away.

Mike tossed the bag of chips on his hood and crossed his arms. “You blew it, man. You so blew it.”

I shrugged.

He looked at me. “Are you, like, dying of some disease or something? Because otherwise, I can't figure out what the fuck you're doing.”

“We've been friends for over five years.”

“Yeah. Five years of win,” he said sarcastically.

“That's all I am to you, then.” I fumed when he didn't answer. Why answer when the truth was the truth? Even so, it pissed me off even more. “I guess if I were like you, we wouldn't be friends, Mike.” I stared at him. “I mean, why would I want to know a second-rate lineman? A fucking average no-name nothing with a number on his back.”

“I'm not second-rate.”

I knew he wasn't. He was a great player, and I was hurt. There'd been this thing in the back of my mind that he of all people, out of everybody, would come through for me. That he would accept it. Accept me. I calmed myself down. “I know. I'm sorry. I just figured you'd see it different.”

He rolled his eyes. “Well, it's sort of hard to. So much is riding on it, you know?”

“I've lived for this game, for my dad, for the team, for Coach, and for everybody except me since I was twelve years old, and I'm done. They make this game ugly, and now you're doing the same thing. You're my best friend, and all I get from you is shit. Not one single person has even asked me why.”

“Why would they ask? You're the best. You got what everybody wants, and you've obviously gone crazy.” He paused, then shook his head and lowered his voice. “You got a shot at something I don't, Stick. Don't you get that? No matter how hard I try, I'll never be good enough to go pro. And you're letting it go. That's crazy.”

Mike worked harder than any other player on the team, and he was good. But he was right. He
didn't
have what it took to go pro. But I knew that if we took state again, he'd have a chance at some decent scholarships. I squinted. “You've got a shot at a scholarship, huh?”

He said nothing.

“What school, Mike?”

“U of I. If I keep my stats up and we take state, I could get a free ride. Don't you see, Brett? It's not just you. It's me, too.”

“Yeah, I see, Mike,” I said, deflated. Was there anything real in this world? Mike and I were
best friends.
We'd told each other our deepest secrets. Our dreams. We'd shared our lives like brothers, and it had all been for one thing. His stupid fucking scholarship.

“No, Stick. You don't see. I know what you're thinking, and maybe it's true. But you know as well as I do that I'll never get into a decent college without this. You know our situation.”

I did. Mike's father was long gone. Last he'd heard, his dad was in prison in Kentucky serving a sentence for drug dealing. His mother made just enough money to keep them in a decent house in a decent neighborhood, but her credit was shot. He'd looked into student loans, but with his grade point, the most he would be able to do would be community college. “I get it, Mike. I do,” I said, then walked away more confused than ever.