To Love and to Perish

NINETEEN


SUNDAY I STOOD ON the sidelines of Danny’s first football game, surrounded by a group of parents who were even more excited than their kids. The fathers analyzed every play and call, yelling out advice to their sons. Mothers shrieked words of encouragement and triumph every time a play went off successfully and groaned each time the opposite was true. For the most part, the players ignored them, undoubtedly playing their best and hoping not to be the one who messed up during the game. They all wanted to be the one to make the winning touchdown and be carried away on the shoulders of their peers. I knew Danny did.

He’d chattered nonstop on the drive over. Every topic started with, “You know what, Jolene?” Then he’d proceed to tell me about his team or the coach or the professional football games he watched with Ray and how his team tried to emulate some of the plays. He talked about the different football positions and why he was a running back. He repeated dozens of things Ray had told him, making me feel all the more guilty to be the one with him at the game instead of Ray, stuck on patrol because of me.

Although I’d done my best to make everything up to Ray last night, he’d left for work this morning with a dejected look on his face. It wasn’t even the patrol duty so much as missing this very important game. So far, though, he hadn’t missed much.

Danny spent the first quarter on the bench. Apparently his team had a lot of players and the coach was making sure every player got in the game. But Danny cheered on his teammates, whooping when plays went well and screaming, “Shake it off” when they didn’t.

The opposing team’s players never changed, although they had plenty of benchwarmers. It was clear all their superstars were in the game. They scored two touchdowns, including one following a fumble by one of Danny’s teammates. His failure turned out to be good luck for Danny. The coach sent him in to replace the other boy, who sat on the bench and hung his head. His shame was almost palpable.

The next couple of plays, the ball was carried by or thrown to other players, not Danny. He still bounded up to the huddle and listened intently to the quarterback each time, nodding with enthusiasm as they broke and hustling to his position on the line.

On the final snap before the end of the first half, Danny got the ball. He froze for a moment, seeming shocked that he’d caught it, then turned and headed for the goal line. His legs pumped, ball tucked tight to his chest, his other arm outstretched to ward off a tackle. With a final burst of speed, he crossed the line.

Touchdown.

My eyes filled with tears. I clapped until my hands stung.

Danny danced, his knees knocking and arms whirling. His teammates jumped on top of him.

“Yeah, Danny, way to make the play! Wooo!”

I turned to find Ray behind me, screaming, his arm raised in triumph.

“Aren’t you on duty?”

Ray’s gaze never left the field. “Yep. Think of this as community relations.”

I rolled my eyes.

Danny jogged off the field with his team.

Ray high fived him. “Great play. You look good out there.”

Danny’s eyes lit up. “Thanks. Can we get the snacks out now?”

“Sure.” I walked over to the cooler and lifted the lid. The kids crowded in, grabbing sports drinks and energy bars from the box Danny offered. I backed away to give them room, ending up next to Ray.

“Danny’s got good hands. He’s got speed. He reminds me of Sean.”

Sean, Ray’s brother, had played football in high school, a running back no less. Ray and I attended every game. Sean was a star player, never on the bench, always in the game. He dreamed of being a professional athlete, and the scouts encouraged him. But in his senior year, he got injured. His knee was shot. He lost his drive for everything. Until he discovered drugs, that is. I hoped Danny wouldn’t turn out to be another Sean. “He definitely looks good out there. I think he’s having fun.”

As they ate, the boys replayed every moment on the field, clearly pumped after getting on the scoreboard. When the whistle blew for the third quarter, Danny hustled to the bench to watch the defense take the field.

Tired from my big night, I headed for the bleachers and took a seat about halfway up. Ray continued to follow Danny up and down the field whenever the offense was in the game, his lips moving although I couldn’t hear what he said. He’d become one of those fathers, blending into the sideline masses.

The quarterback passed the ball to Danny, too high. Danny leapt into the air and caught it, landing nimbly and running for the goal.

I stood up. “Go, Danny. Go, Danny, go.”

Touchdown.

Danny did his little dance again. Ray whooped and hollered, slapping Danny on the back when he ran off the field. Danny beamed. Even the coach high fived him.

With the score tied, play grew more aggressive and each team took more risks, some of which ended badly. In the last quarter, after a fumble and a turnover, Danny’s team got the ball again, close to their own goal. At the signal from his coach, Danny joined the offense as they took the field.

The first pass went to the other running back, who ran for ten yards before the visiting team took him down, a little more roughly than necessary. With the second handoff, the quarterback looked for Danny, who was twenty yards down the field. The pass left the quarterback’s hand, spiraling downfield. Danny got into position. He caught the ball. A player from the other team slammed him to the ground. Danny didn’t get up.

I leapt to my feet and started down the bleacher stairs, my heart beating wildly as I thought, “Don’t let him be hurt. Don’t let him be hurt.”

Danny sat up. He shook his head.

I stopped running.

Danny rose to his knees, then his feet. He jogged back to his team’s huddle as the crowd cheered.

I breathed a sigh of relief and started back up the bleachers.

A man at the edge of the woods caught my eye. He was on our side of the field, way down by Danny’s team’s goal post, hovering just outside the tree line, well back from the field itself. A baseball cap shaded his face. He had on jeans and a T-shirt.

It was a strange place to stand and observe the game. I wondered if he lived in one of the homes on the other side of the trees.

The quarterback threw another pass to Danny, who caught it but landed with his knees on the ground.

The man pumped his fists, obviously rooting for Danny’s team. He moved closer to the field and me.

I thought I saw a dark spot like a tattoo on his arm. I froze.

Danny’s team fired off another play. The ball went to Danny again. He ran.

The man stepped forward eagerly. I saw the swish of his ponytail. My heart sank.

It was Danny’s father.

I scanned the sidelines, looking for Ray. His attention was glued to the field, where Danny had been tackled just inside the thirty-yard line.

Why had Danny’s father come to the game? Surely he realized the odds Ray would be here. Why take the risk? He was a wanted felon. Did he think Ray wouldn’t recognize him?

“Go back in the woods. Go back in the woods.” I willed Mr. Phillips to hear the words as I muttered them under my breath.

Ray moved down the sideline, no doubt jockeying to witness Danny’s next touchdown.

The ball snapped. The quarterback caught it, jogging backward as he studied the field.

Danny darted back and forth on the ten-yard line, struggling to get open. The other running back did the same. Then he stumbled and went down.

The quarterback’s focus shifted solely to Danny. He waited, then threw.

The ball flew through the air.

Danny leapt. He caught it. His feet hit the ground. He spun and raced for the goal line.

When he crossed it, our side of the field went wild, cheering, slapping each other on the back, and hugging.

Mr. Phillips pumped his fists again. He moved toward the field.

“Go back in the woods. Go back in the woods.” A bead of sweat trickled off my brow.

His mouth opened.

“Don’t yell out. Don’t yell out.” My cautions disappeared in the din.

Danny finished his victory dance and headed off the field, surrounded by his teammates, a huge grin on his face.

Mr. Phillips’ lips moved.

Danny’s head tipped. He spun around, looking.

I moved down the bleacher steps. “No, no.” I hit the ground running, no longer able to see Danny or Mr. Phillips.

But I could see Ray. He’d stepped back from the sideline crowd, only yards from Mr. Phillips. Ray had him in his sights, his hand on his belt.

“No, Ray, no. Don’t do it. Please don’t do it.” I brushed past another father, knocking his shoulder. He didn’t even notice me; he was so buoyed by the touchdown.

Ray started walking toward Danny’s father, who didn’t seem to notice him, his eyes still glued on the field, his arm waving in the air.

I wondered if Danny could see him. I hoped not.

Ray kept moving.

“No, Ray, let him go. Let him go. Please, let him go.”

Mr. Phillips saw Ray too late. He took a step back, but he didn’t run.

Ray already had the cuffs off his belt. He slapped one around Mr. Phillips’ wrist.

I stopped running. I looked at the field. The other team had the ball. They were rushing to get off a game-saving play. I couldn’t see Danny.

Ray cuffed Mr. Phillips other hand and led him away.

The crowd on the sidelines didn’t even notice. They were too wrapped up in the last minutes of the game, screaming out advice to the defense. A couple of the boys moved toward our cooler with wicked glints in their eyes, perhaps preparing to douse their coach with the ice.

Without another glance at the field, Ray opened the door to his patrol car and helped Mr. Phillips inside. He slammed the door and got in the driver’s seat.

He drove off.

The whistle blew. The crowd on our side of the field roared.

I turned and found Danny right behind me, gazing at the parking lot with tears streaming down his face.