by Andrea Cale
“No, Miss Misty,” the woman corrected. “And you can just call me by my first name. It’s Misty, if you haven’t caught that.”
“OK! Miss Misty, with all due respect, ‘Back in Black’ was released in July of 1980, five months after the death of Bon Scott. It was Brian Johnson’s first album.”
Now it was Misty’s turn to feel a little flushed in the cheeks as she normally prided herself on her rock knowledge.
Henry felt embarrassed for both of them. He wondered why they were both acting a bit foolish.
Teach looked at the boy and reminded himself that he was still behind a desk in his classroom, not at a pickup bar.
“I see you’re on your way to work,” Teach said more professionally. “I hope this isn’t an inconvenience?”
“No, it’s fine,” Misty said. “My son tells me he won a contest?”
“Yes, you have quite a talented little guy here. Did you read the poem?”
“No,” Misty said, looking at her son with guilt even though the boy had been the one responsible for keeping it that way.
Teach pulled the winning poem from his desk drawer and handed it to her. As she read, tears streamed down her cheeks. Henry looked even more deeply embarrassed. Teach swiveled his chair around to retrieve the box of tissues that he always kept on hand for Patsy whenever the girl had a good cry. He offered Misty the box. She nodded gratefully and tried to compose herself, but it was as though all her stress and worries about Henry were set free by the poem.
“I’m sorry,” Teach said. “I should’ve anticipated this. I should’ve warned you. It’s a moving piece of work for sure.”
Teach attempted to downplay the awkward moment and provided Henry with a thumbs-up, a gesture that was intended to relay, “Way to go—you even moved your mother to tears.”
“Well, I for one was very proud of Henry when he read this poem aloud to the class,” Teach said. “His schoolmates were very impressed, as were the judges. In fact, the principal himself would like the honor of meeting you sometime, Henry.”
Misty’s crying transformed into mild sniffles.
She is very cute, Teach thought to himself. She is one of those girls who looks cute even when she cries. He pictured his last serious relationship, a girl who had looked more like a pink walrus whenever she became upset during one of their many pointless arguments.
“On to the grand prize,” Teach said. “I have three tickets to the University of Boston game. Two are reserved for the winner—one for Henry and one for his chaperone. I know from my grand serenade that you might already think I’m a bit crazy. I know this is not your ordinary field trip, but…”
“But you are not your ordinary teacher,” Misty said.
“Well, thank you, I think,” Teach said. “Anyway, I was going to say that this is an unusual trip, but the principal is fine with a signed slip. And here it is.”
“Well, wow.” Misty took a moment to process everything she had just learned—from the poem to the prize. “This is an amazing opportunity, and I don’t know if you know this, but University of Boston is a team that Henry adores,” she continued. “His father was a great football player. Maybe he still is, we don’t know. I’m rambling.”
“Then you’ll come?” Teach asked.
Misty looked at Henry, who showed off the most hope in his eyes that she ever remembered seeing.
“We’ll find a way to go,” she assured her boy.
“That’s completely stellar,” Teach said. “There will be the expense of airfare and a night’s hotel for you and Henry, but the game tickets and a dinner out before the game are my treat.”
The man looked at Misty and realized he would be taking a beautiful girl on his arm after all. He felt as though he were crossing the teacher-parent line.
“Uh, the dinner part was already established in the criteria,” Teach added.
Between Henry’s beautiful and sweet mother, the woman’s AC/DC knowledge, and Henry’s love of football, Teach held a newfound respect for the boy who was already one of his favorites in class.
“One last test before we go,” Teach said to Henry. “Finish this fight song: ‘O Falcons’ nest, O Falcons’ nest, hither opponents come! Set forth your best, through every test…’”
Teach outstretched his arm for Henry to finish while the boy recalled the drunken fans sitting in front of him during the University of Boston’s season opener with his mother, grandmother, and best friend at his side. The perfect day was still clearly etched in his memory.
“‘Your glory shan’t be unsung!’”
“Well, there you go,” Teach said. “I’m excited. It looks like we have a Boston fan here after all. Sometimes you can’t script life any better.”
“Thank you, um,” Misty said as she tried to come up with her son’s teacher’s name.
“The kids call me Teach, but you can call me Brian. Not Mr. Brian. Just Brian.”
“Thank you, Brian,” Misty said. “You are about to make one family’s Christmas especially special. Can we take this?”
Misty held up the winning poem.
“Of course.”
She folded the paper and put it inside her purse next to a utility bill so it wouldn’t wrinkle. The mother and son left Teach to his grading. The man plugged his white earphones back in his ears and searched for the third song on the Back in Black album, “What Do You Do for Money Honey?”
Even though Misty’s boss told her not to go to the trouble, she ended up staying late at the restaurant to help with that evening’s side work. The poem was left untouched in her purse until the next morning, when she asked Henry if she could show it to his grandmother. Henry felt embarrassed all over again.
“She already knows how much you love her,” Misty said. “But showing her that she was the topic of such a wonderful poem would be the highlight of her life.”
“I’ll show her sometime,” Henry said. “But not now.”
The modest Brockton, Massachusetts, apartment was electric on the eve of Henry and Misty’s trip to the Orange Bowl as their imperfect Christmas tree glowed with lights that were especially disorganized toward the top. A vintage, shimmering snowman stood proudly in the living room, plugged in each evening by the elderly woman of the house. Bing Crosby’s version of “Walking in a Winter Wonderland” played happily on the radio. A mother, son, and grandmother buzzed about as they got two out of three of them ready for the first flight of their lives.
Writing the winning poem had turned out to be the least of the family’s hurdles in getting to the game, as Misty had stressed over how to get the time off and the money needed to fly during the pricey holiday season, stay in a hotel, and eat. But the single mother had discovered that when once-in-a-lifetime opportunities come around, especially during the holidays, acquaintances rally joyfully in support. Misty’s boss had not only granted her the days off, but also had secretly collected a holiday bonus from management staff for the restaurant’s kindest employee. Misty’s mother had brought several years’ worth of change to the coin counting machine in the local supermarket. When the elder woman had brought home more cash than any of them predicted combined, she still deposited her two cents of complaint.
“Do you know I lost 9.8 cents on every dollah by goin’ to that machine?”
“Thanks for doing that, Mom, but I guess it is a small servicing cost for all the time you saved by going there instead of counting all those nickels and dimes yourself,” Misty had offered in an attempt to make the woman feel better. “It would’ve taken you until next Christmas to roll all that. Where were you keeping all that change anyway?”
“A woman nevah reveals her secret hidin’ spot—whether it’s ah place for the Christmas presents or ah spot for mad money to buy the Christmas presents.”
Given the unusual circumstances, the family of three had decided to skip exchanging holiday gifts in order to afford the trip.
“But you deserve some presents, Grandma,” Henry had argued when the woman first brought up the ide
a. “You aren’t even going to the bowl.”
“Seeing my grandson attend the game of his dreams with his mothah is the best gift I could’ve evah dreamed up myself,” the woman had said truthfully. “I’ll be watchin’ from home and lookin’ for ya both in the stands. Bring me home a soovenee-yah. That will be ya present to me this year. I’ll treasah it too.”
As the radio played the song’s last couple of verses, Misty pulled from her bedroom closet the family’s only suitcase—an outdated and underused piece of luggage with a floral pattern that looked like it belonged in the 1970s. She pulled her shiny brown hair into a ponytail and began plotting which pieces to pack. Her face carried the weight of a challenge.
“Even in ya sweatpants, ya look stunning,” Misty’s mother said. “You do know that about yahself by now, don’t you?”
Misty rolled her eyes in humble disagreement.
“Don’t forget to bring your winter gear too,” Misty shouted to her son, who was excitedly pulling his favorite clothes out of his own room. “It’s Florida, but it won’t necessarily be that warm.”
“Mom, won’t we be wearing our hats and mittens to the airport anyway?” the boy shouted back happily.
Misty smiled at the comment that made Henry sound like a world traveler even though he had never been to the airport that was only twenty-six miles from his home. She fingered the tags on her latest discount store purchases and held up her favorite new sweater and jeans. Henry’s teacher had mentioned treating them to a dinner, she recalled. She tossed her most stylish wrap dress in the case. She got out the faux leather calf-length boots she had splurged on recently at PayLess. She wondered if the outfit would be dressy enough for dinner and then immediately worried if it would be too dressy. She wondered if she was trying too hard to impress.
The radio station queued up “Let It Snow,” Misty’s favorite holiday tune because of the romantic lyrics. She stepped into her son’s room to help him finish his own preparations and spotted his bare back. Without thinking, she kissed the nook between his shoulder blades. It was a spot she had nuzzled many times before—when he had scraped his knee at the beach parking lot, had a fever from the flu, or needed a towel after a bath. So much space had grown between his shoulders since the last time she had kissed him there. Instead of pulling away, the boy turned to his mother and gave her an overdue, tight hug around the neck.
CHAPTER 32
JP
The Destined One
After a dozen self-imposed cutting and exploding drills, Syracuse’s new starting running back got called to the sidelines of the team’s designated practice field at Fort Lauderdale’s Nova Southeastern University.
“JP, I know you’re used to practicin’ like a madman, but let’s not get ourselves worn out for the big game,” Coach Flash instructed. “It is tonight, you know.”
The pair exchanged uneasy smiles, subtly acknowledging the fact that the overwhelming pressure to win was weighing especially heavily on the running back’s small shoulders. In only his second game of his college career against a number of odds, JP was expected to deliver another exceptional performance to fans, coaching staff, teammates, ticket holders, and television viewers.
His exclusive one-on-one pre-game interview in Florida with the International Presswire had helped keep the seemingly endless line of reporters at bay, but it hadn’t stopped the most ambitious ones from firing questions at him in what had felt like the longest week of his life. Throughout the week, whenever the warm sun shined on JP’s face and tempted him to let his guard down, those media inquiries had seemed to work their way into his head instead.
“Do you think it’s possible to pull off another miracle game?”
“How do you think your size will play out against University of Boston’s larger defense?”
“With such little playing time under your belt, how are you mentally managing all the hoopla that comes along with being in the Orange Bowl?”
At Syracuse College offense press conference, Coach Flash and the offensive coordinators had taken turns defending JP.
“He’s fast, he’s elusive, and he’s one of the hardest workers in the BCS,” they had said more than once from memorized scripts.
There had also been the SC coaches’ luncheon, where ticket holders sought out JP’s autograph more aggressively than any other player on the team while comparing their own sizes to his. That evening had brought a team dinner outing to Miami’s Fogo de Chao restaurant, where teammates had avoided JP like a major league pitcher on a bullpen break during a hot streak. Whistler had bravely sat next to his roommate for the meal, but even he had kept his signature sarcasm and razzing to a minimum. The pair had silently flashed restaurant cards whenever they were ready for more or less of the popular Brazilian-style service of meat. While Whistler had been happy to keep himself busy flashing his green feed card for more of the delicious meal, JP’s uneasy stomach had kept his own card mostly showing red.
There had also been the team’s visit to Joe DiMaggio Children’s Hospital, where JP felt more drained than he had at any of the week’s events as he attempted to put into perspective the value of winning life versus a game. And, finally, following a week’s worth of practices held in between the public events, there was the team’s family beach outing at Miami Beach’s luxurious Fountainebleau Beachfront, where the professors had cautiously pulled their boy aside.
“Would it be fine with you if we took a family walk down this beautiful beach?” JP’s father had asked.
As the family of three walked, the parents felt the rough sand beneath their feet and waited patiently for their son to open up to them.
The smell of saltwater combined with the push of a strong wave seemed to bring JP to life at long last.
“You remember our family dinner back at home that Whistler so graciously crashed?” he asked.
“Well, we invited him,” his father corrected with a little laugh. “With his enormous elbows on our beloved round dinner table, I did fear that giant was going to end up smashing up the place, but yes, go on.”
“With his advice—and of course your support—I really thought I’d not only come here without nerves, but also win this big game,” JP said. “But after a week’s worth of doubts from the media, the pressure is all I can think about. On top of that, fans seem to be doubling by the hour around here.”
The parents had flanked their boy, subconsciously feeling the need to protect him as they finished their walk in silence.
In the hours before the bowl game, Coach Flash studied JP’s face to see how he was faring from the week of physical and emotional challenges. The coach had fielded more inquiries about JP than any other player, and he had grown seriously concerned over whether the pressure could make them all lose the game. The good man had secretly called on someone who he thought could help the Syracuse Orange and Navy on game day, and out of the corner of his eye, Flash saw his special guest arrive. With a signal from his whistle, he motioned everyone in. A dozen Syracuse College coaching staff members and 125 eager players quickly circled their leader.
“You’ve all worked so hard to get here,” Coach Flash said. “The moment is finally upon us. It is with great attitude, training, and heart that you turned this football team around for our school. You’ve made me proud. You’ve made the university proud. You’ve made football fans across the country who didn’t know anything about you until a few weeks ago inspired. It is no secret that our team is considered the underdog. I’m here to tell you that we are exactly where we want to be.”
Flash swallowed hard and continued.
“I just highlighted your positive attitude, training, and heart. Those are the characteristics everyone’s been talking about. The one the pundits always forget to mention, though, is talent. We have the most solid defense in the BCS, led by the best middle linebacker with Whistler. We have an unsung quarterback. We have a new running back, JP, whose full abilities have yet to even be seen. I can go on and on, naming each and every
one of you. We not only can win, we will win. More than anything, I need you to believe in yourselves. Do you?”
The ring of powerful bodies let out boisterous hollers as they slapped their hands atop each other’s helmets.
“It’s good, but not convincing enough,” Coach Flash said. “I’ve brought in a special gift today for us all. I’ve invited a man who has the most strategic football mind I know. He just so happens to believe we will defeat Boston’s Falcons. I’m sure he has a few wise observations to share with us on how to go about it too. He’s a much better football coach than I am. And I may be biased, but I would say the guy is pretty damn good-looking on top of it all.”
The circle of heads turned to see Coach Flash’s identical twin brother approaching. JP locked eyes with his old high-school coach while Crash gave the young man a nod.
“I thought I was supposed to be the humble one,” Crash whispered to his twin with a rough handshake. “You don’t give yourself enough credit when it comes to your own coaching talent. Jeez, look where you are.”
The guest cleared his throat before unleashing his coaching voice.
“Listen, I don’t believe I’m anywhere close to being one of the most strategic football minds on this field even, but for what it’s worth, I do believe you will win. I believe Devin Madison and his undefeated University of Boston Falcons are excellent, but they aren’t flawless. They make some key mistakes, and you can take advantage of ’em. I believe your strengths are underrated. I believe all of this puts you in a great position to win.”
Crash went on to reveal how the opposing team’s golden boy tended to twitch his right shoulder in the huddle when he was about to throw deep. The coach also warned that the Falcons’ center on the offensive line often drew an opposing team offside for a penalty by snapping the football quickly whenever a competitor tried to put in subs. Crash spoke for a few minutes without pause, unveiling more observations, weaknesses, and strategies. From the front row, Whistler absorbed every word of the unexpected knowledge and wondered how he hadn’t noticed these seemingly obvious observations before.