Chapter 27
brUCE
This first game is not going well. I meant it when I told the boys that we’re winners before we even step foot on the field. But I think we all expected the actual game to be a little more evenly matched.
The other team is the same size but experienced, having been together for the past two years in the younger division. At this stage, that makes all the difference.
We’re two touchdowns down, which for pee-wee ain’t a big deal, but it’s the level of mastery on the field that’s most drastically different. Both teams are running plays, but the Wildcats look sloppy compared to the Bulldogs’ crisp cleanliness on the field.
I’ll admit to myself that I wanted a better showing for them.
They’ve worked so damn hard, and I want them to feel the joy of success from that.
And selfishly, I wanted to show off my own coaching prowess a bit too.
The Tannens and Bennetts, each and every one of the loud and crazies, are standing on the sidelines, cheering for my guys. They’re cheering for me.
Even Bobby. We might not have our shit straightened out about Allyson, but he supports my coaching, at least.
“Go, Derek, go!” I yell from the sidelines.
Derek’s giving it his all, legs pumping and elbows flying high as he beelines toward the endzone.
At the five, though, he’s tackled hard, going down in a tumble of limbs.
I know a moment of real fear, one I never felt when it was me on the field getting beat up, but the knot releases in relief an instant later when Derek pops up.
He even fist-bumps the player who tackled him.
He’s showing good sportsmanship and will be a great player one day if he wants to be. He’s got the skills, even at this early age, and most importantly, he’s willing to take coaching and work hard.
We reset, and Anthony looks up and down the line. I can’t read his face from this angle, but he’s up to something. I scan too, and it hits me.
It’s so fast I don’t think anyone else even realizes what’s happening until it’s over.
Anthony just ran in a quarterback sneak, rushing across the line into the end zone himself.
Everyone cheers loudly, more for the boldness than anything else.
A sneak is rare and virtually unheard of at this level.
Hell, I don’t even know if it’s legal, but I don’t give a fuck. That was some solid football playing.
“Woo-hoo! Way to go, Anthony!” Allyson cheers. When I look over, her cheeks are flushed pink and she’s waving her fists around like she’s got pompoms. Old habits die hard, I guess. “We get to kick now, right?”
I nod in answer, and she looks over to the teenaged scorekeeper on the sideline. “One more touchdown and we’ll tie.”
She’s getting better. I imagine us sitting around watching Monday night football, the three of us with mouths full of burgers as we cheer the teams on television.
Or maybe I’ll take Allyson and Cooper to a game?
We could start with the local high school game, then progress up to the state college level, and if we want, try a pro game.
I like the idea of it being ‘our thing’.
We make the extra point, and there’s a renewed energy on the field. Anthony’s ballsy move makes him a fresh target, and he gets hit a couple of times, barely tossing the ball away before he hits grass.
“Uh! C’mon, kid.” I hear a male voice from the stands behind me call out in exasperation. I turn to see who’s mouthing off at my team, scanning the tiny foldable bleachers for the culprit.
But I can’t tell for sure. There are a couple of dads I haven’t met, and all eyes are on the field, watching the next play.
I hear a couple more comments from the peanut gallery over the next three plays.
When the kids set, I turn my back to the field, scanning the group of parents and watching for the offender.
I even questioningly glance at Brody to see if he can point me in the right direction.
From here, I can see that his jaw’s clenched, but that’s about it.
No help from him or any of the other Bennetts or Tannens.
They look as pissed as everyone else, but I can’t tell who’s smack talking.
“Throw to Killian! He’s open! Killian’s open!
” It’s loud and aggressive, threaded with anger.
I don’t have to turn around to know Anthony didn’t throw to Killian because I can suddenly see Kyle Bloomdale as he steps almost onto the field.
He’s still mouthing but not yelling at least as he says, “Fucking useless QB. He should’ve thrown to Killer Killian.
We would’ve gotten a TD if my kid had the ball.
Yank number three and put in a quarterback who knows what the hell he’s doing. ”
Parental eyes snap to me, silently asking me what I’m going to do.
I call a timeout and step closer to Kyle, my voice deep and scary. “Mr. Bloomdale.”
He looks to me, a smile growing on his too-skinny face. “Hey, Brutal! Get my kid some action, a’ight?” He makes it sound like we’re buddies and I’d be doing him a solid.
I don’t return the too-casual, friendly tone. “Cheer or shut up. No insulting my players.”
His brows knit together, but he holds up his hands in something resembling an apology.
I turn back around to see Allyson talking to the boys, who are all smiling. I tune in, listening to her tell them what a good job they’re doing. “Keep it up, guys. Post-game pizza if we win.”
It’s an incentive we’d decided on as a team, and she’s dangling it like a tantalizing carrot to keep them working hard.
I rejoin the group. “Awesome work so far. That yardage was on point, Derek. All of you have been playing your hearts out. Make sure your moms save those videos for your varsity play reel.” I wink at them and they laugh at the compliment. “Keep it up, Wildcats.”
The kids hustle back out and play resumes.
We’re doing pretty well, even make that other touchdown we need to tie up the game. But there’s a cloud hanging over the excitement. The cloud’s name is Kyle Bloomdale.
He’s still mouthing, though quieter and not as obnoxiously.
But now that I’m tuned in to him, I can’t not hear him.
The other parents are rolling their eyes, and I even hear a few tell him to hush.
To their credit, my family doesn’t interfere, letting me handle my own shit for a change. I know how hard that must be for them.
Kyle disappears for several minutes, missing a chunk of the third quarter, and a relieved sigh runs through the entire group. I try to stay focused on the team and the good effort they’re putting forth. I’m damn proud of these boys and how far they’ve come.
Even with their hard work, the other team makes headway, scoring a touchdown and then, on a messed-up play, we basically hand them another. That puts the Bulldogs solidly in the lead.
Which is when Kyle returns, hot and red-faced. “What the fuck?” he yells. “I leave for five minutes and they’re just giving the game away.” He’s gesturing wildly toward the scorekeeper’s plastic number display.
I turn to head over there again, but Allyson puts a staying hand on my arm.
“Let me,” she says quietly. The absolute last fucking thing I want is her anywhere near this asshole, but there’s something in the set of her shoulders that says she needs to do this.
I don’t understand it, but I dip my chin, letting her do what she thinks is best.
Still, my attention is torn between the boys on the field I’ve made a commitment to and Allyson going over to the stupid redneck who’s still mouthing. His parents, Killian’s grandparents who are so kind and caring, look embarrassed but unable to do anything about their son’s ridiculous behavior.
I can hear Allyson, her voice calm and steady like she’s talking to a rabid dog. She sounds submissive, non-threatening, which is definitely not the fact I would’ve taken with the asshole.
It’s her professional voice, I realize. I can almost hear her mental reminders, the ones she told me play on repeat in her head at work.
Mediate, mitigate, deescalate. None of those are my specialty.
I’m more in the fuck shit up and figure it out later camp, but maybe she’s got a point given the audience we have now.
“Mr. Bloomdale, please lower your voice. There are rules, and we really need to remember that they’re kids and it’s just a game.
The point is for them to have fun and learn, not the numbers on the board.
” She’s reasonable, rational, and I can hear her hope that this can all be settled easily. My thudding heart isn’t so sure.
He scoffs at her. “Whatever. Just get the ball to Killer Killian.” It’s dismissive but still an order, one that makes my hackles rise.
“Every player will get a chance to play,” she reassures him and returns to my side.
The boys riding the bench look at her with concern, and I’m looking at her with barely-restrained fury.
I’m not mad at her, but it’s ridiculous that we’re having to deal with this at a fucking pee-wee game.
These boys are still scared of monsters under their beds and believe in Santa Claus.
We’re not talking NFL contracts here. And even if we were, Kyle Bloomdale’s yelled ‘advice’ from the bleachers wouldn’t help matters.
Allyson’s smile is meant to reassure the boys, but as soon as their attention is back on the play, she talks quietly out of the side of her mouth. “I think he’s drunk.”
Her expression doesn’t change, but I can see the tension in the faint lines around her eyes.
“Are you serious?” I ask softly. I’m shocked, but maybe I shouldn’t be.
I’m putting some puzzle pieces together that this might be why Killian lives with his sweet grandparents and not his shit stain of a father.
Twice I’ve seen him, and twice, he’s been under the influence.
“It’s eleven AM. Guess we know where he was during the third quarter. ”