Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Chloe
“Where’ve you been, Smitty?” Mike Foley says as I take a seat in the first row at the stadium.
He throws the name Smitty out like an accusation and I know something’s up.
The team’s practicing on the game field today, a full pad scrimmage.
It’s the first time the veterans are going to see any real action.
And about time, too. This should be a good test for Tate.
“Back at the studio working on a top-secret project.” I keep my eyes on the field, sensing he wants to talk more about me than the team.
“You never mentioned you were Oscar the Mouth Smith’s daughter.”
“Never came up. What of it?” Still keeping my eyes on the field while he laughs, I wait him out.
Talking about my pedigree has become my least favorite subject.
The weight of the legend is getting heavier by the day between questions at the studio and everywhere else I go. Or maybe I’m being paranoid.
“It explains a lot is all.”
I ponder whether I ought to be tired of being known as my father’s daughter and whether I should be annoyed at Foley. I’m not sure whether he’s judging me or pandering to me because of who my father was when Duff comes over and gives him the nod of approval. Trusting Duff, I decide Foley is okay.
We watch as the A-team defense lines up against the B-team offense. My eyes zero in on Fontanna. Of course. From then on, Foley and I exchange thoughts on who will make the cut and who may be harboring injuries.
“Everyone is injured,” he says, “to one degree or another. This is football, isn’t it?”
“Say that with a cigar in your mouth and bad grammar and you’re a ringer for my father,” I say, only exaggerating slightly.
“I met him once. A memorable occasion. We had dinner at The Press Box, the old sports reporter hangout in the north end of Boston. He talked about you, in fact. You had just gone away to college and he missed you. He ordered every appetizer on the menu and tasted every one of them with a chaser of JD.” Foley shakes his head.
“That’s Dad. Living large.” The whistle blows, stopping the action on the field for a while for coaching intervention. “So is The Press Box still in business?”
“Nah. Changed hands a few years ago and got upgraded. It’s not called The Press Box anymore. No one goes there now—I mean none of the media types.”
“Too bad. It would be nice to get out—somewhere besides the studio or my apartment or this place.”
The past week I’d been immersed in doing the investigative work for the project, editing daily clips from practices and commentary about players who were cut.
Trying to prove myself all over again to Henry.
But that’s how it always is—I’m always proving myself.
If I stop trying, I stop succeeding. Another Oscar the Mouth truism.
“I’ve been watching your interviews,” Foley says. “An upgrade over the usual bland stuff.”
“Oh yeah? Coming from a print reporter that means a lot.”
He laughs. He may be no expert, but hearing his approval is better than a kick in the head.
“Hey, I’ve been on air before,” he continues. “All the best reporters get guest spots on sports shows these days.”
Pretending shock, I know it’s true. “Sure—they’ve got to fill all that airtime with content somehow.”
He elbows me and I’m feeling comfortable, like he could really be a friend, especially since Duff seems to approve with his stoic silence.
“Henry is pissed that my next interview is with the kicker, Sean Patrick, because he wants the bigger name guys, but I told him we’ll get them closer to the start of the season.” I test him to see if he’ll give me anything on Patrick.
Foley nods, “Sure, build up to it.”
Nothing. I’m hoping I can get Sean to slip and reveal something about Fontanna’s back injury, but I don’t share this with Foley.
In an ideal world, I’d go directly to the trainer who I originally overheard and ask him for a quote, but those guys aren’t even allowed to talk to the media and if they did I know they won’t admit to anything except routine bumps and bruises.
“Coach Marini keeps a tight-lipped ship,” I say. Foley grunts.
“Must be hard on Cat,” I continue, “being the coach’s daughter and trying to balance good PR with a tight-lipped boss who’s also her dad.”
“She manages,” Foley says. “Must be harder for you. I bet you miss your dad.”
Now I want to hug him. He’s treating me like a real human being. Duff turns and nods in his direction again. A double seal of approval.
“So now that The Press Box is out, where do reporters around here hang out?”
“Nowhere. There hasn’t been a gathering place like that for years.” We all agree it’s a shame, especially Duff.
“How about we get together after the game—invite a bunch of the guys and girls and make it a thing? I say. “There must be a place near the stadium, some hole-in-the-wall joint we can make our own.”
Foley eyes me for a few blinks, pretending he’s making up his mind. “Sure, there must be a place—you find one and I’ll tell you what, I’ll be there. Make it a place that serves Italian.”
I nod and make it my business to find a spot. I can’t take him to Chloe’s spot though it would be perfect. I don’t want to steal it from her.
I think of the only other place I know in the area—the Italian restaurant called Louie’s where I met Sean, Max, and Tate. It’s only a couple of miles away from the stadium in East Boston.
After practice I take off and drive over to Louie’s, only making one wrong turn.
I arrive within minutes and know it’s the perfect place as I walk inside the glass door and get a whiff of Italian heaven same as before.
The place has no pretentions and a good long bar that serves a generous pour of whiskey.
I text Duff and then send Foley a shot of an empty bar stool and the address, telling him the spot has his name on it and I’ll let him know what time.
I don’t care if he thinks it’s a come-on, but I doubt he does since there’s nothing at all flirtatious in my manner.
With him, I’m a comrade in arms, a member of the sports reporter club.
Even the lines between print and broadcast reporters have blurred these days with occasional role switching.
I’ve written pieces for online news outlets, and plenty of print reporters sometimes appear on air to give their expert commentary.
The game of journalism has evolved so far and fast it makes my childhood memories feel like they happened to someone else, sometimes makes me feel like a dinosaur.
I wonder how my father stood it, handled it—because he did.
He wasn’t one of the guys who ever complained about the good old days.
He joked about them and told his stories, but he embraced every single change, wrapping himself around each one until he owned it.
Nostalgia burned at me, making my eyes sting. These memories are good things, no reason for tears, no reason for the screeching pain in my chest.
After the game Sunday, the third preseason game, I catch a postgame interview with Gabe Wyatt and can’t help the night-and-day comparison between him and Tate Fontanna. And yet I see Foley talking to Tate and exchanging some laughs, which Tate never did with me.
“How bored are you, sitting on the bench waiting for your turn?” I ask, returning my attention to Gabe.
“Not bored, but getting anxious, impatient to play in a game. How could I be bored watching my teammates kick butt?”
I slice my hand across my throat to signal to Duff that we’re done and I don’t know how much more banal I can get, hoping Henry doesn’t demote me to covering Pop Warner football.
I glance at Tate. Gabe follows my gaze and says, “Talk to him. His bark’s worse than his bite.”
Laughing, I say, “He’s the one who needs to worry about getting bit.”
“You won’t hurt him. I have a good feeling about you, Smitty.”
I open my mouth as someone else grabs his attention, pulling him aside, and I don’t know if I should be offended or . . . flattered.
Duff is smiling like he sees my dilemma and I scowl. He puts up his hands, “I didn’t say a thing. You done?”
“Let’s get out of here.” We get off the field and I don’t bother with the postgame press conference because that’s Sarina’s thing. I’m strictly color. I give them the extra sound bites to round things out. That’s if I can get anything sound bite worthy.
Running into Foley in the tunnel, I tell him we’re going to Louie’s and he says he’ll meet me and bring some of the others.
Duff and I head there now because I’m starved.
That’s the problem with these Sunday afternoon games.
I bet the players are starved too. I bet Fontanna will go out for dinner after the press conference is done. Maybe he’ll come here.
I swerve my car into the parking spot a few doors down from Louie’s. What the hell? Since when am I a groupie? If I wanted to talk to Fontanna, I could have gone up to him after the game and talked to him, couldn’t I?
As Duff and I take our seats at the bar, several reporters I recognize walk in with Foley and join us.
We order up an assortment of beer and whiskey and watch the coverage, including replays of the game.
My clips may or may not get shown later.
Duff sent them in and Henry will review and edit them, but if he doesn’t, I may have to go back into the studio to do it myself.
Because I’m not going to make it too easy for him to leave me on the metaphorical cutting room floor.
One side bet on whether the rookie running back will make the cut and two jiggers of whiskey later, I look up when the door opens, like I have every time the door’s opened for the last hour, and this time familiar faces walk in.