My brother stops midsentence, bringing the mic down along his leg, his eyes falling forward with his swallow. The clapping begins again, and the crowd cheers for him to go on. He nods.
“Last week was both one of my greatest moments on that field…and my lowest.”
Everyone is rapt, and silence comes fast and evident. I force myself to notice just how quiet it is—so much so that I can hear the crackles of the heavy air conditioning units pushing cold air through the ductwork. The only other time I can hear that is when I’m in here alone.
“Winning with these guys…it’s…it’s everything. And getting to lead them on that field is an honor I don’t know that I will ever know the equal to again. You know, a lot of people like to gun for us. We’re easy targets—private school…amazing fans…”
Noah pauses for another round of loud cheers. He’s planned this—thought it out. My brother is an inspiring speaker, and if I could push him, I’d make him love politics. But I know that I can’t, and I know his heart is in sports and an environment just like this.
“We’re winners. Just look up there! Look at that wall!” He turns enough to point with the mic to the several banners that hang above the rows of stands where our team currently sits. The display is impressive, and the succession in recent years is even more so. But I wonder about the glaring banner missing from that display.
“I wanted to put one up there for you. I wanted it,” he pauses to rap the mic against his heart twice. His head hangs low, and fewer whistles pull him out of it this time. “I want it this year. And I would like to think I got things started.”
His head comes up again, his eyes determined and his face matching as his bottom lip tucks in his teeth while he nods yes. Yes. This year, yes. I scoot forward so I can pan to the faces nearby, everyone sitting on edge. Boosters nodding. Their poster boy is doing good.
“I’m not quitting just because of some cast. I’ll be there tonight—on the sidelines. I’ll be there at practice. I’ll be there with these guys—my brothers. I’m not going to stop until I put one more banner on that wall!”
The gym erupts, and the “No-ah” chants come in quickly. My mouth hurts from my smile, and I look at everyone, all smiling just the same. Everyone except two people.
When my eyes fall to my father, I notice two things. His eyes are forward, to a spot on the floor somewhere between where the tips of his shoes end and the back of my brother’s heels begin. And his mind is not on the words my brother is saying. My dad is conflicted. I see it, just as I’ve seen in on his face for the last year, since the big loss. I saw it during every cruel prank phone call with threats in the middle of the night, and I see it now. And then it hits me.
My dad wants to start Nico.
“I might not be QB-One, but I will always lead this team. That’s what you do when you’re a part of The Tradition! You step up! You step up and lead no matter what your role is, what your jersey says, where you are on the field. I’ll lead! We lead! Whose house is this?”
“Our house!” The team shouts behind my brother.
He only does it once, because it will be said a lot today. That chant will echo on through the night. I just hope that it gets said in about five minutes, when the guy who I’ve long thought to be the cockiest person I’ve ever met stands up in front of a team that does not yet trust him and asks them that very question.
Nico’s legs are bouncing. First it was the right. Then the left. Now both bob with tremors that I see easily between the row of muscular bodies all sitting still and relaxed in front of him. Too nervous to sit any more, I hold my camera steady against my chest, tilting the screen up so I can watch comfortably when I need to. I keep my eyes forward, on Nico’s legs, on my father’s mouth—the hard line still there to match the deep divot above his brow, a wrinkle from fear and what I am guessing was also probably another sleepless night.
Noah turns to where my father sits, and my dad stands, walking over and taking the mic from him, shaking his hand and squeezing his shoulder. Only a split second passes where their eyes meet, and in that tiny sliver I see how unhappy both of them really are. My brother was supposed to finish this. My dad wanted that for him.
Plans fell apart. Plans are shit. A person can’t count on anything except their gut.
Instincts.
Those are what my father has always rode—his instincts. I shut my eyes, but hold my body still. I don’t pray often. We aren’t the kind of family that goes to church unless there’s a social reason we’re expected to. But I do pray. I don’t talk about it. I do it for me. I do it when I need to escape being a Prescott. I do it when I need to know I’m not crazy, when I’m worried things aren’t going to be okay. I do it for others.