“What?”
“You and your dad took me to a few games. We were ten, maybe? That was the year Bama wasn’t too good so tickets weren’t as hard to get.”
I remember going to games with my parents, or with just my dad. I think Sam must have us confused with some other people. Still, I go along with it. I say, “Oh yeah.”
“You always got popcorn and I got Cracker Jacks,” he says.
I feel kind of sad then, that he has to make up memories.
A woman in the row in front of us with a sweatshirt on turns and smiles up at us. Every few minutes or so she keeps looking back, like she knows us. She’s older, but trying to look younger with too-tight jeans and hair dyed a shade of purple-red. When she turns around for the fourth time, she says, her eyes landing right on Sam, “You’re him.”
Sam just purses his lips and looks at her, doesn’t acknowledge what she’s just said. And maybe he doesn’t know what she means, but I do.
“You a big Alabama fan?” she says, breaking the awkward silence. Her voice is husky—she probably smokes. She looks at my father, then at Mr. Manderson—but they’re talking to each other, not paying attention.
“Yes, ma’am,” Sam finally says.
“It must be so wonderful to be home,” the woman says.
I know she means well, but I can sense Sam squirming. “Yes, it is,” he finally says.
The lady smiles, satisfied with herself. “I was just saying the other day that—”
“We’re just here for the game, like everyone else,” I say, cutting her off. Maybe I sound rude because the woman wipes that stupid smile off her face and gives me a confused look.
I shake my head at her—real quick, so it’s not obvious.
She gets the hint. She smiles in an exaggerated way and says, “Well, you boys enjoy the game.” She faces forward and starts whispering to the man she’s with.
Sam’s watching the field, taking it all in—the crowd, the hoopla, the cheerleaders, all the people still milling about.
“It’s weird,” Sam says a few minutes later.
“What is?” I ask.
“Being recognized.”
Right then the Rebels storm the field, and people in the small Ole Miss section across the field start cheering, but I hear some boos, too. Then Bama takes the field and the cheers that erupt drown out everything else.
When things calm down a few minutes later, Sam leans over and says, “But Mom says I’ll be old news soon.” He smiles to himself while looking out at the field again.
The referees are conferring with some of the players. The crowd still roars around us. The two bands are playing, at opposite ends of the field.
“I hope she’s right,” Sam says, speaking louder now.
Dad and Mr. Manderson go to the concession and bring back Cokes and hot dogs for me and Sam, and beers for themselves. After that, we settle in to watch the game. It’s easy not to have to talk. The action is steady, the noise constant. Bama fumbles early and the crowd groans, but soon they get the ball back. Alabama goes up 28–0 by the end of the first half.
“So you play tennis now,” Sam says as we wait for the game to start back up.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Mom says you’re pretty good. She says you were written up in the paper, for winning some tournaments.”
I’d forgotten about those articles. “I’m okay.”
“It looks kind of fun. Will you show me how to play sometime?”
I look over, thinking he’s joking. For some reason, it seems weird that he’d want to learn how to play a sport from me. “Sure,” I say.
“I know it’s hard and all. I’ll probably be terrible.”
“You can’t be any worse than I am at soccer.”
He laughs at this, and it’s weird because I get a jolt of the old Sam, and it’s a mix of good and bad—good because I haven’t heard him laugh at all, bad because I’m reminded of how Sam used to laugh at me.
“You’re not terrible,” he says. “The other day you kicked the ball around pretty good.”
“Yeah, right,” I say, and he laughs again, smiles, bumps his knee against mine. I turn to look out at the field, because for some reason I’m blushing. And to be honest, I’m actually having a good time, and it makes my stomach start to churn, like the hot dog I ate earlier is making me sick.
“Maybe next weekend?” he says. His eyes are hopeful.
“Sure,” I say. “That sounds good.”
===
Later that night, long after the game is over, we’re home resting on the couch, watching a movie on Netflix while munching microwave popcorn. Mom pauses the movie to go pee. It’s just me and Dad.
“Did we take Sam to football games before? Years ago?” I ask.
Dad grabs a handful of popcorn. “Yeah, remember? I think a few times. They weren’t good games. We played Western Kentucky or Kent State.”
“I don’t remember,” I say.
“Really?” he asks.
Mom comes back then and we restart the movie. But I can’t focus. I try to recall any details of those games. I have a hazy image of Sam and me, high-fiving each other when Bama scored. And Sam wanting more and more of my popcorn, and then him accidentally knocking over my Coke and saying he was sorry so many times I finally had to tell him to shut up. And how when we got home, he seemed sad to leave us, to have to go back to his house, and how I felt a little sorry for him.
But maybe none of that’s true.
I spent three years burying any thoughts of him. Except for the day he vanished, all my other memories of Sam, good and bad, are as fuzzy as those dreams you try to remember when you wake up in the morning.
===
“You have fun at the game this weekend?” Nick asks. We’re waiting for our rides after practice, as usual.
“Yeah,” I say. “We went with Sam and his stepdad.”
“Seriously?” Nick says.
“He invited us. I mean, his stepdad invited us. They got free tickets.”
“So you went?”
“Dad didn’t want to be rude and say no,” I lie.
“I would have said no,” Nick says.
“Why?”
“I don’t want to be around . . . all that. No way I’m hanging out with that kid.”
I don’t say anything, because I’m a little annoyed. What does he know?
“I mean, does he talk about it? About what happened?” Nick says.
“Nope,” I say, which is the truth.
Nick looks over at me then. Like he can’t figure me out. Like I’m a stranger. His hair is still too long. It’s starting to look dumb, like he thinks he’s a rock star or something. “I don’t get it,” he says.
“What?”
“I don’t get why you hang out with him.”
I look away and start fiddling with the zipper on my tennis bag. When I look back at him, he’s still eyeing me, waiting. “I was there that day,” I say. Connected, I think.