2. Landon #4
“The waterfront festival runs through next weekend. You can go into town if you want something to do, stay by the water if you don’t, eat somewhere that ain’t your own kitchen, and be somewhere nobody knows to ask you for anything.”
“I thought the point was rest.”
“Rest don’t mean incarceration.”
Lennox nodded. “Facts.”
“Nobody asked you.”
“I support Mama’s proposal.”
“You don’t even know where Willow Run is.”
“Near water.”
“Outstanding geographic analysis.”
“Thank you.”
Mama shook her head. “Go Thursday after practice. Come back Monday morning. You already said y’all don’t have anything Sunday evening.”
I stared at her. “You got my whole itinerary?”
“No itinerary.”
“You just gave me arrival and departure times.”
“Dates ain’t activities.”
Pops muttered, “She got activities too.”
Mama cut her eyes toward him.
I laughed. “I knew it.”
“I have suggestions.”
“That’s an itinerary with better branding.”
“Then don’t do the suggestions.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Whatever you want.”
That answer slowed me down.
Whatever I wanted.
I couldn’t remember the last time an entire stretch of days had been framed that way.
No recruiting obligation I couldn’t hand off.
No practice until I got back. No players meeting somebody else on staff couldn’t manage.
No emergency waiting for me to solve it.
The only thing standing between me and a few days away was the part of my brain that liked convincing me competent men should remain available simply because they could.
Pops tore a piece of cornbread in half. “Program gon’ survive.”
“Malcolm might not.”
“He’ll find somebody else to beg candy from,” Mama said.
I frowned. “How you know about that?”
“You told me.”
“When?”
She smiled. “You talk more than you think.”
Concerning.
Mama reached across the table and rested her hand over mine. “One weekend, baby.”
I looked at her, then at Pops, who had already returned to his food like he hadn’t helped orchestrate this entire thing. Lennox reached for another piece of cornbread with the same energy.
“Aight.” Mama’s smile appeared immediately. I pointed at her. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That victory smile.”
“I’m smiling because my son made a sound decision.”
“I agreed to a cabin, not rehab.”
“Same difference with your work habits.”
Pops laughed into his tea.
“One weekend,” I repeated.
“One weekend.”
And that was that. It wasn’t a breakthrough, intervention, or life-changing revelation.
I’d agreed to a few days I hadn’t assigned to anybody else yet, and for a man capable of turning an open Saturday into six hours of film review without anybody requesting it, that was probably enough progress for one dinner.
After we ate, Mama and Lennox started debating whether peach cobbler needed ice cream while Pops announced that the argument didn’t matter if nobody touched the corner piece he planned to save for later.
Lennox looked immediately interested.
Pops caught him. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t do nothing.”
“Your face did.”
I carried my glass toward the sink, but Pops took it from my hand before I could turn on the water.
“I got it.”
“I can wash one glass.”
“I know.”
I reached for it.
He moved it out of range. “You don’t have to.”
I looked at him.
He looked back.
No speech followed. The man had already exceeded his emotional word count for the afternoon.
“Aight.”
I stepped away and watched him pick up a dish towel while Mama washed.
They moved around each other without conversation, Mama handing him plates before he reached for them, Pops shifting before she needed the drawer behind him.
Forty years together had given them a rhythm neither seemed particularly interested in explaining.
My phone vibrated.
Three staff messages. Two recruiting emails. And Malcolm.
Malcolm:
Ramirez said no candy on Monday.
Another message appeared.
Malcolm:
Hostile administration.
Then:
Malcolm:
Big Dawg advise.
I shook my head.
Me:
Find a hobby.
His response came immediately.
Malcolm:
Advocating for labor rights is my hobby
Me:
You begged for M&Ms.
Malcolm:
Blessings found me. We established this.
A laugh slipped out.
Mama glanced over from the sink. “What?”
“Malcolm.”
She nodded. “That explains enough.”
I locked the phone without opening the emails.
They’d still be there tomorrow.
Instead of heading out immediately, I stepped onto the back porch and sat down.
Sunday evening moved through the neighborhood like it had no interest in impressing anybody.
Somebody cut grass several houses over, kids yelled down the street, and a dog barked like it had discovered an enemy nobody else could see.
Normally, I would’ve already been mentally inside Monday, reviewing practice adjustments, thinking about personnel, calculating how much film I could get through before bed.
That evening, I let Sunday keep its own name.
Willow Run next weekend.
Thursday through Monday.
No whistle before sunrise. No reason to open my laptop unless I decided to. No player waiting for an answer I couldn’t delegate, and no problem demanding I proved I was useful by solving it first.
I wasn’t entirely convinced I knew what to do with that much unclaimed time.
But I was willing to gather some evidence.