Game On

by Barbara Oliverio

  “Are you done disparaging the Huskers?”

  “If that school was so great, why didn’t you—?”

  He crossed his arms. This was a discussion we’d had many times over the years. I knew it wouldn’t end well if we proceeded. He had received a full-ride scholarship to our university and had no funds to do otherwise, so there was no question as to where he would go.

  “Fine. What does the fact that you are a Nebraska native have to do with the current conversation?”

  “Specifically, I’m from near Ogallala, remember?”

  Oh! That’s right! Ogallala is the town that’s right outside Lake McConaughy, just over the Colorado border.”

  Colorado and Nebraska are landlocked, so Lake McConaughy is the most “beachy” area for people nearby and is popular for boating, fishing, and all water sports.

  “What does that have to do with this conversation, Alek?”

  “How are you not getting this? Since it is so close, some of my family will be coming over to Sterling to the ball game to visit with me.”

  “Oh! That’s fantastic!” I knew that Alek was as close to his family as I was to mine, so the opportunity for them to see him work would be great for them!

  “I think so. I just didn’t know how you’d feel about a passel of Markoviches in the stands.”

  “Are you kidding? I’ve lived with a passel of Valentis at every event in my life—major and minor—for years. Did I ever tell you about how they had to put up extra bleachers at my first little league lacrosse game?”

  “Only a million times.”

  “Hey!” Did I really tell that story that often?

  “What I meant, Maisie, is that they would be there as MY fans, not yours. And quite frankly, probably not even fans of the Aggies.”

  “I’m hurt,” I sniffed.

  “What?!”

  “That you would think I’m so self-absorbed that I would be upset if people in the stands weren’t there for me.”

  “Well …”

  I stood up and prepared to march off. Alek grabbed my hand and pulled me back.

  “C’mon, Mais, I’m just teasing. But, in all seriousness, I don’t know how many of my family will show up. I just don’t want you to get thrown off if you see people cheering when I’m setting up equipment.”

  “Nothing throws me off, wise guy. I am a professional.”

  This statement would have held more weight had I not nearly tripped while attempting to sit back down on the stool I had previously occupied. Alek barely hid his chuckle.

  “Ahem. Now that we have sorted out the situation of your massive fan club, can we get back to planning the actual reason for the trip? The game?” I thought this was a nice recovery.

  “Sure, Maisie. But don’t blow this out of proportion. Fan club? Ha. It’s not like they have matching T-shirts or giant posters or anything.”

  We both laughed.

  Oh, but we laughed too soon. On Saturday, when we pulled into the front parking lot of the Sterling stadium, we noticed a curious clump of tailgaters that matched. No, not in T-shirts, but hats. Ball caps to be specific. They were in the Sterling Aggie green, but instead of the Aggie logo, they had Alek’s photo silk-screened on the front.

  Alek slowed the van and shook his head.

  “Oh. My. Goodness. I can’t believe this.”

  “Oh, but yes, I can!” I clapped.

  “Why are you so animated?”

  “Why? You’re kidding, right? This is straight out of the Valenti playbook! I’m just loving the ability to see someone else be the object for once! Hey, the only reason MY family didn’t pull a stunt like this today is that they are scattered around the country this weekend.”

  “Calm down, Maisie. This isn’t for your entertainment.”

  “Oh, but yes, it IS.”

  Alek pulled the van slowly near the Markovich-palooza. When the group saw us, shrieks erupted and they mobbed us.

  Alek took a breath, put the van into park, and indicated that we should exit.

  You would have thought that a combination of Drake, Michael Buble, Frank Sinatra, and the Beatles (or pick your own favorite singing idol) had emerged.

  I circled the van, hung back, and took in the scene. The youngish adult family members all resembled Alek, but it was obvious that he was the eldest by their deference to him. The small children in the crowd all fell upon him, and his smile was broad as he greeted each with a giant hug.

  He reserved the most loving greeting for the two oldest people who had walked a little slower toward the van. He swept up a tiny, rotund woman, obviously his mother, in a tight hug, and when he released her, she took his face in her hands and repeatedly kissed both his cheeks. They spoke in their native language and, scanning her face, I saw where he inherited his piercing gray eyes.

  When he turned from her to clap his father in an embrace, the two of them also spoke in the same language. Releasing his son, Mr. Markovich reached up to caress Alek’s face with a work-worn hand.

  When Alek turned toward me, his countenance was not that of a person who was upset to see these people. He was authentically happy. He motioned me over for introductions.

  “Mama, Papa, this is my co-worker Maisie. She’ll be the one covering the event today for the station.”

  “So pleased to meet you, Mr. Markovich, Mrs. Markovich.” I reached my hand out for a shake.

  “Bah. What is this?” Alek’s mother brushed my hand aside and grabbed me for a tight hug and kisses on my cheeks. His father followed suit. I looked over to Alek, and he grinned and shrugged as if to tell me not to fight the power.

  “You will call us Mama and Papa—no Mr. and Mrs. here. Too formal!” Alek’s father said, his English still heavily accented even after living in the United States for a couple of decades. His ball cap rested high on his head in that odd way that caps do on older men. Alek’s mother had originally pushed her cap down forward on her forehead, but at that moment pushed it back to take a look at me. She grabbed my hands, glanced up and down, and commented to Alek in their native tongue. His cheeks turned a healthy scarlet, and he switched his head from side to side.

  “Ah, no, Mamushka,” followed by words I didn’t understand.

  “What? What did she say?” I asked him.

  “Um. She just wanted to know if you needed to rest before the event.”

  “Uh-huh.” I looked at him. Somehow, I didn’t think that was what her question was.

  He gave two more hugs to his parents, then explained to the group in two languages that we needed to move the van to our parking space and set up for the event.

  Everyone spoke at once. The main theme seemed to be that we should take time to eat. I grinned broadly. This was a scene that was all too familiar.

  “Hush! We’ll visit afterward, yes?” Alek’s English slipped into an accented version.

  He kissed his parents, then we boarded our van and drove off to find our parking area on the other end of the stadium.

  “What?” He looked at me.

  “I didn’t say anything, Alek.”

  “Oh, not with words. But your body language and your cheesy grin are speaking volumes.”

  “Hee-hee!”

  “Spill it, you snot.”

  I turned toward him.

  “Well, earlier in the week you were worried that the presence of your family was going to throw ME at this event. Ha! Are you sure that the Markovich fan club isn’t going to throw YOU? Ow! Stop hitting me and watch where you are driving.”

  “I will be fine. What are you eating?”

  “This? I’m not sure, but it’s good.” I held up the rolled nut pastry of which I was about to take another bite.

  “Of course it’s good. It’s my mother’s potica. Give it.” He grabbed for my hand.

  “Stop. Here, there’s some for you, too.” I produced a second one.

  “How did you have time to get this?” he asked around a giant bite.

  “Your mother slipped a napkin wrappe
d with these two slices into my hand while you were busy explaining that we didn’t have time to eat.”

  “That’s my mama,” he smiled.

  “I like her. I like this po-tee-za,” I said, savoring the last bite of mine while attempting to pronounce it as he did.

  “Po-tee-tsa,” he laughed and corrected.

  “Whatever. I like it.”

  “Mama liked you, too.”

  “Well, Alek, who wouldn’t?”

  “You’re so humble.”

  We reached the other side of the stadium and parked. No more time for chitchat. We went into professional mode. After establishing connection with the station, we dedicated the next three hours to the opening of the stadium and all the activities. Alek and I almost forgot that his family was there, until the occasional cheer erupted from the corner of the bleachers when he walked by there. I’m sure that everyone else was baffled by those cheers since nothing in particular was happening with the Aggies.

  After it was all over, and we had signed off, we began our usual packing up when a younger version of Alek hopped over to the van.

  “Stan! What’s up, my brother?” Alek grinned.

  “Mama wants you, Sander.”

  Sander? Oh right, Alek’s full name was Aleksander.

  “Nothing is wrong, is it?”

  “No, no.” Stan glanced over at me and switched languages.

  The brothers began a spirited conversation. The only words I understood were their names, “Mama,” “Denver,” and my name. It was kind of funny watching Alek have a discussion with a mirror image of himself. After a few moments, he put his hand up to stop his brother, then turned to me.

  “Maisie, this is crazy, but I have to tell you because it involves you.”

  “Okayyy?”

  “My mother wants us to come to her house for dinner. I explained that I can’t just ask you to drive to Nebraska and back.”

  “Alek, I don’t have plans.”

  “You don’t?” He looked surprised.

  “Nooo. Do you?”

  “Well, no.”

  No date with Copper Top? Then what was the problem?

  “C’mon. I know what it’s like to say no to an ethnic mother. Let’s just do it.”

  He just stared at me for a minute, then turned to his brother.

  “All right, then, Stanislas. Tell Mama we’ll be at the house as soon as we finish here. But tell her not to go to any trouble!”

  “Have you never met Mama, Sander?” Stan just shook his head and left.

  Alek shook his own head.

  “Okay, Maisie, just remember. YOU were the one who agreed to this.”

  25

  During the short drive to Ogallala, Alek alternated between thanking me for accommodating his mother and pointing out scenery that was familiar to him.

  “Alek, stop apologizing. This really isn’t a problem. It’s early enough in the day for us to go there and get back, and you know I get along with anyone.”

  “Maisie, you just don’t know what you are signing on for with my massive family.”

  “Me? I don’t know what it’s like to have dinner with a large ethnic family? Seriously, Alek, let me introduce myself to you once again. I’m the youngest of SEVEN, remember? An intimate breakfast with half my family requires a seating chart.”

  “I know, I know, Mais, but that’s your family. Coach Sal Valenti and all the world-class athletes. The Markoviches are just regular people.”

  “I don’t even know how to respond to that. What makes you more ‘regular’ than us?”

  Alek rapped on the steering wheel for a moment, remaining silent. Finally, he ran his hand through his floppy bangs and began to speak.

  “It’s just that my folks are, I don’t know, old-world. They immigrated here when there was trouble in the old country, you know? They couldn’t speak English at all.”

  “I know, Alek, you’ve said so before.”

  “No, Maisie. I don’t think you grasp the whole story.” He paused, then shared a part of his history that I had never heard.

  His parents were living in Croatia during the worst upheaval affecting Serbia, Croatia, Yugoslavia, and all parts nearby. They were both math teachers, and when baby Aleksander appeared—nicknamed “Sander” to distinguish him from his father, who he was named after and who also went by “Alek”—they were both overjoyed and fearful. They were worried about what life would be like for their sturdy young baby.

  It took much work and all of the money they had to leave the country just before the life they knew collapsed. Distant relatives invited them to join their family in Lincoln, Nebraska, but the Markoviches couldn’t resume their occupations as teachers, even after obtaining citizenship.

  Alek’s father learned of job opportunities in the lake resort area of Ogallala, so he moved his growing family there. He worked in a machine shop, repairing the engines that fueled the boats and Jet Skis for vacationers on the lake. Mrs. Markovich, an able seamstress, opened her own sewing and tailoring shop.

  Together, they raised their family in northern Nebraska, far from the strife of the Balkans, but also far from the academic life they had been accustomed to.

  “Wow, Alek, I had no idea. You never told me the whole story.”

  “I know. It was just the way it was. But they did the best they could and never complained. And we were always happy. They made sure we all studied math really hard, you can believe that.” He smiled. “So, see, Maisie, we’re just blue-collar people. Not like your family.”

  I pinched him.

  “What was that for?”

  “For you thinking my family isn’t blue-collar. Do you think a coach’s life is so glamorous?”

  “C’mon, Maisie. Your dad is famous.”

  “Oh, maybe he’s been interviewed on ESPN and ONESport, but at home our life was anything but glamorous. Do you think we ate off of gold plates? Look, I’m not going to take anything away from your folks. They sound like the salt of the earth. But my dad never let us forget that if you want anything in this life, you have to work for it.”

  “Your brothers, all of them—”

  “They all have some degree of talent, but Pop made all of us work hard—ALL THE TIME. No slackers.”

  We were silent for a moment.

  Alek turned at a sign that said “Brule.”

  “I thought you said you lived in Ogallala?”

  “I live in Brule. Why? You say you are from Denver, but your parents live in Littleton. What’s the difference?”

  “First of all, I didn’t grow up there. When I was a little girl, I lived in whatever college town my father was coaching. But if I say my family is in ‘Littleton,’ no one knows it is a footstep from Denver, but they do know Denver. It’s just easier than having to explain it geographically.”

  “Same thing.”

  “Not at all! I bet if you told five out of ten people you were from Ogallala versus Brule, they would still not know where either was located.”

  “Elitist.”

  “Poser.”

  We broke into laughter.

  Alek began pointing out the sights of Brule that were the signposts of his childhood.

  “When did you stop going by the name Sander?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. When I got into grade school, the kids kept asking me if I was a power sander.” He shrugged.

  “Didn’t it bother your parents?”

  “They understood the differences in culture. It’s not like I changed my name. I just go by the same name as my father when I’m out of the family. I never ask them to call me Alek. Why? Do you think it was wrong?”

  “No, no, no. I think it’s sweet,” I assured him. There was so much I didn’t know about him!

  We soon pulled up the driveway of a large, cheery home. I was struck by how similar it was to parents’ home, with the cars parked any which way, indicating either a party or the visitation of a large family. It all felt very familiar. I was surprised that a grandchild had not b
een assigned as a watchdog to wait for us and then dash into the house to let everyone know we had arrived.

  “Well, prepare yourself,” Alek said as he parked the van.

  “Ha. Piece of cake. Wait, will there be cake?” I laughed and hopped out to join him and enter the bustling house.

  “Mama! We’re here!” He called out as we entered a foyer not unlike the one at my parents’ house. The similarities between the two houses were striking, right down to the delicious smells and loud, happy voices that emanated from what I knew had to be the kitchen.

  We proceeded through the foyer, whose walls were lined with photos of Alek’s family young and old. I stopped at one particular photo, larger than most and obviously taken in another country. A stern-faced toddler sat with one leg tucked under the other. His hair was shaped in a severe bowl cut, and his serious gray eyes stared directly into the camera. The outfit he wore hearkened back to an earlier era, with his cable-knit sweater buttoned tightly up to his collar. The one foot that was exposed was dressed in a crew sock and ankle-high, brushed leather lace-ups.

  “Oh my gosh, that’s you! In a Peter Pan collar!” I choked.

  “Yes, yes, yes.” Alek grabbed me from behind by my shoulders. “Plenty of time later to play ‘mock Alek’s baby pictures.’ We need to get to Mama now.”

  “Is there one of you naked on a rug? Please, please say there is!” I attempted to squirm out of his grasp and move backward to scan the other photos. No luck. He kneed me in the behind and pushed me forward.

  “Ouch!”

  “Keep moving.”

  We reached the kitchen, which was of course the source of the delicious smells. Alek’s mother, who had shed the green cap and was engulfed in a very motherly apron, scooted over to grasp us both into a hug so big that you’d think she hadn’t seen us in years rather than hours.

  “Sander! Maisie! Come, come!” She ushered us toward the dining room, where a table groaned with a feast and various family members chattered as they added more dishes.

  “Mama, I said not to go to any trouble,” Alek admonished as he simultaneously hugged and kissed sisters, brothers, in-laws, and children. I was swept into the hug-a-thon and people reminded me of their names—which I promptly forgot in the bustle.