Out of the Pocket (3 page)

I grabbed a pink packet of sugar substitute and flicked it with my fi nger several times to see if it would break. It did not.

“First of all, you’re not even close to ugly, you’re completely gorgeous and you know that. You’re a babe.”

Carrie smiled at me, relieved. “I know! I’m just totally perfect and wonderful. So remind me, why aren’t we dating?”

She’d never asked me that kind of question before and I assumed that meant she had agonized over it. She’d probably been wondering about it at least as long as I had.

I ran my tongue over the inside of my teeth, counting the top row.

Some 1950s girl was singing a song about it being her party, she’d cry if she wants to. I looked at Carrie and thought about what I could possibly say.

Just blurt out the truth? I mean, she has a million drama-club
friends, and some of them are gay. But with me, it’s different.

Something told me that a gay Bobby Framingham wasn’t a good thing for Carrie.

I swallowed and smiled at her. “I don’t know, Carrie,” I said.

“We’re friends.”

“Ouch,” she said, maintaining eye contact. “Friends without benefi ts. Peachy.”

18

“Carrie . . .”

“No, let’s stop. Discussion over. This is what we’re going to do.

I am going to go to the restroom, vomit, cry my eyes out, compose myself, and return. We shall then pretend this conversation never happened.”

“What conversation?” I said, smiling apologetically as our hash browns arrived.

“Attaboy,” was her reply as she headed to the bathroom.

Six hours later, after our final summer practice, I rolled my hand-me-down Ford Escort into the driveway and sighed, exhausted. Austin was reclined in the passenger seat. I stopped the engine, cutting off a blaring Nelly, who was in the middle of telling us how he thinks about it over and over again.

I could relate.

The car smelled like a combination of caked-in dirt and sweat. I made a mental note to get it cleaned before Monday.

“I think Coach is trying to kill me,” I said, slamming the car door shut and hobbling over to the shade of the oak tree on our front lawn.

I could feel the sun piercing my skull and collapsed face-first onto the grass. Every muscle in my body felt drained.

I exhaled and continued my thought. “It’s pretty clear he wants me dead.”

I heard Austin’s footsteps coming toward me and winced, knowing that he might sit on my back. Austin was a big guy, and kidneys are delicate organs.

Instead I heard him flop in the grass next to me, and when he spoke I could tell he was lying by my side, faceup.

“That would be awesome,” Austin said, “if he really was trying to kill you.”

19

I laughed into the dirt. “Thanks a lot. That’s real supportive.”

It had been a merciless practice; after running steps for ten minutes, we did an hour-long scrimmage, first-team offense versus first-team defense. Coach didn’t seem to care that we were in the middle of a heat wave, that it was about two thousand and seventeen degrees out and humid. Once he had us completely drained of fl uids, he tortured us with formation work. He wanted us to work out of the tier formation this season. We all hated it.

“Which is worse, the tier or the heat?” I asked, rolling away from Austin and onto my back. I looked up at the lush green leaves of the oak tree, saw the yellow-and-blue rubber football that had been lodged in a branch about twenty feet up for the past year, and beyond it, the brilliant blue sky. No clouds anywhere.

“The heat will be gone tomorrow. The tier, dude, that’s forever.”

I laughed. “True,” I said.

“Maybe if you were smarter, you’d be able to learn it,” Austin said.

“This from a guy who got a two hundred on his SATs,” I answered.

“Please,” he said, stretching out his legs. “I got a thirteen-ninety on that shit.”

“Congrats,” I said. “That’s like genius level.”

“Damn right.”

We lay there, looking up into the sky. I didn’t know what Austin was thinking about—cheerleaders, probably—but I was thinking about the coming year. I’d really played well last year, and by the end of the season there were actual scouts watching my every move.

Hopefully a Stanford scout was among them. I’d heard from two different schools—one in Colorado and one in Arizona—that were recruiting me, but my dream was to be the quarterback at Stanford like John Elway was, follow in his footsteps.

20

That probably won’t happen.

Still, I began to see them last December, men in khaki pants holding clipboards, fervently taking notes on everything I did. Coach told me this year there’d be even more of them.

We’d been through a lot this summer. Even before the two-a-day practices all August, Coach had put us on the most ferocious weight-training program possible. I added a good five pounds of muscle for sure, and the way Austin looked, he may have added more.

“You need fl uids?” I asked.

“I’m good,” he said. “I’ll head out soon.”

I was only half disappointed. Austin’s great, but an afternoon of lazing around the house alone sounded pretty good.

Austin slowly stood, and then reached down to grab his ankles and stretch his legs. “So you still not getting any from that quote unquote
girlfriend
of yours?” he asked.

“Shut up,” I answered, sitting up and throwing a handful of grass and dirt at him.

“She’s not even your girlfriend,” he said. “You never say a word about her.”

“I don’t kiss and tell,” I said, pulling out a few strands of grass and smushing them together with my thumb and forefi nger.

“You don’t kiss,” he said. “I know all about you.”

I looked up at him and my head began to buzz.
This is it. He
knows. Thank God, he knows.

“You don’t kiss, you go right for the good stuff,” he said.

I looked down at the grass and in an instant decided to just get it over with, right before the school year. Just pull the Band-Aid off real quick.

But when I looked up at him, and saw he wasn’t even looking at me, was instead concentrating on stretching his left leg as far behind him as he could, I changed courses. Again.

21

“Did you tell Rhonda that you’re doing Gabrielle on the side yet?” I asked.

“Hey,” he said, improvising a little ’N Sync–like choreographed dance move that he did to disgust me. It had its intended effect, and I stuck my finger down my throat as if I wanted to throw up. He wiped grass off of his shorts and shirt. “When you got all this, you can’t keep it off the market.”

“Austin, the market called. They’re begging you to keep it off,” I said, channeling Carrie, and he laughed. I lunged for Austin’s legs.

He tried to jump out of the way, but I was too quick for him. I pulled him to the ground easily and pinned him. I used to wrestle, and I was good.

“Get off me, dude,” Austin said from underneath me, gasping for breath. “I think you like getting on top of me a little too much.”

“Yeah, right,” I answered, collapsing onto my back.

We had a typical family dinner, just a little quieter. Mom served some sort of casserole thing that tasted a lot better than it looked and there were the usual “are you excited about your first day?” questions, which I grunted away.

“That’s an interesting, um, hair choice, Bobby” my mother said, looking toward my father.

At least she noticed. My dad didn’t even look up. Here it was, the day before senior year, and he couldn’t even be bothered to ask how I was doing.

I was bald, and he didn’t care. I pictured myself with a huge earring and a skull-and-crossbones tattoo on my shoulder, and him just sitting there, scooping up broccoli.

He never used to be like this.

Usually my parents double-teamed me on things, and I was already prepared with five arguments about why my naked scalp was a 22

good thing. But my dad didn’t seem too focused on my lack of hair; instead he was just staring at his food.

“It’s for the team,” I said, taking a bite of casserole.

“That’s sweet,” my mom said.

My dad picked up his fork and took a few small bites and then rested his head in his hands, his elbows on the table like I was always told not to do.

“You okay, Dad?” I asked.

He did a double take, like he wasn’t even aware I’d been in the room before I asked the question.

“Fine,” he said, lifting his head from his hands and smiling at me. And the thing is, it was a nice smile. He wasn’t trying to be a jerk. But then he rested his head in his hands again, and it was like I didn’t even exist.

My eyes focused on the mantel above the fireplace behind him, where there’s a large picture of my parents when they got married.

My mom was a knockout back then.

What amazed me about the picture was how my dad looked almost exactly like me. He had the same blond hair, the same wide smile, the same green eyes. Maybe he wasn’t built quite as big as me, but he was pretty big. He was a baseball player in college.

I looked at the picture and then at him, balding, tired-looking, his face lined. It filled me with a momentary panic as I imagined my future.
Will I look like that in thirty years? How does that happen?
Would I look in the mirror one day and see that all the changes had happened without me noticing, or would there be a noticeable shift every day—a line forming on my forehead, my hair becoming slightly grayer?

“Donald, why don’t you go upstairs and rest?” my mother asked my dad.

Her head was tilted slightly and her eyes were full of compas23

sion. I looked down at my plate and speared some broccoli, hoping that when I got older, my work wouldn’t be as stressful as my dad’s.

He was always so tired at night.

My dad nodded and slowly stood. And then he did this weird thing. He came over to me and planted a kiss on my bald head.

“Big year for you,” he said quietly, rubbing my temples.

When he left and I was sure he was upstairs and out of earshot, I looked at my mom. “Who was that man?” I asked.

She closed her eyes and nodded, like she knew what I meant.

24

“C’mon! Pump those legs! Pump those legs!”

In the distance, I could see the offensive linemen doing drills.

Thick calf muscles flexed and cleats dug into the dirt, sending chunks of grass flying. Though they were a good twenty yards away, I could hear the grunting and gasping and it sent shivers of recognition down my spine.

It all begins with me. When I say “hike,” the ball is snapped to me
and I hear the clash of helmets to shoulder pads and my heart races
and the blood pumps through my biceps. Then it’s my turn to make the
right choice, and that’s what I live for, the chance to succeed using my
brain and my arm, with huge linemen bearing down on me.

“Where’s your head at, Bobby?” Coach yelled.

I snapped to attention and there he was, standing in front of me, his hands on his wide hips.

25

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m here.”

We were practicing our new tier formation, and it wasn’t working. Just taking snaps without a defense, it felt like we were playing underwater or something. No matter what the play call, I seemed to keep bumping into the formation’s extra running back. Wherever I turned, someone was in my face.

After about four botched attempts, my face was beginning to feel hot. I threw the football down in disgust and it bounced into my ankle.

“Framingham, deep breath,” Coach said. “You can do this.”

“I don’t know, Coach, maybe this is just wrong for me,” I replied, kneeling down to scoop up the ball.

Coach looked at me through narrowed eyes and crossed his huge arms. “Are you the coach, or am I?”

I looked down at the turf. “You are.”

“Have a little confidence, Bobby. It’ll be tough for a while, but it’ll make you a better quarterback in time.”

It was practice after the first day of school, and we were preparing for our first game, at Huntington Beach, just four days away.

Coach ran us through the formation a couple more times until I got off a good sideline pass to Rahim. Then he put me and the backup quarterbacks through agility drills.

D’Wayne Haskins, Richie Bardello, and I took turns focusing on our footwork. We started from our presnap stance, gave a short cadence, and simulated the snap. We then took three-, five-, and seven-step drops, and ended with a throwing motion. Coach was always stressing footwork. You do that right, or you can forget about winning.

It was true. Understanding how to survive in the pocket was everything. That was like the quarterback’s safety zone, where your linemen protected you from opposing defenders. But the other team 26

wasn’t the only concern; if you dropped back clumsily, you could easily get introduced to your running back’s shoulder pads. I’d done it many times.

Since I was a typical pocket passer—rocket arm, not a whole lot of speed—footwork in the pocket was extra important. When I was able to get set and throw, I was tough to stop. Anytime I got chased outside the pocket, all bets were off.

“That’s it, Haskins, you got it, you got it,” Coach told my backup, giving him a quick slap on the rear. “Real nice. Better watch it, Framingham, Haskins is on your ass.”

I gave them a smile, as genuine as possible after a coach threatens your job. “Bring it on,” I said, half meaning it.

My mind was elsewhere and it was obvious. I fumbled a simple snap, and then, recovering, nearly tripped over my own feet before handing the ball off to Mendez.

“Damn it, Bobby, get with the program!” Coach yelled. I looked away, wishing practice were over. Coach dropped his clipboard on the grass and walked to the sideline, rubbing his forehead. “Framingham! C’mere!”

I trotted over to him, a slight throbbing behind my eyes as I braced myself for the onslaught. I could feel the stares of my teammates behind me and I flushed with embarrassment. As I got closer to Coach, I could see his face but couldn’t read it.

“Where the hell is Bobby Framingham at?” he asked.

“Sorry. I’m here, Coach,” I said, staring at his eyebrows.