“True statement,” he says. “She said she’s not going to tell Dad, so who knows. Maybe she’ll keep it for herself.”
I chuckle, but eventually my laughter fades. We both sit silently together watching The Tradition run drills. I quit filming several minutes ago, so I lean the tripod and camera back, hugging it to my chest, resting my chin on the top of it. It looks like any other practice, only that our practices never look ordinary. Things are off. The field is quiet, and players look tense. You can see it in their eyes—my dad’s ultimatum. You can see it on my dad, too—the way he walks, hesitates, guards his words. He’s snapping at players and coaches, but without the backup material he usually unleashes on them. Chad Prescott is known for calling players out on their weaknesses, but then he spends thirty minutes teaching them why and how to fix them. Today, he’s just hurling insults.
“They all hate him,” I say, not really expecting a response.
“Dad? Or Nico?” Noah responds. I turn and meet his gaze.
“Both of them,” I shrug.
My brother looks at me and pulls his lips in tight, filling his chest with a long inhale. He turns to look back out on the field, and eventually pulls his crutches in his hands, lifting himself to stand.
“They don’t hate Nico,” he says, taking a few strides toward the field before stopping to talk to me over his shoulder. “They resent him. He’s better than they are.”
My brother swings his cast in long bounds on his crutches, crossing the track and eventually meeting Dad at the sidelines. They stand next to one another and watch the plays happen in front of them. Every time, my dad yells something. My brother doesn’t react. He doesn’t know what to say, how to fix things for Dad. He can’t even make the right decisions for himself, but somehow I feel like maybe…maybe he’s trying.
I watch as the frustration level grows, evident in my father’s face—the red color it turns, the wrinkles deepening on his forehead, the tantrum he throws with his hat and clipboard. It isn’t that any of the guys are making mistakes, it’s just that they aren’t playing with passion.
The same plays happen over and over, and players take turns running to the water station, drinking and rushing back to the field, almost as if they’re afraid to take a break. Sasha gets too ill to continue eventually, Bob calling my dad over to tell him that he has to let him rest. My dad looks at Sasha, knowing that he isn’t one of the ones he needs to motivate. Sasha will play for Nico, no matter what. My dad’s hand comes down on Sasha’s shoulder, and I watch as he grabs his gear and makes his way to the locker room and eventually his car, pulling out while the rest of the team keeps pushing on.
Nothing changes, no matter how many times they run through drills. An hour turns into two, and soon the sun is setting, and the field lights are buzzing above our heads—the bulbs warming. This practice is going to happen well into the night. My dad intends to keep them here until he sees a change. I don’t know that he’s going to get one.
And Nico—he’s going to have to ride his board home eleven miles, in the dark.
My legs tired from sitting in the same position, I take my camera in my hands and stand, stretching them out and walking onto the field. Coach O’Donahue eyes me, and I acknowledge him with a wave, not wanting him to think he has any power to intimidate me. He doesn’t wave back, but he does look away.
I move near my dad, behind the line where Nico is taking snap after snap from Colton while Travis sprints down the field, trying to catch up to his ball. Nico’s overthrowing, and even though his arm should be dead tired, somehow his passes seem to get farther and farther out of reach.
“You know, Coach,” Bob says, leaning in close to my father. I stand quietly between them, my camera rolling, my ears listening. “There’s this saying they have about experiments, how if you repeat the same thing over and over again and get the same result, that maybe it’s a sign you should move on and try something else.”
“You think I should start Brandon, Bob?” my dad asks, his voice coming out clipped and his tone irritable.
Bob puts his hand on my father’s back and pats it twice, leaving it in place while they both look out on another failed play in front of them.