As the quarterback, James’s name was the last to be called. When he ran across the field in his yellow and black uniform, everybody stood up and cheered even louder. Their rhythmic stomping sent metallic shudders through the bleachers over my head.
I put down the John Grisham novel then and closed my eyes. I imagined walking up to James and talking to him, telling him everything that had been on my mind since I had first laid eyes on him.
It was a good fantasy, but it was interrupted by the harsh shrill of the referees’ whistles.
I opened my eyes and saw that there was now a pile of players on the field. That’s why the referees were blowing their whistles; they were also gesturing for the players on top to start unpiling.
As the players removed themselves, I could see James curled around the ball like a fetus around its thumb.
I did not quite understand what was going on, but I guessed he’d done good because the crowd started cheering even louder than when he first came out.
The two teams got back in formation, and James threw a pass. But it didn’t quite reach the player he was aiming at.
On the sidelines, Tammy and the other cheerleaders did a “That’s okay” cheer.
Then he threw another pass that didn’t quite make it. I heard murmurs above me about how it seemed like he was favoring his throwing arm.
The crowd got quiet.
Now James was on the sidelines, talking with the coach. The coach said something, and James started shaking his head.
Then the coach pointed at the bench, but James folded his arms and shook his head again.
A general gasp went up from the crowd. You see, in the South, football is like the army. You don’t question orders, you just do whatever the coach tells you to. So James refusing to sit down was a big deal. Unheard of. Like a black child suddenly saying in an English accent to its mama, “No, madam, I will not retrieve a switch so that you may beat me with it. I believe your request to be not only abusive, but also absurd.”
And say that did happen. Of course country logic would say that the mama must now beat her child even worse than she first intended, so that they would never have to have that kind of conversation again.
The coach must have been fully conversant in country mama logic, because he was pointing off the field and yelling with such enunciation that I could almost hear the words coming off his lips.
“I don’t know how they do it in Texas, son, but in Mississip’, players don’t be talking back to their coach. Get out of here.”
For the first time in my history of stalking James, I saw a truly alarmed look pass over his face. “But Coach—” I could see him start to say.
“I said, get!”
James was totally still for second, just blinking at the coach.
Was this the first time he had ever gotten in real trouble for something he’d said or done? Maybe so, I thought.
Then the alarm passed, and he took off his helmet and threw it—yes, threw it! By the time it hit the water table, jostling the little paper cups of Gatorade, he was stomping off the field followed by a chorus of boos.
I was confused, as I would continue to be confused at sporting events for the rest of my life, because I didn’t know whether the crowd was booing for or against him.
. . .
The awful thing about James getting kicked out of the game was that he felt bad, and I didn’t ever want James to feel bad. But the really good thing about James getting kicked out of the game was that it meant I could follow him to the locker room without too many people noticing.
So I trailed him at a distance back to the school. On the way, I spotted a yellow flower growing in the weeds and picked it.
A few minutes later, I was standing outside the boys’ locker room door. I could hear the sound of metal rattling. He must have been kicking the lockers. Then it was silent for a long time.
I cracked the door open. James was sitting on a long bench with his head in his hands, the bottom of his palms covering his eyes.