Futbolista

Chapter 15 #2

But when they see me jogging over to them, smile big, excited to see my parents—Mom in the blue Islander Mom tee she bought right after I signed with the team and one of Pops’s brown Carhartt jackets, her hair tied up so the wind doesn’t get it all in her face, and Pops in an Islanders Soccer tee tucked into his Levi’s and an old trucker hat—the first thing they tell me after their regular “Good game, mi’jo” isn’t something like “Our son is a superstar,” or “It’s about time we get a trophy cabinet built for you at home,” or, better than all of those, “Carne asada later today, just for you,” or “Let’s go get you some celebratory fajita nachos. ” Nope. It’s none of those.

“What happened to you saying you were going to help your Papi take out that tree trunk in the backyard?” Mom asks, after pulling me in for a kiss.

“And mowing too,” Pops adds, all ready with a whole list of things I’ve volunteered for.

It’s not like I was going to leave them hanging forever.

And they know I’ve been studying on the weekends and I’ve got games.

Whether I’ve also gone to a party or on a date with a girl or got broken up with by that same girl or spent a night playing FIFA with the boys until two in the morning, well, let’s not say.

“Yeah. I’ll come first thing tomorrow. That okay?”

“Bueno,” Pops says, bringing me in for a side hug. “See you then, mi’jo.”

Yep. No one humbles me like my Mom and Pops.

And, twenty hours later, at least I get to picture Trujillo punk’s face on the tree as me, Pops, and a couple of my cousins and uncles take turns uprooting it.

After that, though, pushing a mower around the backyard and now moving on to the front, I’m left with a lot of thinking time.

Mostly it’s Coolidge’s voice sitting in my head, the meeting I had with him earlier in the week replaying.

The image of him, his arms crossed over his chest while he sits straight up behind his office desk.

I expected the place to be full of marble heads of Socrates and Plato—and it was.

Well, it’s either them or some other Greek guys.

But it was also way less museum than I imagined and more …

for lack of a more creative way to put it, exactly like any of my other college professors’ offices.

Lots of leather-bound books lined up on a shelf that takes up an entire wall.

Another shelf with more books that don’t seem to be there just for the vibes.

An ivy plant. Pretty standard philosophy-teacher aesthetic to me.

“You know what you’re exceptional at, Gabriel?

” he asked, which, honestly, caught me by surprise.

Half of me was convinced I was going to sit down and he’d immediately start dragging me, telling me that I’m not meeting his expectations, that the B+ was him handing me a big curve, and maybe I should drop the class before it’s too late.

Even though reason should’ve calmed me down.

I know I’m doing alright . He went from writing down Work on editing your thoughts on the first essay to an actual compliment on the next one.

Yeah, my latest essay (thankfully not about another cave) only got an Interesting thoughts with a C+, but that was probably the best I could’ve hoped for with Euthyphro .

Absolutely hated that one. Felt my brain dying trying to get through it.

That I had any thoughts to give at all was a win to me.

All I know is that, one, if my Pops accidentally left a murderer in a barn or something, and he died, I’m sticking by my Pops’s side; two, Euthyphro was a narc; and, lastly, a philosopher trying to make a point is going to take all fucking day, so you better have had nothing else to do back in Ancient Greece because Socrates was going to talk your ear off.

I challenge normalcy . That’s what I’m exceptional at, according to Professor Coolidge.

I “ask the subject or the reader to be open to changing their thought process,” he said when it was obvious I had no idea what he meant by “challenging normalcy.” I wasn’t even aware that it’s something I’ve been doing.

“However,” he added, “I don’t see a lot of looking inward. You’re asking the reader to consider something I don’t see you yourself putting much thought into. Again, lots of logic, but bring in your heart. I see it at the door. Especially with the ‘Allegory’ paper, it was there. Invite it in.”

Siri’s voice suddenly in my ears and disrupting my playlist and train of thought tells me I’ve got a new text from Vale, pushing Coolidge out of my head. I abandon the mower for a second, jog over to the patio, and grab my phone, seeing How’s the yardwork going? displayed on the screen.

I open the camera, taking a selfie, my eyes squinting a little from the sun, my whole body sweaty because for some reason in the last twenty-four hours, the nice, comfortable enough for a windbreaker weather from yesterday peaced out and the heat came back in full.

I get my bare torso, the old, faded pair of gym shorts I put on, and a maybe just as old pair of Crocs all in frame for him. I can’t wait to take a shower.

“Gabi, ya,” Pops calls, walking out the front door. “Send the pictures to your girlfriends later.”

“It—” I let out, before deciding not to say anything back.

What am I expecting Pops to say when I tell him that I actually sent that picture to this guy who’s tutoring me?

Who’s gay and the best friend of a girl I hooked up with a handful of times before she very clearly said she’s not interested in being my girlfriend?

Let him think it’s going to a whole list of girls in my contacts.

There’s a normalcy I’m not trying to challenge today.

“And take a break,” he adds. “You keep mowing any more, you’re going to hit dirt. Ven pa’ca. I got you a strawberry limeade.”

“Ya voy, Pops.”

I take a seat on the wooden plank floor of our porch, leaning against the railing, taking in the, at the very least, cool er shade.

When Pops hands me my limeade, I try my best not to chug it down in one gulp.

He takes a seat in his rocking chair nearby, slowly going back and forth on it as he tells me, “Thank you for taking care of that, boy. Your mom’s making an extra pot of chili colorado and rice.

She wants you to take it back with you. Share it with your roommates. ”

“I will,” I answer.

Memories of him sitting there watching me do drills in the front yard come to mind.

How, when I heard or saw him get up, I knew that he was about to correct me on something.

His yells of “there you go,” and “three seconds faster, boy,” and “confidence, Gabi; focus,” ring in my ears so clearly still, he might as well be saying them to me here and now.

Another memory comes to mind, of a girl who used to live across the street I was always trying to impress.

I even brought out some hand weights and would work out on the porch, hoping she’d see me.

And then one of a high school friend who’d meet me at the curb every morning in the last few months of our senior year for morning runs, and even into the summer before he moved to Los Angeles for college.

And then, for the second time in the span of a few weeks, I’m remembering that one time, at that one party, when we kissed, and I left wondering if he felt anything.

“We need to talk about what happened at your game? That goal attempt that had you bothered?”

I shake my head, staring at the small handprint in the concrete walkway with Gabi written out underneath it. “No. It’s fine. I’m over it.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I promise.”

“Handled?”

“Handled. Not like it’s never happened before.”

“Alright. Then tell me how school’s going. All As?”

“Oh. Uh, good,” I reply, my head going from the lawn to Pops.

“Pretty solid. Philosophy’s still rough, but it’s getting better.

I’ve got a friend that’s tutoring me. And trying to get some stuff started on this final paper about a guy named Risieri Frondizi so I’m not doing it all the week it’s due. ”

Pops’s head goes back, confused before snapping his fingers and pointing them at me. “S í . I remember him. He played for Milan. Somewhere midfield, right?”

“No.”

“Juve?”

“No, I—” I let out a breathy laugh and shake my head. “He’s a philosopher. Philosophy class, Pops.”

“Pues, maybe he did philosophy during the off-season. What about Fro-Dizzy?”

“He wrote something I’ve got to do my final paper on. Read it and tell my professor my thoughts.”

“Sounds easy. Did you read it yet?”

“ Sounds easy. I took a look at it and, one, man is pretty wordy. Some of it’s easy to understand right away, but a lot of it just hurts my head.

There’s some advanced terminology that’s got an even more wordy explanation, which, I’m learning, is basically how all of philosophy is.

But my teacher wants me to focus on the ideas of it and how it’s relatable to my life.

This guy’s main thing is challenging the idea that who we are is permanent.

That it’s wild to think we reach a point where we are who we are and nothing about that changes afterward.

He says that we change all our lives, and my professor wants me to connect it with maybe how I’ve changed over the semester. But I … what if I haven’t? Or I don’t?”

“Don’t what?”

“Change.”

Pops’s head tilts to the side, eyes still on me.

His arms cross, and he slouches a bit in his chair, his feet keeping him from rocking.

“You’re saying you moved out of this house, live with a bunch of your teammates—eighteen-, nineteen-year-olds all by themselves—and nothing about you has changed?

Nothing about the person you were this time last year would be surprised about who you are now? ”

“I … I don’t know. But I don’t really think so.”

He lets out a sigh that turns into a whistle. Something about it looks a little sad, or like he’s pitying me. “Maybe so,” he says as he stands up. “Maybe my son has everything figured out about himself at eighteen years old.”

“I could.”

Pops takes the few steps down to the concrete pathway leading to the road, muttering “Pinche cabroncito” and looking back at me when he reaches the ground.

“Or you need to call bullshit on yourself, mi’jo.

Parts of you that you thought were set? You can change your mind on.

Hell, if you’re not changing, you might not be living.

Don’t go getting into trouble, but you should get uncomfortable every now and again. Are you scared of changing?”

“I—” I don’t know how to answer that honestly. “I don’t know. No? Nothing’s ever been that scary about changing or growing up.”

His foot comes up, resting on the lowest step, and he leans into it as he keeps his eyes on me.

“Do me a favor, alright? For your Pops who never got the college experience. Do the thing that terrifies you. Take those chances. And whenever you’re in a place where you’re feeling nervous or scared, think about the future you who’s going to at least be glad you confronted that fear, no matter how it turns out.

It’s those moments in life that make it worth living.

That you’ll look back and remember as the best parts, as hard as they might’ve been. ”

“Did you ever have one of those moments?”

Pops lets out a breath and stoops low so he can sit by me, not caring about my sweat as his arm goes across the back of my shoulders. And he stares straight ahead as he tells me, “I was really good at running away from them. And maybe that’s why I want you to find them. Meet them head-on.”

“What happened?”

“Lots of things.” He takes a deep breath in and out, giving me a small smile.

“I was offered the chance to go to school, you know? But I thought, Nah, I’m too stupid.

It’d be a waste of money. I’ve got siblings to take care of.

And there was the first time your Mom and I were hanging out, but she wanted someone for the long haul.

Someone serious. And I didn’t believe I could be that kind of guy then.

I could’ve missed out on this life, on you , if she hadn’t given me a second chance. If she didn’t see in me my potential.”

“So Mom was your moment?”

“I guess so, huh?” Pops answers, his smile getting more toothy.

“You too, though. Knowing I could be missing out on something great by continuing to be this boy who fools around all the time instead of manning up. I did it for her, but also for you. All those times when we were dating and she’d talk about having kids and it’d scare the shit out of me.

Until it didn’t, and I started thinking about how exciting it could be.

How much I wanted you. And the idea that I could be a dad, and wanting to be a really good one. ”

“You are, for what it’s worth.”

“Pos, I try. Go find yours, now, okay? Whether it’s a person or something about yourself or an opportunity.

And know nothing can stop you, boy. Even if it’s hard and scary—because change and growing up can be—keep going, keep finding.

As long as, deep down, it doesn’t feel wrong, don’t ignore it.

Alright? Like I tell you, go be someone’s hero. ”

“I will, Pops. I’ll try.”

“Good. This is me giving you permission. Go see how Fonzie is right. I don’t want you looking back at this time, years from now, regretting never having let yourself change your mind or figure yourself out, even when you thought there was nothing left to figure out.

Don’t say no to something you might want tomorrow just because you never thought about having it today. Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. I’ll finish up here. Go take a shower. Your mom’s making you lunch.”