The Hero
I don’t remember much of Aarón’s tenure as town hero.
With twelve years between us, most of his high school football games had passed by while I was running around under the bleachers, chasing after Gabe.
There are a few moments from his senior year that I do remember, though: Aarón standing in the middle of the field and shouting out plays as the quarterback, Eli excitedly bouncing up and down on the JV bench, my mother muttering prayers under her breath, my father pacing down at the fence.
I’ve heard stories about how he always barely held it together during Aarón’s games…and about the times when he didn’t.
What I remember most is the sound. The small-town chorus of my brother’s name being chanted over and over, a teenage boy held up as a patron saint. The eldest son of an only son taking his rightful place in the pantheon.
Every now and again he would let me see the world from the top of his shoulders. See the way everyone waved, congratulated him, told him they couldn’t wait to see him on TV.
Every now and again he would let me into his room. Quiz me on team helmets, show me his trading cards (if I was very gentle), watch the sunlight from his window reflect off his trophies.
Every now and again he didn’t find me so annoying. He’d pass me candy from the hidden shelf, run behind me while I learned to ride without my training wheels, lift me onto his horse with him so I could go flying.
Every now and again, Aarón wasn’t all bad, even if he sometimes makes it hard to remember.
Unfortunately, he also just wasn’t good enough. There was no torn shoulder, no poorly timed sprain, no epic ending. There were only letters in small envelopes. Phones that never rang. Silence where there had once been chanting.
Congratulations had eventually turned into polite nods. Trophies moved from top shelves to closet boxes. There was no more time to take me flying.
So falls the town hero. Until the next one comes along.