How I Fall (14 page)

“You should hear him at home.”

“My dad used to shout 24/7 but I got lucky. He moved to another province.”

“Lucky. If only that would happen to me,” I mutter.

My dad’s still going on as we approach. “What was that, Cam? You’re so damn lucky you made the first down.”

“I made second,” I correct him, gaining a cold glare.

Coach Gruber pipes in with his scratchy-smoker’s voice. “And Tanner Gold! You should have had him down ten yards back! Worst defense I’ve seen from this team all season!”

I watch my dad’s wheels spinning behind his flashing gray-black eyes. His face gets even more flushed as he analyzes my lighter weight, six-foot-three and around 170 pound quarterback frame next to Patrick’s six-foot-five defender height and girth. Patrick’s made of sheer muscle and I bet he weighs somewhere near 195 if not over 200. I get that me, facing The Giant—as we all have been calling him—has probably scared my dad to death. But Dad’s reaction fills my soul with hope. Because if he’s this freaked out, then my plan to permanently exit the game by using a stretcher might actually work someday!

I’ve just got to figure out how. If only all the other teams had players as huge as Patrick.

I tune Dad and Coach back out again when Dad begins the, “You are all lucky this is a damn scrimmage! If you
idiots
play like this for the game Saturday, we’re going to have your heads on sticks…and you all just better
…blah, blah, blah, blah.”

I’ve heard variations of this same speech since I was six. Now, at seventeen, I can hear it in my sleep. Dad began perfecting the ways he lectures whole teams of kids being idiots/losers/fools on the field—because no one is ever as smart as he is—back when I played on my first club teams down across the border in Michigan.

Dad says, if you want to be big, you’ve got to start young, and he started me before I could even walk. He’s also been the volunteer assistant coach on every team I’ve ever played for because no coach would turn away a famous ex-quarterback who wants to give kids free coaching.

Dad doesn’t have to work thanks to the money he banked and good investments made during his glory days, so he’s got plenty of time to make rosters and draw up new plays. He’s always funding team uniforms, and headlining pre-game pasta parties, and doing charity fund raisers with my mom. In our town, he seems to be everyone’s favorite fun guy. In our house, the real guy comes out. He’s usually not that nice, and he makes those helicopter moms look like babies. Round and round Dad goes, zooming in and taking aim as he judges, over analyzes, over schedules, tracks and orders around every single breath I take.

I started rushing the ball as my own form of rebellion against him last year. I’ve grown to hate the sound of his ‘coach’ voice so much it makes my stomach hurt the minute he opens his mouth. As the years pass, or maybe as I get older, I’ve developed this urge—one that’s turned into an obsession—to ignore or do the opposite of what he and my coaches order me to do.

And, of course, every day I want my dad to stop his shouting things like
‘Throw the ball!’
or,
‘Throw the damn ball you idiot!’
or,
‘For-the-love-of-all-that-is-holy,CAM! Would you throw the DAMN-BALL-ALREADY’?

Running the ball toward the end zone started as a way to get myself out of range of my dad’s voice. At first it was kind of fun to piss him off and pretend I didn’t understand why he was so upset after I’d scored even though I know full well the QB is supposed to stay protected and throw more than run the ball.

Then, somewhere in the middle of all that was when I realized that when I run with the ball tucked under my arm, some sort of magic kicks in to the point where I believe—
where I become
—invincible. Untouchable. Un-sackable, just how the school newspaper reported it. Everything wrong becomes everything right and as much as I want to get hurt, this safety bubble forms around me.

I swear, I have no idea how, or why it works, but it does and so I score and score and score!

Because of my antics during practice last year, Coach—with Dad’s blessing—let me play starting varsity quarterback during the playoffs. When I started pulling my shenanigans during the games, my dad got more and more pissed off at me as did the coach because I refused to follow their set plays.

But when every rush ended with a score, our team made it all the way to the AA Provincial Championships. That’s when they stopped yelling at me so much. They started saying things like ‘This should be the play, but of course, son—go with your gut if it’s the right thing to do.’

Then, at the last big game, I rushed for three touchdowns, scored two and we actually won the championships! It was a miracle. It also put our team on the USA college recruiter map! When they visit, Dad’s beside himself with happiness because those guys remember who he used to be. They eat him and all of his jabbering up like it’s candy.

And of course, thanks to the relationships my dad has built with these guys, they’ve all been giving half the team huge hopes that they also might land scholarships down in the states. A dream come true for most of these guys. I keep playing along, pretending I’m excited about recruiters and talking about which big university I might go to. I play my best for the team mostly because I do want them to get what they need for a good future. Football scholarships down to the states are not easy to get.

The college chatter keeps my dad juggling a ton of balls while he goes through the information. This means he’s been focused on other things besides me for once, therefore somewhat out of my head. I’ve been able to think, plan, and decide what I want for my future. While Dad’s preoccupied with my transcripts and filling out my applications online to schools down in the USA, I’m figuring out how to apply to digital arts programs here in Canada, which has not been easy to keep secret!

I’m also figuring out the best way to exit the game, but I’ve got to get out in a way that has my dad feeling very sorry and supportive instead of having him going psycho. And my dad goes psycho really easily over things that wouldn’t bother a normal person, which is why we can’t just sit down and have a heart-to-heart talk. Because my dad and I never talk about anything that’s real. I just follow his orders. That’s simply the way it is.

This is why I’ve hatched this major-injury plan.

Because it’s football, after all. Tragic accidents happen. Everyone knows that. Even my dad, the ass, will get that. He will not be able to blame anyone but the random statistics of the sport for why I have to quit. Heck, he might even become nice afterward. Become the dad I wish he would have been all along. A dad that cares more about his family than he cares about one, singular sport. He might even help me piece myself back together and get on board with what my ‘new dreams’ are now that I can’t play football. Only they’re not new dreams. They’re forever dreams of me being a professional photographer…dreams he doesn’t even know I have.

“Do you hear me, Camden! Dammit, son. Pay attention and stop staring down at the grass like you’ve left the planet! You still haven’t owned up to your stupidity out there. What were you thinking running straight at The Giant like that? It was like you’d lost
your whole mind!
We’ve got a game this weekend, and you were aiming for that kid like you wanted him to kill you! During a scrimmage!?”

“Dad. Please. I was not.” I swap the focus of my thoughts and hope for a convincing concerned, but just worried enough expression. “In all honesty, I was going through all the homework I’ve got this week. There’s this chemistry lab and huge tests coming up before the game. All I can do is apologize because you are right. I was not thinking. So glad you blew the whistle when you did. Totally irresponsible of me…just…I’ve got lots to juggle right now, and I’m wiped from waking up for the 6AM weights. Sorry.” I glance around at the team. “Sorry if I let any of you down.”

A few of the team members look away from me awkwardly. Others grumble and shuffle their feet, because they know I’m eating crow-apology-pie so my dad will finally shut up.

Dad crosses his arms and shakes his head but at least lowers his voice. “I’ll say it to you all again and again. This is a perfect example of what can happen if you’ve got your heads out of the game! This is why girlfriends, parties, after school jobs—anything outside of schoolwork that’s going to pull you out of the game—is strictly forbidden during the season. School work and practice is to be your only fun. This team is on the edge of greatness as long as you bozos don’t lose focus. Thankfully we’ve got the long, three-day weekend ahead so you all can rest. Then you’ve only got to hold it together for three more weeks after that. Can you all do it?”

The guys shuffle their cleats muttering, “Yes, Coach.”

Dad goes on, “Patrick—
everyone new for that matter
—if any of our key offense comes at you defenders during a scrimmage, you’ll all step away or do a double-touch take out, not a tackle. We don’t want to lose key players over practice games. Got me? That was a really close call.”

The rest of the team nods and laughs a little while some grumble along with me about the homework we’ve got building up.

“All right, then. Quiet down.” Coach Gruber slides his clipboard under his arm. “We’ll cancel the morning workouts for the rest of the week until after the holiday weekend. I need you all rested up for this game. Deal?”

A cheer roars up and Coach continues, “Now hit the showers and get the homework going and turned in. I don’t want to have key players out because of grade eligibility problems! Which reminds me, everyone must turn in your community service project specs to the principal by tomorrow. You need to have some of those hours worked before Christmas this year so let’s all try to use one or two of those long weekend days to volunteer some, okay?”

The team grumbles more and marches toward the locker rooms.

Dad scoops up the team’s First Aid kit and shoulders a bag of footballs and falls into step beside me.

“You talk to Miss Brown about that community service project she had lined up with that handicapped kid? Feel free to thank me any time for making that stupid school requirement easy on you.”

I bite my lower lip and decide to go with an annoyed stance on this one. “Yeah. Dad. About that. You know it’s going to take up all of my free time? All of it?”

He pauses to wait while I empty the large Gatorade dispenser so I can haul it back into the locker room with us.

“Free time you can have after you’ve signed a contract to play college ball. Miss Brown seems to think it will get you your 100 required community service hours without causing a dent in any of your practices and that you will be completely done by Christmas, so you need to buck-up, son, and log as many hours as possible.”

I set the bait for my later plans. “Dad, I’m supposed to pull two full days already this weekend. Then I’m going to be stuck driving that kid around, waiting for her to do who knows what? Long weekend afternoons spent doing nothing—even some evenings—editing photos. Are you sure this is a good use of my time?”

“Just bring books along and study. One day, son, you’ll be happy we did all this. Just get it done.”

“Yes, sir. But I’m not going to be happy about it,” I grumble, hiding my urge to grin underneath what I hope looks like a pained expression.

Dad nods as if satisfied because he thinks I’m being tortured at his request.

“You’ll be fine.”

The guy has no idea he’s finally given me everything I want.

I pull a dejected nod and a long sigh. “Yeah. I will but you aren’t going to be seeing much of me for the next few weekends. I’m talking like eight hour days plus every lunch hour.”

“Good. Then you
will
be done by Christmas.” It’s an order, not a statement.

“Yes, sir.” I sigh painfully again, and bite back another smile and resist the urge to hug him for the first time since I was a little kid. I wonder if this moment is as close as me and my dad will ever intersect on the subjects of life and the dreams I have for myself. If he found out just how light my heart feels right now, he’d stop the whole thing, I’m sure.

I hug the cooler instead while I think of Ellen Foster’s beautiful smile. I can’t believe the girl’s number is actually folded up and waiting in my backpack! And I really can’t believe my dad’s just given me the green light to spend long weekends with her taking photographs!

My heart races and I have the urge to pat myself on the back. Despite the backwards way everything happened, all my goals have actually been met today and beyond!

I’ve gone from zero contact with my long time crush to being assigned to help her photograph ice-coated trees on the lake! And since the day’s not over yet and since I’m doing so well, I’ve set an additional goal. One that makes my stomach twist into knots.

I vow to text Ellen Foster some sort of ‘good night’ before I fall asleep.

ellen

Because of the cold snap and the lingering ice, the Golf Course Estates exercise room was almost completely empty when I showed up for my PT.

Nash and I, plus all of his golf buddies who come here to exercise and gossip, are the only ones around. They never use the machines I use, so my PT was done in record time. Now I’m loitering in the ladies locker room, watching the fancy flat screen TV and waiting for Nash to finish his own workout so he can make sure I’m home safe.

This is sort of a standing point of argument between us, because the gate from the employee entrance of this place actually backs up to my back yard. I think I’m just fine to walk home but Nash always disagrees. After today’s workout and how hard my thigh muscles are burning, I’m really not in the mood to listen to any of Nash’s
safety-dad
speeches so he wins.

One fall for today was enough. Of course I didn’t tell Nash I fell. Nor will I tell my mom. I was already sad enough about it for all of us combined. Now I’m over it. Any reminders would only cause more grief. Besides, the huge bruises I’ve got now, ones that will take weeks to fade away, are reminder enough.

I text Nash so he’ll know where I’m waiting:
Doing homework. Locker room. Take your time.

Nash won’t text back. He never does. Not his style. But if I don’t tell him my exact location every darn second, I get a lecture. Nash is the closest person I have to a real dad. His wife and daughter died in a car accident way back before he and I ever met.

Since then he’s been forever alone—but he’s always with me and my mom. She’s his very best friend but she’s also forever alone thanks to my dirt-bag dad. The three of us are a family of sorts, but don’t get me wrong. Mom and Nash aren’t friends with benefits or anything like that. They’re just friends—two friends who happen to love me tons—and that’s it. I love them back so much it hurts.