the Big Time (2010)

by Tim Green

  Troy shook his head and said, "Honestly, it's better for me to just go back the way I came. Once I get over the wall, it's a shorter walk than if you let me off at the top of my driveway."

  "Whatever works," his father said.

  "You could help me out, if you don't mind," Troy said. "Maybe drive me to the back of the development. If you're with me, I won't have to worry about the security guards."

  "Guards? You mean G Money's guards?" his father asked.

  "No, the Cotton Wood guards," Troy said.

  His father raised his eyebrows. They stopped to say good-bye to G Money, and the rapper told Troy's dad to hurry because he wanted to win back his money. Troy climbed into the front seat of the Porsche next to his father. The smooth leather and green, glowing numbers on the control panel reminded him of a space rocket and G Money's pool.

  "Is this yours?" Troy asked.

  His father grinned and nodded as he fired up the engine. "Brought it down from Chicago. I was itching for a road trip. Clears my head to drive a thousand miles in a machine like this."

  Troy nodded.

  "That's some pool he's got," Troy said, pointing out the way his father should go.

  "A million bucks, just for the pool alone," his father said, glancing at him. "Twelve for the house."

  "Up there," Troy said, pointing to a maintenance road that led to a shed back behind part of the golf course.

  His dad pulled the Porsche up the gravel path through the trees and stopped in the dusty lot beside the massive shed. Tractors, golf carts, and other odd-shaped machinery lurked in the shadows cast by a single light mounted on the shed wall. Dust settled in the headlights' beams, and his father shut off the engine. Trees whispered above.

  "What are you doing?" Troy asked.

  "How about I go with you?" his father said.

  "Over the wall?"

  "I'd like to see where you live," he said, "make sure you get back safe."

  "I have to take the ladder with me," Troy said, warmed, though, by the thought of his father wanting to do something dangerous and outside the lines with him.

  "It's not far, right?" Drew said.

  "No."

  "So, you can show me, then bring me back and take the ladder with you."

  Troy hesitated and bit his lower lip.

  "You don't have to," Drew said.

  "No, it's not that," Troy said. "I was thinking, maybe I could show you the bridge."

  "Bridge?"

  "The railroad tracks are back there, and there's a bridge not too far down that crosses the Hooch--the Chattahoochee River," Troy said. "I like to go there sometimes, to think."

  "Like a special place?" his father asked.

  Troy nodded.

  "So, show me the way," his father said. "I'd love to see it. I'd be honored."

  Excitement bloomed in Troy's chest. He got out of the shiny orange car, slamming the door and trying not to run for the wall. He turned to see his father taking long strides to catch up. When they reached the wall, Troy went to the left. His gramps's ladder lay tucked into the underbrush about fifty feet away. He crouched and raised it up, his father helping to brace it against the wall.

  "Feel like I'm twelve myself," his father said under his breath as he steadied the ladder and Troy climbed up.

  When he reached the top, Troy said, "Now you come up, then we'll pull the ladder over."

  It took several minutes, but soon Troy was leading his father down the tracks toward the steel trestle spanning the river. He had so many questions--questions that had haunted him for years--and now, finally, it looked as if he might have the chance to get the answers.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  TROY SHOWED HIS FATHER how he and Tate sat, with legs dangling in space. The river below slogged along, reflecting the ghostly tatters of clouds above as they swept across the starry sky.

  "Nice spot to think," his father said, swinging his legs and bracing his arms against the metal beam above so he could lean out over the empty space.

  "Can I ask you some questions?" Troy asked.

  "Shoot."

  "Do you have any other kids? Do I have a brother or sister or anything?" Troy asked.

  "Nope," Drew said. "I was married for a bit, but that didn't work out, and we never had kids. She was too busy. That's why it never worked. My own parents are gone, and the one sister I had died in a car accident about a year ago. So, it's just me. That makes finding you even more special."

  "And you live in Chicago, right?" Troy asked.

  "Got a condo in Lake Point Tower," his father said.

  Troy gave him a confused look.

  "It's the top place in Chicago," his father explained. "Downtown high-rise, right on the lake. I can walk to my law office. You'll come see it."

  "There's a train that Tate calls the Midnight Express," Troy said, pointing to the other side of the trestle and the tracks that extended as far as they could see. "Atlanta to Chicago. I hear it sometimes at night and I'd always think of you, even though I didn't know you."

  His father seemed to consider the northbound tracks but didn't say anything.

  "And you played football, right?" Troy said.

  "Pretty well, too," his father said with a chuckle, "until I broke my neck. Oh, it wasn't that bad. I got lucky, actually. They said another eighth of an inch and I wouldn't be walking. They fused two vertebrae together, and it healed pretty good--but not in time for anything in the pros. I missed my train, so to speak. A lot of people do."

  "That's what I want to do," Troy said. "Make it to the NFL."

  "Maybe you will," his father said. "I'm actually in the Auburn record books myself, so you got the genes, the speed, the athleticism. Now all you need is a little luck. Tell me about this genius thing."

  "My gramps told me you were a math major," Troy said. "Kind of weird for a football player. I was wondering if you can kind of do what I can do. I can't really explain it, but Seth says it's about probabilities based on the variables in the game. That sounds like math to me."

  His father turned his head and studied Troy's face in the dim light. "Seth, huh?"

  "He's been pretty good to me," Troy said.

  "Like a father?"

  "No, more like a friend," Troy said.

  "Good," Drew said, his teeth showing in his smile. "It's funny you said that about how you can't really explain it. That's how math was for me. I really wasn't big when it came to school. I never really applied myself until law school. But I could take these advanced math classes and just...know it. I didn't even really like math. It all just made sense to me: the formulas, the theorems, the way numbers can predict not just lines but curves, even waves, even across three dimensions. Are you good in math?"

  "Nope," Troy said. "My mom says I'm a savant. Pretty normal except when it comes to football. That's why they say 'football genius.'"

  "A prodigious savant," his father said as if to himself.

  "What?" Troy asked.

  "Not a savant, really," his father said, reaching out and putting a strong hand on Troy's shoulder. "I mean, you are, but you're more. It's savant syndrome, and almost everyone who has it also has a developmental disability--autism lots of times--except for one narrow area where they're so smart, they're off the charts. A prodigious savant is extremely rare. That's a person who's normal in every other way--no disability, no brain injury, nothing; just a prodigy. 'Genius' is a good name for it--in some narrow area. Wow."

  "And it's a good thing, right?" Troy asked.

  "Ha!" his father said, shaking his head. "Good? It's great. Look at you: a normal kid, but you can predict plays in an NFL game? Troy, my biggest concern is that no one takes advantage of you."

  "Who'd do that?" Troy asked.

  His father sighed and shook his head, the wind ruffling his shaggy brown hair, the strong bones in his face carving out shadows even in the weak starlight. "The world is a vicious place, Troy. Trust me. The things I've seen."

  "But you can help me, right?" T
roy asked. "I mean, you want to, right?"

  His father tightened the grip on Troy's shoulder and said, "Of course I want to, and I'm the perfect person to do it, with everything I've seen, knowing sports, knowing the entertainment industry.

  "But there's just one problem."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  "I DOUBT YOUR MOTHER will let me help," Drew said.

  "Why wouldn't she?" Troy asked, searching his father's face in the shadows.

  "You see the way she thinks of me," Drew said. "It's hard for people to blame themselves, and anyway, I'm sure Seth Halloway is going to push you to use his agent."

  "He actually mentioned it already," Troy said under his breath.

  "See?" Drew said. "That's how these things work. Clients know if they do their agent a favor, they get a favor back. That's one of the things I'm worried about for you. You don't know how long this is going to last, and you need a long-term deal that gets you the most you can possibly get."

  "What do you mean, 'last'?" Troy asked.

  "You see patterns that let you predict the outcome," his father said. "The way I see it, it's all about tendencies. Well, people can break tendencies. Go against the pattern."

  Troy thought for a minute, then said, "But if they go against one pattern, wouldn't that just make another pattern?"

  "In theory," Drew said. "But what if they just randomize the play calling?"

  "Well," Troy said, "they might end up running a quarterback sneak on third and twelve. That wouldn't make sense, right?"

  "I understand that," Drew said. "Look, I don't know all the possibilities. I'm just saying that, right now, you're worth a lot of money, and I'd like to make sure that you get it. I don't want to see you pawned off to some agent just because he knows Seth Halloway."

  "Well, Seth's not my dad. He's my friend, but not my dad. Why can't you just do the deal for me?" Troy said, his heart galloping now. "You're a lawyer, and lawyers are even better than agents, right?"

  "Believe me, I'd love to," Drew said.

  "Great," Troy said. "Perfect."

  "I'm telling you, Troy," Drew said, shaking his head. "She's not going to go for it. If I am going to help, we'll have to be smart about it."

  "We can do that," Troy said. "You file the papers you need to tomorrow and then she has to let me see you. That's the deal."

  "I thought you said if I told her I'd sue her she'd let you see me," Drew said.

  "Well," Troy said, "she kind of figured out that I tipped you off. She wants to make sure you follow through."

  "That's easy," Drew said. "I can draw up the papers in the morning."

  "Then I can tell her that I want you to do the deal for me," Troy said, his voice rising up toward the stars. "She can't say no. It's my deal. I'm the football genius, right? What do you think?"

  "I think that if we're going to have a chance," his father said, patting Troy's shoulder and then standing up, "then we'd better get you back. I like your plan. It's smart. So, let's not give her an excuse to stop us before we even get started."

  They walked back down the tracks, and Troy assured his father he could get the ladder back on his own. Troy watched him climb up to the top of the wall and give him a salute before crouching down and lowering himself over the other side. Troy heard his father drop to the earth with a thud, and he flattened his hands against the cool concrete wall, sad to be alone.

  "You okay?" he asked, shouting so his voice would carry up and over the wall.

  "Yeah," his father said, sounding far away. "I'll see you soon."

  "Tomorrow," Troy said, nodding to himself.

  "Don't worry," Troy's father said, his voice moving away, "I'm not going anywhere."

  Troy grabbed the ladder. He lowered it slowly, then balanced it on his shoulders. By the time he dumped the ladder down behind the shed, he'd worked up a sweat. Using a thick piece of firewood as a step, he climbed inside through his bedroom window. After removing his sweaty clothes, Troy lay panting in his underwear. The wind in the pines and the dull thump of his own heartbeat did nothing to help him sleep.

  He thought of all the important things that had happened to him in the past few months: the excitement of working for the Atlanta Falcons, winning a state championship, appearing on TV, the money he'd made already, and the huge money he was about to make. None of it compared to tomorrow, though. The thought of having his own father be an official part of his life--spending time together, taking trips, throwing a football, or even just talking--made everything else seem like Halloween candy compared to a Christmas present. The other stuff was good and seemed really exciting when he got it, but this was something deep. This was something he'd dreamed about so hard for so long that he felt something had shifted in his core.

  The change was so dramatic that the very world around him seemed a different place.

  The only problem was that, despite his father's words of assurance and despite the deal he had with his mom, something gnawed at him, telling him that nothing was for sure. Maybe it was his mom's own doubts about his dad. She hadn't been shy about showing her dislike and even her contempt for him.

  Troy sighed and rolled over in the sheets, knowing that if sleep came, it wouldn't come easy.

  Everything hinged on tomorrow.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  TROY LAY COMFORTABLY IN his dream on a sandy beach with the wind slipping past. He knew it was a dream, and he didn't want to wake up, despite the sound of his mom's insistent voice. Finally, when he knew for certain she wasn't going away, Troy opened his eyes and realized that his finger felt better even though it was swollen and stiff.

  "Wake up," she said again. "I let you sleep late."

  "You did?" Troy asked, swinging his legs out of bed.

  "Home Economics first period, right?" she said. "I'm sorry, but learning to bake a cake from a box when the kids in this country rank twenty-fourth in the world in math scores? That's ridiculous."

  Troy grinned but felt a pang of guilt for plotting with his father to trick a mom cool enough to let him skip Home Ec.

  "What? You like cake from a box?" she asked.

  "No, I'm glad," he said. "I was just thinking about everything."

  "Your father?" she said with a sigh. "I know. Come on, I made oatmeal."

  "Everything else, too," he said, following her into the hallway. "The TV shows. A big contract. The agents."

  "I've been thinking about that," she said. "The TV shows aren't going to go away. I think we get the agent thing worked out first. Whoever we choose will probably have some specific ideas on how we can work this to our best advantage. We need to use the media in this to help our negotiations. We need to get you the best deal we can, Troy. This is serious business."

  Troy followed her into the kitchen in his boxer shorts. At the stove, she took a metal spoon and began stirring a pot of oatmeal with vicious intensity. He was dying to tell her that she and his father were now thinking along the exact same lines, but for some unknown reason the harsh, scraping sound made him hold his tongue.

  "What are you doing?" she asked, turning to dollop out the oatmeal into the pair of bowls she'd put on the table but stopping to stare. "Get dressed. It's going to be beautiful today, so you can wear shorts if you want. What, Troy? You're acting strange."

  Troy forced a smile and shook his head before scooting back down the hall to use the bathroom and dress. He sat down to a steaming bowl of oatmeal with raisins and banana slices and dug in.

  When his mom dropped him off at school, she signed him in at the office. He hugged her tight before heading for his locker. He was in the hallway outside math class when Tate found him and asked where he'd been. Troy explained about his mom letting him sleep in before launching proudly into the newfound information he had on his father. Nathan joined them halfway through Troy's glowing report. When he'd finished, Nathan whistled low.

  "Records at Auburn," Nathan said. "That's sweet."

  "Wow. Who else does he represent besides G Money
?" Tate asked.

  "I don't know," Troy said, his excitement riding high. He began to tell them the story of the night before--sneaking out, G Money's mansion, and his dad climbing the wall with him--but the bell rang before he could finish, and his friends had to stay in suspense until third-period study hall, when they all got library passes.

  Troy got on the computer and, armed with his father's name, Googled the former college star turned big-time lawyer, proudly pulling up the Auburn University football record book.

  "Look," he said, pointing out his dad's name in the record books, once for being third in total rushing yards in a season and another for tying for first with five touchdowns in a single game.

  "The real deal," Nathan said quietly.

  "That's great, Troy," Tate said.

  Troy looked up and in a hushed library voice finished telling them the story about the night before. When he stopped talking, Troy noticed that Tate was gnawing gently on her knuckle.

  "What's wrong?" Troy asked.

  Tate hesitated, then said, "You don't really think you can fool your mom, do you?"

  "I'm not 'fooling' her, Tate," he said. "I'm just...I don't know, playing out the situation."

  "Right," she said, "manipulating."

  "Don't even listen to her," Nathan said, swatting the air. "It's a great plan. Your mom will be happy, and you'll get a big-time contract and your dad back all at once. It's perfect. I'm happy for you, Troy. Can't you just be happy for the man, Tate?"

  Tate scowled at Nathan, raised her voice, and said, "Telling someone what they want to hear might be your idea of being a friend, but it's not mine. I don't like it, that's all. I'm just telling him how I feel."

  Tate looked at Troy and Nathan, obviously wondering if they'd be heading back to study hall with her, but Nathan scooted his chair closer to the computer screen and put an arm around Troy's shoulder.

  "Come on, Troy," he said in a whisper, "let's Google his clients and see who else he reps besides you and G Money."