First and Baby

1. That is Not the Package I Was Expecting

1

That is Not the Package I Was Expecting

What’s the difference between a quarterback and a baby?

One takes the snap, the other takes a nap.

Dylan Callahan

There was a baby in the box.

Herbert, the doorman for my very nice and very expensive apartment building, had called and said there was a package for me. I’d told him to leave it by my door and I’d get to it as soon as I got out of the shower.

Thank God I was expecting a food delivery so I hadn’t left that box sitting out in the hallway for longer than it took to dry off and put on pants. When I saw that the top wasn’t taped, just carefully closed, I was sure that someone had stolen or tampered with my groceries. I was ready to call someone and complain.

The box did not contain the organic meats and specialty protein pasta I was expecting.

No.

There was a baby. A sleeping baby.

I know nothing about babies, but I knew this one was young. It didn’t look like it could sit up or play patty-cake. It looked like the pictures my mom kept on the mantle from when I was three months old. I wasn’t sure if it was a boy or a girl since the blanket wrapped around it was yellow with green trim. It wore a matching green and yellow hat. Packers’ colors. The thing was tiny, and luckily, fast asleep.

“Um, this is a baby,” I said to no one in particular. The hallway was empty.

I stared at the box sitting out in the hallway of my apartment, not understanding what was going on. I half expected cameras to pop out with my teammates laughing that I’d just been punked. This had to be some sort of prank.

Who the hell leaves a baby in a box on the doorstep of an NFL player?

I looked around the empty hallway again and then back to the box with a baby in it. The baby sighed and wiggled slightly, but stayed asleep.

I couldn’t just leave it sleeping out in the open, so I picked up the box and brought it inside. It was surprisingly light. Thankfully, the baby didn’t wake up.

I set the box down on the kitchen table and stared at the box for a moment. It was just a plain brown box, so that didn’t give me much information. I should probably call the police, but they would want more information. Also, I did not want to wake the baby up with a loud phone call. Cautiously, as if the baby were a dangerous cobra, I peered into the box.

Just a baby wrapped in a thin blanket. Swaddled . The word popped into my head and I felt like I might not be completely incompetent at child rearing. The baby was swaddled in a thin blanket, just like they did at the hospital.

And then I realized that I was a complete idiot. Knowing the word swaddled was not the makings of a good caretaker.

“Who are you?” I softly asked the baby, as if it could respond.

Yup, I was an idiot.

However, I did see a piece of carefully folded paper near its feet. Treating the baby as if it were still a cobra, I carefully reached in and pinched the note. A professional bomb squad technician would have been impressed at my careful and delicate movements.

The baby didn’t move except for some gentle breathing. Success.

I read the note.

Dear Mr. Callahan,

This is your daughter. We slept together September 2nd at a party downtown. By the time I found out that I was pregnant, there was no way for me to reach you. I can’t take care of her and she deserves to be with someone who can. She was born May 25 th . The doctor said she was perfect. Tell her that her mother loved her, but there was no way for her to keep her. She will have a chance at a better life with you.

I stared at the note. The handwriting was neat and small, as if the writer had taken great care shaping every letter, as if she’d known it would be read thousands of times. There was no signature, no hint of who had actually written this note.

I was glad there was a chair at the kitchen table because I sat down hard. My knees went wobbly.

My daughter?

How the hell did I have a daughter? Sure, I liked the ladies. Neither my coach nor my agent liked the way I had a new woman on my arm every week, but I was living the high life. I was enjoying my freedom and sowing some oats while I was a hot item. I knew it wouldn’t last forever and so I was taking what I could get while I had it.

September 2nd. I had no idea what I had been doing twelve months ago.

Other than this woman, apparently.

I guessed that meant the baby was three months old.

I fumbled for my phone, pulling up the calendar app and frantically scrolling back about twelve months. Yup. There was a party downtown. I remembered it. It had been a huge party thrown by a couple of rich fans. They’d rented an entire hotel downtown, hired a famous band, and then paid to have several of Omaha’s most favorite football players attend.

I did not remember much from that night. Free food, good booze, and beautiful women everywhere. The cops had eventually had to shut the entire thing down because too many people were in the hotel. It had leaked there was a party, and everyone and their uncle tried to get in.

I tried to remember who I had been with that night. A blonde? I remembered a blonde. I remembered doing some things that could lead to a pregnancy, but her name? Nope. I couldn’t make her face out in my memory.

Not a great look for me.

I peeked at the baby in the box again. Did she look like her mother?

No. She looked like a pink potato.

I distinctly remembered sleeping with a woman, not a pink (or any other color) potato.

I wasn’t that much of a man-whore.

I wiped my hand across my face, trying to figure out what the hell I was supposed to do next. I was a father. Her father. Wasn’t I supposed to have some sort of parental instinct?

The only instinct I had was that I should let sleeping babies sleep.

brRRRRRRNNNNNGGGG.

My phone started to buzz and ring, the volume set to as loud as humanly possible so I wouldn’t miss it in the shower.

“SHIT!” I shouted, and then realized that wasn’t a good idea. “Shit,” I repeated, this time in a whisper as I frantically hit the answer button. “This is Dylan.”

“Callahan. Turn on the news. Now.” Coach’s voice was low and serious. It was the kind of voice he used when I fucked up. I swallowed hard. At least the baby hadn’t woken up.

For a panic-stricken moment, I wondered if this baby was already on the news. My brain imagined the reporter standing outside my apartment building reporting that not only was I a deadbeat dad, I was a kidnapper. I wasn’t sure how that worked, by my brain went with it anyway.

Carefully, I crossed the kitchen into the living room and turned on the big screen TV, making sure to lower the volume to just barely audible. I did not want to wake up the baby and have to explain that to Coach. It was already set to the sports news station.

“In other news, Dylan Callahan still can’t catch a ball,” an attractive female reporter announced into a microphone. The screen cut to footage of practice yesterday and I winced as they showed clip after clip of me dropping the ball at practice.

“After suffering an injury at the only postseason game the Quakes made, Callahan made some questionable off-field decisions,” the reporter continued. “Sources say that Dylan Callahan’s contract may not be renewed this season.”

The screen cut to a picture of me drinking at a party. Three women hung on me like ornaments on a Christmas tree.

“The owners of the Omaha Twisters were willing to overlook the playboy behavior and partying when the man could make plays,” the reporter continued. The screen shifted to the beginning of last year when I was made of speed and could catch anything. “But after a minor injury, he just can’t seem to hold onto the ball.”

Minor injury , I scoffed. I’d broken my wrist playing football. Those “questionable off-field decisions” were me trying to come to terms with the fact that I might never play again. If I had a little too much to drink and found some comfort in the arms of several women, was that really so bad?

My wrist would never be the same after the accident. I still had nightmares about that game. We’d lost. My Super Bowl dreams were crushed because of that “minor injury” and I wasn’t sure I’d ever get them back.

“Sources say that if Callahan can’t step up his game and start catching the football--” The screen cut to another montage of me fumbling the ball at practice and at yesterday’s preseason game. My face heated. “Then he’ll be cut.”

“Well, it could have been worse,” I said to Coach, muting the TV.

“Sure. They could have said you were already fired,” Coach agreed. “Listen Callahan, I like you. You’re a good ball player when you have your head in the game. But you haven’t had your head in the game all summer. You were only in the team’s good graces at the end of last year because you could run the ball. It’s not looking good for you. We’re cutting players tomorrow.”

I grimaced and was glad he couldn’t see me blushing. I rubbed at my now healed wrist. I didn’t want to be cut from the team, but it wasn’t looking good for me this season. My contract was due to be renegotiated, so I was in no place to make demands.

“Let me tell you this,” Coach continued. “If you don’t get your shit together, you’re out. You’re on medical for the week, but if you show up in the news at another out-of-control party, you’re out. If you so much as get a speeding ticket, you’re out. We can’t afford to have players making fools of the team.”

“A speeding ticket?” I asked. “Isn’t that a bit much?”

“After the shit Williams pulled last week? Every news article about the Twisters this week is negative. The owners want this team to be family friendly. Williams’ harassment accusations are not good for the team. You are in no way to be the next player on the news.”

“But I haven’t done anything--”

“I don’t care. Everyone is on notice,” Coach cut me off. “The entire team better be choir boys the rest of preseason. You aren’t playing well enough to get special treatment.”

I wished I had a retort. I wished I could say that I could play better, but...

My confidence was not high. Ever since the accident, I felt like I needed to protect myself rather than going all out for the ball. I’d seen a therapist, a psychologist, a hypnotist, and even had a psychic cleanse my energy, but nothing seemed to be working.

I couldn’t seem to hold onto the ball to save my life, let alone my career.

“Yes, Coach.” I sighed, wishing I could sink into the floor. At least I was safe tomorrow. That wouldn’t be true for a lot of guys on the team. “I’ll be picture perfect. No scandal. No antics.”

And that’s when the baby started to cry.