And who should drive up before I can figure out what I’m doing wrong with my shot? My dad, of course.
I haven’t seen him or spoken to him since the day we had the argument in the driveway. Even though Mom told me to talk to him, I still don’t want to, and why does it have to be right now? Whatever Mom said about sending him away, Dad still bailed on us; nothing he can say to me will change that.
I try to ignore him and just keep shooting the ball, but out of the corner of my eye I see him park his car, get out, and start walking toward me. Damn.
“Pauly,” he calls out.
I ignore him.
“Pauly—” he says again, and realizing I can’t escape, I take the ball and set it on the ground. I look at him.
“I—” he starts, but I interrupt.
“Nobody calls me that.”
“What?”
I say, “You heard me. Nobody calls me that. It’s Paul, not Pauly.”
Dad takes a deep breath, like a sigh, and says, “But I’ve always called you Pauly.”
“Right,” I say, and just stare at him.
He takes another breath and says, “Okay, Paul. Paul, can I talk to you for a minute?”
I answer, “No … definitely not, no.”
Dad says, “Come on, Paul. I promise, it’ll just take a minute, okay?”
I think, Shit, shit, shit, but I hear myself say, “Whatever …”
As Dad walks over and sits on the porch steps, he turns off his cell phone. He never turns it off, so this talk must mean something to him. He waits for me to come sit down. I don’t want to, I really don’t, but somehow my feet carry me to the porch.
Dad says, “Listen, I’m sorry about being such an asshole the other day.”
I think, The other day? What about every day?!
It’s like he’s reading my mind. “I’m sorry for all the times I’ve acted shitty. I’m a human being, Paul, and sometimes not a very good one.”
I don’t know what to say—he’s never apologized to me before. I sit quiet. I wish he’d just leave.
“Paul,” Dad says gently, his voice almost a whisper, “I know this is hard for you, sitting here with me. I’m asking you to just give me a couple minutes to try and explain—”
I don’t know what he’s talking about. I ask, “Explain what?”
Dad pauses a second and looks me in the eye. “I never abandoned you or your brother. I know that to you my leaving felt like abandonment, but the truth is I think about you guys every day, every day—trying to figure out how to help, how best to take care of Shawn and all of you.”
I feel my face get red, not really anger as much as some weird kind of confusion. “You still left, Dad. You still walked out. You may think about us but you’re not here.”
Dad looks me in the eye. “I know, Paul. I’m sorry. I mean that—I’m truly sorry. I was a mess before your mother sent me away. I’m better now, but back then, I was just so tired all the time—”
I interrupt. “Mom sent you away, but did that mean you had to go?”
Dad says, “I’m not blaming her, Paul. She’s great. But she and I talked a lot after we realized how bad Shawn’s problems were, and your mom knew even before I did that we couldn’t handle it in the same ways. This isn’t an excuse, Paul—I left because of my cowardice and my weakness. But your mom knew that I needed to go, that she couldn’t take care of both Shawn and me.”
Dad pauses a second, then says, “Paul, I haven’t abandoned this family. I haven’t abandoned your brother, believe me; I love him every bit as much as I love you and your sister. I’m constantly thinking about what I can do, what I should do, what I might have to do to take care of him. But whatever I do with Shawn, he’s not your responsibility.”
I think, Of course you’d say that! But I remember that Mom said this too. I feel a rush of emotion, a weird mix of sadness and happiness. I don’t know what to say, but somehow, listening to Dad’s words, I feel a huge weight lift off me. Dad is speaking straight into my heart, and his words take away a terrible pressure.
Dad puts his arm around me and pulls me close to him. I haven’t touched him or been touched by him in too many years to remember, not since I was little and he used to lift me up and swing me around and carry me upstairs to bed and tuck me in and kiss me good night and say, “See you in the morning, Pauly—I love you.” And in his arms again now, I close my eyes and all those little-kid feelings of safety wash back over me again.
We sit quietly for a while.
Finally I look at Dad and say, “I don’t know what to do, Dad....What should I do?”
Dad answers right away. “For yourself, start making plans for college.” He pauses a second. “For me? Well, you know what I want. You know what I always want.”
Yeah, I know, and I have to admit, it actually feels okay to hug him back. Even though it’s been a long time, it still feels familiar.
Dad says, “Whatever you decide to do, Paul, I’ll support you one hundred percent. You’re old enough to know what’s best for yourself. But remember, whatever happens, Shawn is your mother’s and my responsibility, not yours. All you have to do is try to love him as best you can.”
I can’t forgive my dad; it’s too confusing. It’s too much to think about, too much to feel. All these years I’ve been mad at Dad, but mostly I realize that I’ve been mad at myself, mad and ashamed at how I felt about my brother. My dad just did what I’ve wished I could do a thousand times—he ran away from Shawn. I can’t forgive my dad, but I understand him better. It’s me I don’t understand; how I can love my brother so much one minute and then, the next minute …
Suddenly I feel a rush of fear and a sick sensation in my gut. I look at Dad as we sit quietly, but inside I feel scared and shaky; there’s one thing left that needs to be done, one terrible secret that I need to talk about—not with my dad, but with my brother.
Dad has gone and I’m alone now with Shawn in his regular spot by the window. Mom’s upstairs and can’t hear me. Cindy’s not home from school yet.
I say, “Hey, bro, listen, I have to tell you something....” The words just come out. I feel scared for a second, but I shake the fear away—it’s now or never—I have to do this.
Without planning how I’m going to start, I just begin. “That time, Shawn, when those two bullies were picking on you, the Bic lighter, them hurting you; what you couldn’t see that day, what no one saw, was …”
I hesitate. I don’t know if Shawn understands me or not, but I need to tell him this anyway, I need to tell him the truth, the part I never imagined I’d tell anyone....
“There’s something more,” I say, staring into Shawn’s eyes.
My throat is tight. “I … I …” I stutter and start to lose my nerve.
Shawn suddenly makes his “ahhhhhhh” sound, like he’s trying to answer me. Like he’s trying to say, “It’s okay, bro, just let it out....”
I stare into his eyes, take one more deep breath, and finally speak. “I saw what they were doing, Shawn, and I wanted them to do it.”
Shawn stares off into space.
For the first time ever, hopefully for the last time ever, I say these horrible words that I’ve been too afraid to ever say, even to myself. “I saw those two guys before they even came into the yard that day. I heard them teasing you and I knew they were going to mess with you. I saw them walk up and I wasn’t afraid of them, but I just stood at the corner of the house watching. I saw that one kid get out the cigarette lighter and put it under your chin. And I just stood there. I thought it could be over at last—I wouldn’t be the guy with the broken brother....”
I pause a second and try to catch a breath. My hands are shaking and my stomach feels terrible. I’m afraid to look into Shawn’s eyes, so I stare at the floor. “When he held that lighter under your chin, and you started moving all around, trying to escape, I said inside my head, ‘Go ahead and do it! Just kill him and let this all be over.’ I wanted them to kill you, Shawn. I wante
d you … gone!”
I burst into sobs and can’t say more. But there’s nothing more to say. My brother, if he knows anything, if he understands words at all, knows the truth about me now; that I’m nothing, less than nothing, a coward and a selfish jerk, too afraid to even love him.
Tears stream down my cheeks. I feel dizzy and sick. I bury my face in my hands and try to breathe. I collapse onto the floor next to Shawn’s wheelchair and just sit there, crying.
Through my sobs I manage to spit out, “I’m so ashamed....”
I’m crying too hard to say more; I can hardly breathe.
I cry for a long, long time, sitting there on the floor, alone with my brother.
I finally stop crying. I begin to breathe evenly again. My ribs and chest ache from all my sobbing, but a strange kind of peacefulness starts to fill me.
Finally I say, “I’m sorry, Shawn. I am. I’ll never let anyone hurt you, bro, and I’ll never pretend again that I don’t know you. You’re my brother, Shawn, and I’m yours. That’s the way it is.”
We sit silently. Something has changed in me. I don’t know how to describe it, but something has happened between us. I watch Shawn sitting in his wheelchair, staring out at the world—does he understand anything about what I just told him? Does he get how much I care about him? Maybe not.
But at least I finally get it.
CHAPTER TWENTY
It’s Thursday afternoon and I’m wearing my travel clothes for the trip to Spokane: slacks, blazer, shirt, and a stupid baby-blue tie. In the last few days everything has changed; everything I thought before, everything I’ve worried about for years, feels different. Plus there’s a million new thoughts slamming through my brain.
For instance, I keep wondering, What if it’s partly, maybe mainly, because of Shawn that I am who I am? What if God couldn’t help Shawn be normal, so the next best thing he could do was give me everything, all of Shawn’s talents and all of my own too?
I walk over to where Shawn is sitting and I look down at him. He’s drooling pretty heavily and there’s a giant wet spot on the front of his coveralls and T-shirt. We’re alone.
I pat his head softly. I kiss his forehead and feel this huge love for him. I tell him what I’ve never been able to say since that day the bullies were hurting him. “I love you, bro.”
Shawn says “ahhhhhh” back at me, almost like he understands, almost like he’s answering.
I smile and kiss his forehead again and say, “See you in a few days.” I’m going to miss him; it’s weird, but I really am.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
There’s one last thing I need to do before I catch the bus for the tournament. Cindy rides with me to pick up Tim from the courthouse.
Tim has to go to his mom’s, where he’ll have to stay until his court date. His stepdad is getting better, but he’s still in the hospital. Earlier, when Tim called for a ride, he told Cindy that he’s being charged with second-degree assault, a felony. His lawyer says they’ll get it knocked down to a misdemeanor, but that it’s going to take some time. So Tim can’t leave King County; hell, he can’t even leave his house! Even though he’s out of jail, there’s no tournament for him.
I spot him walking down the sidewalk and across the parking strip. He looks worried. But when he sees us waiting, he smiles.
Cindy jumps out of the car and runs to greet him, giving him a hug. He looks at me, over her shoulder, for a second or two, then closes his eyes and hugs her back. They just stand there holding each other. I look away, out the front of the car, trying to give them a little privacy. It feels good to me that they have each other.
They both start to climb into the backseat until Tim realizes what he’s doing. He opens the door for Cindy, closes it, then he sits up front so I won’t look like a chauffeur. Cindy, sitting right behind him, scoots up close so that she can hold his hand. We take off.
“You okay?” I ask.
“I guess,” Tim answers.
“Any place special you wanna go?”
“Yeah,” Tim says. “Not back there.” He nods his head in the direction of the jail. He was in three nights and four days.
I pause a second, trying to think what to say next. Finally I ask, “Do you feel that you benefited all you could from the institution?”
Tim smiles, recognizing this from Raising Arizona, one of our favorite videos. He answers, “I released myself on my own recognizance.” He pauses a moment, then jumps to a different scene from that movie—“Life is strange, huh? They oughtta sell tickets.”
I take my cue. “I’d buy a couple.”
We both laugh.
But something feels different; something feels unsaid. For all the times I fought and hurt people, if anybody deserved to go to jail, it’s me. This hangs over us and weighs on me.
I say, “This shouldn’t have happened to you, Tim-bo. I’m sorry.”
My apology doesn’t make any sense, and Tim knows it doesn’t. He quickly says, “It’s not your fault, Paul. It’s my mistake, period.”
“I don’t know, man,” I say. “If anybody deserves …” I hesitate. “I mean, with all the fighting I’ve done, you know, I could have killed somebody.”
Tim smiles and says, “You didn’t, though.”
I say, “Neither did you.”
Tim looks out the window and I notice him squeezing Cindy’s hand. “Nope, I didn’t. But I sure wanted to.”
We ride along in silence for a few blocks; then I look over at Tim again and notice that he’s looking back at Cindy. His words echo in my mind, as I think about all the times I wanted to kill the whole world.
I don’t feel that way anymore. A chill runs down my spine at how close I came to messing up my whole life. If somebody was looking out for me, they did a good job. But now it’s up to me.
The ride to Spokane on the chartered bus is long. There’s not a lot to do on bus rides like this. Some of the guys talk together, some sleep, half are wearing headphones, chilling to tunes.
John-Boy Reich is sitting next to me, on the seat where Tim-bo should be.
Neither of us says much as the bus cruises down I-90, past empty brown fields with little blue signs on the fence lines: ALFALFA, CORN, POTATOES.
I glance around the bus, looking at all my teammates. The Hankster is snoring about as loud as you’d expect. Wille Anderson and Carl Restov are playing cards, hearts I think. I look at all these guys: Johnny, Jesse, Antwon, George, Lewis, Brian, Terrel, Matt, Philip, all of them. Right now, after I’ve seen Tim, they all feel like family to me; each and every one of them is like a brother as we’re going into battle this one last time together.
I look back over at John-Boy and he’s staring out the window. I wonder if he’s thinking what I’m thinking as he sits in Tim-bo’s seat: that I’m so incredibly lucky to be here, what a miracle it is that I’m not going through what’s happening to Tim Gunther.
I hope Tim’ll be okay. He’s always been the brother to me that Shawn couldn’t be, the one I could do stuff with, but somehow, now, all my teammates are my brothers too. I wish Tim were here with us—he deserves to be. Then again, maybe “deserves” doesn’t have much to do with it. Maybe in life you get what you get, and you just have to learn to deal with it.
After almost three hundred miles and five hours, we finally reach a stand of scrubby pine trees, a couple tiny “lakes,” and then, half an hour later, we start down a steep hill into Spokane.
We’re staying at the Davenport Hotel. It’s really a beautiful place, but I’m not sure any of us has even noticed. My bros and I have got some unfinished business to take care of.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Tonight’s game, the final for the state championship, will be my last in any sport as a high school player. I’m graduating in April, so no baseball this year. My high school jock career has all come down to this night.
We’re in our locker room at the Spokane Arena. The building is fairly new and seats fourteen thousand plus. For our earlier gam
es, the qualifying rounds to see who would play in tonight’s final, the floor of the arena was divided into two courts by a huge fabric screen, so that two games were played at the same time. Tonight the screen is gone. This last game, for the state championship, is the only one in town.
Our opponent is an old foe—Kennedy High School. As runner-up to the Seattle league title, they were top-seeded in the Blue bracket, which they won. We won the Red bracket.
The crowd is huge, a sellout. Earlier we got to peek out and watch them pour into the building. Now, as we sit in this locker room on shiny wooden benches, the crowd sounds like a big animal pawing right above our heads.
Coach gathers us around to make his final speech. We sit quietly; there’s a lot of intensity in this small corner of the concrete room.
Coach says, “Do you all remember that day when Paul McDaniel couldn’t miss during shoot-around?”
Everybody glances at me and I feel myself blush.
“Well, gentlemen, tonight shares with that moment one thing and one thing only....”
Coach pauses for a second until he’s sure that we’re all looking at him—his face is a little bit red and his forehead is sweating.
“In basketball, in all sports, the best part is the possibility that something miraculous might happen. The possibility of a miracle is always right at your fingertips if you have the courage to feel it.
“That day when Paul was throwing up shots and made that last one, even though I think he peeked”—Coach glances over at me and winks—“that day we glimpsed the miraculous on a small, individual scale. Today the miracle could be here again, only this time it really means something; this time it counts.”
Coach pauses and takes a deep breath. “You guys have one job to do, one last job—go out and believe in the miraculous—believe in yourselves and one another. Think, play together, but most of all feel the possibility of the miracle. I promise that if you do that, when this game is over, you’ll understand what I’m talking about. Do any of you have anything you’d like to say?”
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