Out of the Pocket (14 page)

He wound up and threw me a fastball, pausing on his follow-through. I could tell he was winded but was trying not to show it. So I caught it and jogged over to him.

“Let’s take a break,” I said. He nodded, breathing heavily, his eyes a bit puffy. I led him to the shade of the oak tree.

“I’m an old man,” he said, sitting down.

“Nah,” I answered, sitting down next to him.

“I think I’m still just a little tired.”

I nodded. His blood pressure was mostly back to normal now. He was taking it with a digital cuff every few hours, and if it was low, he was eating something salty, which sounded like a pretty good medicine to me.

“Okay, new rule,” I said. “Next time you’re going to get all old and tired out of nowhere, go to the freakin’ doctor, okay?”

He cuffed me on the shoulder. “Man oh man,” he said, shaking his head and laughing. “I can’t wait till you get old yourself, Bobby Framingham. I just can’t wait.”

123

I lay down and looked up at the tree, and then my dad did the same thing.

“You ever feel happy to be alive?” my dad asked, his voice sort of quiet, peaceful.

I thought about that. I mean, I’m generally a happy person, and that means I’m usually happy to be alive, but I guess he meant like focused on it. I thought about how I felt in the hospital after the doctor told us he was going to be okay. “Sure,” I said.

“That’s me today,” he said.

I smiled. “Good, Dad.”

We were silent for a few minutes. I stared up into the branches of the tree, thinking about how there wouldn’t be many more of these moments now that I was a year away from college. When I turned to say something to him, he was looking at me and smiling.

“Whoa, you startled me,” I said.

He smiled.

“I’m just so damn proud of you,” he said. “You’re a success.”

“Great success,” I said, imitating Borat. He ignored me.

“You’re the quarterback of an undefeated team, and you’re a good person.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him we weren’t undefeated anymore. We’d lost the game against Laguna Hills by a touchdown.

“Thanks,” I said, careful not avert my eyes even though I wanted to. “You okay?”

“I’m better than okay,” he said. “I feel like I have this whole new goddamn lease on life and I want to change things. Do you know what I mean?”

I nodded, because I did.

“I want us to talk more,” he said, raising up and resting on his elbows.

“Okay,” I said, and of course I began to think about my secret.

124

What would my dad think? I mean, he hadn’t really been much of a sharing kind of guy, and now here he was, sharing, and I was thinking, would he be okay with it?

He talked, and it was different than I’d ever heard him speak before. My dad’s not exactly an open book. Back when things were normal, it would be hard to get basic information out of him. Now here he was, telling me about his life.

He told me about growing up in New York City, about my grandfather, who had been a gambler, how it had ruined his life, and about the time my grandmother pulled Grandpa out of a racetrack by his ear. Then he talked about how they sent him to sleepaway camp when he was just five. He was the youngest camper by two years, and during baseball games he would stand out in right field picking flowers. The other kids made fun of him because he couldn’t swing a bat yet. At night he would pray that in the morning his parents would come to take him home, but they never did.

“Wow,” I said.

“I think that’s why I’ve always been so cold to you,” he said, his eyes focused on me.

“You aren’t cold,” I said, reaching over and squeezing his shoulder.

He didn’t say anything, just looked at me and smiled.

“You weren’t,” I repeated.

He sat up and mussed my hair, which was still pretty short from shaving but had grown in and was now sort of spiky. “Things are going to be different from now on,” he said. “We’re gonna do things together again.”

“I’m all for that,” I answered.

“And I want us to talk. I want to hear about what’s going on in your life. I’m not going to let a little fatigue run my life anymore, okay?”

125

“Okay.”

“I want to hear about Carrie. And you know what? If you like her, I like her.”

I laughed. “Okay, Dad. Fine.”

He laughed back. “I know I’m being weird. Just give me today, okay? I’m so goddamn relieved to be feeling like myself again.”

I peered at my father, and it was freaky, like I was seeing my future. Someday I’d be older, but that didn’t mean I’d have it all fi gured out. My dad sure didn’t. That was sort of scary, in a way.

“I’m glad, Dad,” I said. “But can we come back down off the moon for like one second? I miss the dad that used to say, like, normal things.”

He doubled over laughing. “Oh man, I can’t wait till you have kids of your own who cut you down to size. I cannot wait.”

126

“Yo,

Framingham needs to think twice before running

with the ball, ” yelled Haskins from the sidelines as we huddled on the field. “Boy thinks he’s Michael Vick. Runs more like Vick’s VapoRub.”

“That’s cold,” said Rahim.

“Yo, that last play took five minutes!” Haskins said back.

“Thinks he’s Vick. Next thing you know, dude’s gonna be into dogfi ghting.”

There was laughter on the sidelines and in the huddle. I laughed, too. On a play where no one was open, I’d rolled to the left, tucked the ball in, and headed for the first-down marker. Unfortunately, I’d miscalculated something, maybe not taking into account the curvature of the earth or the speed of light, because defenders came quick and what had at first looked like an easy ten yards wound up with me sliding after a long two-yard gain. I’d run about fifteen yards, but al127

most all of it parallel to the line of scrimmage, and I’d still not even made it out of bounds.

My speed just wasn’t where it needed to be.

I turned from the huddle and yelled back, “Yo, Haskins, learn to throw,” I said. “It’s a football, not a purse.” There were a couple hoots from the sideline, and I heard Coach’s laughter, too.

“C’mon, boys, back to work,” he yelled. And with a smile, that’s what I did.

It was a warm, sunny Wednesday, and we were going first-team offense versus first-team defense. For the first time in a while, Coach seemed to be warming up to me again. He’d slapped my butt after a good timing pattern to Somers worked, just like he had hundreds of times in the past. Then I called a “Waggle” play, where I’d roll left, fake a handoff to Mendez, and then all but one of my receivers would flood the left side of the field. I loved throwing on the run, and that play always seemed to leave someone wide open.

I barked out the snap count and we sprang into action. My fake to Mendez wasn’t perfect, but a couple defenders stayed to the right, where he was heading. With Somers and a fullback coming out of the backfield, the defense looked confused. Their reaction left Austin wide open on a crossing pattern, and I fired a rocket into his hands about twelve yards down the field. He looked upfield and with a quick juke got rid of Dennis, the only guy standing between him and six points. Perfect execution.

Coach was pretty animated. “Excellent! Framingham, you got it now! Quick six if you play it right, Bobby. Sell the fake better, okay?

Way to go, Rivera,” he said to Austin, slapping him on the butt as he ran to the sideline.

• • •

I was changing after my shower when Coach came to my locker and motioned me into his office. I got goose bumps on my arms. We’d barely talked at all since the coming-out conversation, which had happened exactly three weeks before. I towel-dried my wet head, threw on a shirt, and hustled into his offi ce. Coach was sitting at his desk, peeling an orange. He looked up when I walked in and began speaking immediately.

“I wanted to ask about your father.”

“He’s doing good,” I said. “Seems a lot better.”

Coach offered me a section of orange and I declined. He jammed several pieces into his mouth at once, and I watched his lips as he savored the juice explosion before swallowing. “I’m glad,” he said, his mouth full. “Give him my regards.”

“I will,” I said, looking at the chair in front of me.

“Sit,” Coach said, and I did. “That’s not the only reason I wanted you to come in. How’s Bobby?”

“I’m okay,” I said as I sat, my face feeling warm.

“Good, that’s good,” he said. “You’re looking good out there, today especially.”

“Yeah, it felt good today,” I said.

“Good, that’s good.” Coach rolled the orange peel between his fi ngers.

I scanned my brain for any safe topics of conversation. “Other than the tier, it’s all coming together,” I told Coach.

Coach smiled and seemed relieved to have a comfortable topic.

“Bobby, I instituted the tier formation for you.”

I looked at Coach, my eyes wide. “For me? How is that good for me?”

Coach crossed his arms over his massive chest, then uncrossed them. “This team is built around you, Bobby. Not Mendez. He’s a 129

good back, but it’s your team. The tier gives you more receivers, not less, but you don’t see that.”

“I guess I don’t,” I said, eyes locked with Coach, intent on his every word.

“Bobby, the three backs behind you, are they possible receivers?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Well, picture it from the perspective of the defense. There are three possible receivers behind you. What do you do if you’re covering a guy out of the backfi eld?”

“You cheat toward the line.”

“Yes! And do you cheat toward the line out wide, or in the center?”

“Depends, I guess.”

“Yes again. They can’t get used to anything, and what we have in the backfield is like a swarm of bees. All three guys can go in any direction. It’s confusing. You ever wonder why you keep finding Mendez open this year? Or why at least a couple times a game we got a guy open deep? It’s the formation. And with your arm, I wanted to give us a chance to be dangerous on every single play.” Coach smiled and made a throwing motion as if he were throwing a bomb.

I thought about that. All this time I’d been seeing the tier as my enemy, but what it really allowed was the chance to take my skills to the next level. I’d balked at it because it was different, and different things were always hard to handle. “Cool. I didn’t get that,” I said.

He nodded at me. Coach was one of the most humble people I’d ever been around. He never took credit for anything. “Otherwise, you okay?”

“Yes,” I said. “Doing better.”

“Me, too,” he said, nodding his head again, and it took me a moment to realize he was saying he was doing better with what I told him. I smiled at him, and he offered me a tight-lipped grin back.

130

The phone rang early on Saturday morning. I was still in bed, not sleeping exactly but not awake either, just zoning, in a fantasy world after the game last night. We’d won and I’d played well. I was replaying the highlight reel in my head. The best play had been a simple hook-and-go to Rahim. I’d rolled out right, chased by a blitzing linebacker who almost sacked me before I could throw. I threw just in time, a perfect spiral that I watched drop into Rahim’s hands like a cherry off a tree. A painless six points.

I’d heard my mother leave for her morning run half an hour earlier, and I figured my father was still asleep, so I darted across the room to my desk and picked up my cordless extension.

“Hello?”

“Bobby?” The voice on the other end was faintly familiar, reedy and slightly nasal. I couldn’t place it.

“This is me,” I said.

131

There was laughter on the other line. “This is me?”

I had no idea who it was I was speaking to. “What’s so funny about that?” I took the phone and sat on the edge of my bed.

“This is he, this is him,” the voice said. “I’ve heard those. ‘This is me’ just sounds . . . totally wrong.”

I picked at a frayed string on my comforter. “Okay . . .”

The laughter stopped. “This is Bryan Paulsen.”

Heat. In my brain.

I curled up in my bed, feeling shivery and jittery yet somehow in complete control. “Who?”

“Bryan. The reporter? We spoke after the La Habra game. Saw you last night at Garden Grove, but I’m not sure you saw me?”

“Oh . . . yeah, right,” I said, all nonchalant. I had seen him, but had pretended I didn’t. “What’s up?” I anticipated his compliment for the game last night. When you’re in the public eye, and you do well at something, there’s always the matter of praise, and how you deal with it. I promised myself I’d always be real humble, but at that moment I had to catch myself in order not to say,
Did You See Me
Last Night? I Was Awesome!

“Now you remember. The tall guy who chased you off the parking lot by assuming you were gay,” he said.

There was nothing like getting right to the point.

I exhaled. “How could I forget?” I said, rubbing my thighs together. It was toasty under the blanket, just like I like it.

“I’m actually calling because I want to do a piece on you,” he said. “For the
Orange County Register
.”

I stretched out and enjoyed the tingling sensation all through my body. Things were on fi re. But for once, there were no sirens.

“Sure,” I said.

“Can we meet later?”

132

I made sure there was no trace of excitement in my voice. “I guess so.”

Bryan asked me to meet him at a coffee shop in Fountain Valley, which was about ten minutes from me. He lived in Long Beach, he said, went to school at Cal State there and was interning for the newspaper. It would be a longer drive for him.

After breakfast I showered and dressed and told my father I was going for an interview. Part of me felt like a criminal, as if what I was doing was illicit.

I drove there around lunchtime, excited and scared out of my wits. The sirens in my head only began once I got in the car. I was having lunch with a gay guy. And not just any gay guy, but one who was good-looking and liked sports.

This could be very interesting.

When I got there, he was waiting at a table inside, drinking a latte. Bryan was wearing a dark blue T-shirt that made his deep hazel eyes really stand out and showed off his build. He smiled and I tried to smile back, but probably came off looking pretty stupid.