I got to the game early, watching warm-ups play out on the field while I set up my camera on the roof of the box. I decided to sit by my mom for the game, so I staked out our spots near the front of the bleachers, laying down an extra cushion in case my dad decided to come. He flip-flopped on the decision all week, sometimes hell-bent on proving to them they didn’t break him, then surrendering to the fact that they really had.
My father was now nothing more than a physical education teacher at Cornwall. His lifting classes were taken over by Jimmy. He went in on Sunday to pile up his things from the office under the watchful eye of Robert O’Donahue, Jimmy’s uncle—the board member who started these dominoes by pushing the first one over a year ago when he forced the board to hire his nephew.
My dad was able to sneak a few important books out without them getting their hands on them, and I showed him how to log into his computer system remotely so he could extract and delete things that might be helpful to Jimmy’s success. My dad also saved all of Nico’s game-play clips. His new mission was to act as Nico’s agent, voluntarily, of course, and make sure the A&Ms and Ohio States and Brown Universities—all interested in the quarterback from West End—continued to be.
Of course, if the rest of the season played out like tonight’s game, those opportunities might dry up on their own.
My dad showed up at halftime, and I felt the stare from most of the people in the stands instantly. Even now, minutes left in the game, I can feel them looking at us. Some of them are waiting for my dad to do something, to fix what’s happening down on the field. But that…that isn’t his job any more.
He’s reminded me of that every few seconds all night long. Nico gets hit on the blind side; my dad mumbles about Zach’s blown coverage, poor positioning. Sasha misses a catch; my dad mutters out something about play calling, and not reading the defense correctly. Every word from him, though, has been under his breath, until now.
Nico misses another pass, throwing the ball deep, just out of Travis’s reach. As he runs in, the punting team heading out, Coach O’Donahue pulls on Nico’s face mask, jerking his head square with his, his finger pointing in his quarterback’s face, his large body able to overpower Nico’s. Eventually, Nico pushes himself free and throws his hands out, fighting back.
“You do not touch your players like that!” my dad yells, getting to his feet quickly. Within a blink, my dad has hopped over the front of the bleachers, his feet landing in a crunch on the track below, and he’s on the field.
“Oh…shit,” my mom says next to me. I look at her, her eyes wide and her hands clutching her purse against her chest. “We better get ready to go.”
“He has to do something, Mom. That…you saw that, right?” I say.
“I did, but Reagan, I don’t know. Oh God, oh God, oh God,” my mom begins to mumble. She’s uncomfortable with the attention, and I get it. My mom doesn’t like to be the one who isn’t liked, and right now—for whatever reason—we aren’t.
On the field, my dad has reached Coach O’Donahue, and both of their hands are flying in all directions. I hear faint swear words from the distance, and the referees are whistling, calling their own timeout to sort the scene now unfolding on the field.
“I can’t believe he’s doing this,” I say, a smile spreading on my face. My mom’s face, meanwhile, grows more worried.
The other team has taken a knee, as if someone on our side has been injured, which I sort of feel is seconds away from happening. My dad is turning red—the kind of red I used to see when he would yell at my brother for being out too late…for smashing the side door of his Jeep into our dad’s car…for smoking pot. Jimmy O’Donahue takes steps backward, and one of the referees steps between them both, grabbing the collar of my father’s shirt. There are boos coming from the stands, and my mom keeps glancing over her shoulder, as if they could be happening for any reason other than the spectacle her husband just made.
She turns back to the field to watch my dad talk—more rationally—with the referee, a guy named Jeff Munds. We’ve known Jeff for years. He handles most of the big games in the state, and ends up doing a lot of ours because of that. My father seems to calm down thanks to Jeff, and as he starts to walk with him to the exit from the field, I watch my mom carefully, her nails in between her teeth and her eyes not blinking, but never focusing in one place for too long. She flits from the exit, to the field, to the score, to my knees, to the place down the bleachers where my brother is sitting with a few friends. It’s like I can read her mind, and the way it’s working out what every person here must be thinking about her.
And then, with a few words, everything about her shifts.
“What’s the matter, Lauren? Can’t handle the spotlight? Thinking of driving the car through Jimmy’s house now?”