“I’m sorry,” I say. I’m so, so sorry.”
“For what?” Jake laughs, pulls out his cell phone, dials a number, and holds the small phone up to his ear.
“I found him,” Jake says into the phone. “Yeah, tell him.”
Jake hands me the phone. I put it up to my ear.
“Is this Rocky Balboa?”
I recognize the voice as Scott’s.
“Listen, the asshole you knocked out—well, he woke up and is super pissed. Better not come back to the tent.”
“Is he okay?” I ask.
“You should be more worried about yourself.”
“Why?”
“We played dumb when the cops showed up, and no one was able to identify you or your brother—but ever since five-o left, the big guy’s been searching the parking lot, looking for you. Whatever you do, don’t come back here, because this Giants fan’s hellbent on revenge.”
I hand the phone back to Jake, feeling somewhat relieved to know I did not seriously hurt Steve, but also feeling numb—because I lost control again. Plus, I’m a little afraid of the Giants fan.
“So, are we going home now?” I ask Jake when he finishes talking to Scott.
“Home? Are you kiddin’ me?” he says, and we start walking back toward the Linc.
When I don’t say anything for a long time, my brother asks if I’m okay.
I’m not okay, but I don’t say so.
“Listen, that asshole attacked you and threw me to the ground. You only defended your family,” Jake says. “You should be proud. You were the hero.”
Even though I was defending my brother, even though I did not seriously hurt the Giants fan, I don’t feel proud at all. I feel guilty. I should be locked up again in the bad place. I feel as though Dr. Timbers was right about me—that I don’t belong in the real world, because I am uncontrollable and dangerous. But of course I do not say this to Jake, mostly because he has never been locked up and doesn’t understand what it feels like to lose control, and he only wants to watch the football game now, and none of this means anything to him, because he has never been married and he has never lost someone like Nikki and he is not trying to improve his life at all, because he doesn’t ever feel the war that goes on in my chest every single fucking day—the chemical explosions that light up my skull like the Fourth of July and the awful needs and impulses and …
Outside the Linc, masses form thick lines, and with hundreds of other fans, we wait to be frisked. I don’t remember being frisked at the Vet. I wonder when it became necessary to frisk people at NFL games, but I do not ask Jake, because he is now singing “Fly, Eagles, Fly” with hundreds of other drunken Eagles fans.
After we are frisked, we climb the steps and have our tickets scanned, and then we are inside of Lincoln Financial Field. People everywhere—it’s like a hive full of green bees, and the buzz is deafening. We often have to turn sideways just to squeeze between people as we walk the concourse to get to our section. I follow Jake, worrying about getting separated, because I would be lost for sure.
We hit the men’s room, and Jake gets everyone inside to sing the Eagles fight song again. The lines for the urinals are long, and I am amazed that no one pees in the sinks, because at the Vet—at least up in the 700 Level—all sinks were used as extra urinals.
When we finally get to our seats, we are in the end zone, only twenty or so rows up from the field.
“How did you get such good tickets?” I ask Jake.
“I know a guy,” he replies, and smiles proudly.
Scott is already seated, and he congratulates me on my fight, saying, “You knocked that fucking Giants fan out cold!” which makes me feel awful again.
Jake and Scott high-five just about everyone in the section, and as the other fans call Scott and my brother by name, it becomes obvious that they are quite popular here.
When the beer man comes around, Scott buys us a round, and I am amazed to find a cup holder in the seat in front of me. You would never see such a luxury item at the Vet.