A Short Move

by Katherine Hill

  “Thanks for the love,” the kid said, popping up in his Stormtrooper helmet.

  “Just teaching you how to run,” Mitch said. He still wore the old-school headgear, the kind they issued when he joined the league. He was proud of it, considered it a symbol of his wisdom. No helmet could save your head from a concussion if your head didn’t know what to do.

  After practice he and D popped into the D-line meeting room, looking for candy. They were animals, the D-line, they hid their Dum Dums and Jolly Ranchers in a garbage bin crusted with melted sugar. D dug around until he found a box of Junior Mints and a Werther’s Original for old man Mitch. There was also a Twinkie rubber-banded with a hand-written note: Do not eat me I belong to #79. Moore. Mitch pocketed that one, too.

  His phone was glowing with a new message at his locker. Can mom and grandma come? Alyssa had asked.

  He waited until he was showered and walking to his car. Sure, he thumbed back. So much for one-on-one time.

  Tyler and Kaylie were fighting when he got home. They were in some kind of phase now where they fought all the time, over food, over controllers, over who was where and who was what, his stubby fingers jabbing her neck, her princess foot crushing his toes. “Tell it to your father,” Lori told him the minute he walked in. “I’m done.” She was upstairs before he could refuse. No need to tell her he’d be seeing Caryn the next day.

  He looked at his kids, six and five, a puddle of orange juice between them. “It’s Friday!” he said. “Shouldn’t you be happy?”

  “She’s always telling me what to do,” Tyler whined.

  “You spill something, you clean it up,” Kaylie said. “That’s just a rule.”

  Mitch tended to defend his only son, especially when the girls got after him for being a slob. He was a boy; boys were messy. But there was something too pitiful in Tyler’s face. He was letting this get to him—a little orange juice on the floor?

  “Paper towels,” Mitch told him, swatting his head. “Get control of yourself.”

  “But I didn’t do it!”

  “Yes, he did,” Kaylie insisted.

  “You calling your sister a liar?” Mitch asked Tyler. “And you.” He pointed at Kaylie. “Nobody likes a know-it-all.”

  Now they both protested, telling their separate, shouted narratives, and Mitch wouldn’t have it, grabbing them, one, two, by their young, slow, tender arms and pulling them side by side. “If you give Grandma trouble tonight, you’ll have trouble from me.”

  Kaylie returned a blank, submissive stare, but Tyler’s eyes grew slick as hot oil, shimmering with rebellion. “I hate you,” he said. “And I hate Grandma, too!”

  He was spanked for this, of course, and hauled off to his room with orders to stay in there until he was ready to apologize.

  Mitch was worried for a minute when his mom arrived and Tyler still hadn’t emerged. Cindy was missing her poker night for this. But then Lori, in jewels and makeup, escorted Tyler, his face splattered red with psychological pressure, into the front room where Mitch stood with Cindy, and Tyler recited, to Mitch’s feet, words generic and practiced enough to pass muster, and Cindy gave a little nod, and everything was forgotten. After that Tyler acted shy, like he was going on a date with Cindy, and Cindy, who was actually Tyler’s favorite family member, had him peaceably in front of the TV with Kaylie by the time Mitch and Lori walked out the door.

  “I mean I don’t really care,” Lori said in the car. “God help me, I’m a good soldier, always will be. I’m just surprised he was so lastminute. Aren’t men like Greg Goldman usually booked solid?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you think something’s wrong?”

  “What could be wrong?”

  She laughed nervously. “Maybe he’s going to make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

  Now Mitch was laughing because what other choice did he have? Hatchett was making him tapes of younger guys; Goldman was cornering him for social engagements. In six seasons in Philadelphia, he’d eaten with the owner twice, and never just the two of them with their wives. He was picturing it now as an organized hit. Janie Goldman would lead Lori away by the elbow, on the pretense of showing her something on the grounds. Mr. Goldman would turn his hidden neck to Mitch and ask him an enigmatic question. Soon enough Mitch’s brains would be all over the banquette, his eyes open like he’d never seen it coming. Lori would be spared, but she’d have to break the news to the kids, who would never forgive her for surviving.

  He couldn’t have those kids hate their mother. If Mr. Goldman started talking funny, he’d make some excuse and go home.

  The restaurant was one of those out-of-the-way places on a farm that people drove to for miles just to eat food that came from right there exactly. It was a whole operation: valet parking, orchard tours, craft center during the day for kids. The perfect place for a hit.

  Lori clung to Mitch’s arm as they made their way up the lantern-lit path. He knew it was only because she was wearing stilettos, but it heightened the drama nonetheless.

  He couldn’t say he was relieved when he saw Dave Brewer, O-line, and Derrick Jennings, wideout, standing with their wives at the bar, but he was curious as to why they’d chosen this place, too, and why they were double dating. He looked at Natalie Brewer and Korenna Jennings, both wearing diamond jewelry, the similarities ending there. Then he looked at his teammates. These were two of the three most senior men after him, the third being Moore, the Twinkie eater and eternal child, who was only now walking through the doors, his five-foot fiancée Lisa hanging on his arm like a subway handrail.

  Then, from the bowels of the restaurant came Mr. Goldman. “Everyone’s here!” he said, and Mitch finally understood they were all attending this dinner together.

  “You didn’t tell me you were coming,” he whispered to Moore as they made their way to the private dining room, where Janie Goldman was waiting to receive them. This wasn’t her house, but she owned the place all the same. “Please,” she said, indicating where everyone should sit. Her hair was cut short, like a man’s.

  Moore shrugged. “You didn’t either.”

  The offense made sense; he didn’t really interact with the offense. But Mitch and Moore talked every day. They held their ties down and performed what felt like decorum as they assisted their women with the high-backed chairs.

  “This is good,” Mr. Goldman said, once everyone was seated: five couples, no coaches, no Hatchett, nor anyone else from the front office. Just an intimate little dinner of ten. Everyone looked expectantly at the host, his tie knotted fat as a purse.

  “My veterans,” he said, unlooping his napkin and placing it in his lap, which seemed to be a signal to the rest of them. He spoke with possessive pride, and they couldn’t help but beam. They understood, and their wives did, too, what a special thing it was to make a rich man happy.

  “I’m sure you’re all wondering, ‘Why the hell did this guy invite me to dinner?’” He smiled, and they all laughed, disarmed by his honest hell.

  Moore laughed the loudest. “I was like, is this some kind of forced retirement party?”

  “Shh,” Lisa said, instinctively, as though speaking it could make it true.

  “He’s just saying what we’re all thinking,” Mitch said.

  Goldman made his face convey respect as servers brought out bowls of yellow soup the same shade as Tyler’s spilled juice. Then, slowly, he began to explain. “We’ve got a new commissioner this year,” he told them. “The league is evolving. Meanwhile, you guys are really turning it around on the field.”

  Everyone smiled, pleased with the praise.

  “So I wanted to bring you guys in, get us all together and talk. Think of it as a show of appreciation, and a little focus group at the same time.”

  “Focus group?” Brewer repeated.

  “What’s working, what we could be doing better. Where are we now, where should we be next year. No one knows this stuff better than you guys.”

  There fo
llowed a period of clinking and slurping. Finally, when it was clear that Goldman was done speaking, and it was up to them to respond, they began to offer tentative platitudes, the same ones they’d been drilled on when they first entered the league. We have to pull together. Every man does his job. I’m grateful for the opportunity. I just try to come in every day and play my game.

  “Aw, come on,” Goldman said, conspiratorially. He seemed poised on the verge of a wink. “Not that stuff. We taught you that stuff. I mean your own observations.”

  It felt very much like a trick. The owner asking them to think for themselves? But when Mitch looked deep into Goldman’s face, he found no trace of malice. It might’ve been there, once, when he was young and ravenous and amassing wealth, but along with the age lines that had also once been there, it had since been cleansed away. He was a beneficent magnate now, interested, adept at drawing men out. He didn’t have to be, he could’ve been a tyrant, so why not give the man what he wanted? It was obvious from the way he regarded them that football players were his favorite people on the planet. And anyway, he was picking up the tab.

  While Mitch sat thinking, Jennings had begun to speak, murmuring, like a voice from another room. “You know,” he said, “where I come from, there wasn’t a lot of opportunities for kids like me.” He wore Timberlands, even now, with his suit, and unlike D and Griggs and Moore, he didn’t hang out with white guys. In the locker room, he played cards with his small crew of receivers and backs, and if you didn’t know better, you might mistake his seriousness for sullenness, because he rarely made eye contact, even with his friends. Actually, Mitch thought, he was shy.

  “But I was lucky,” he continued. “I was blessed by God. I had people around me saying if you work hard, I mean really hard, you might just get to use those hands and feet. I was lucky. I had friends that died. But I got the chance to work hard, and it paid off. That might not be an original story, but it’s mine.”

  It was the most Mitch had ever heard Jennings say. They were all Christians here, he realized. Except excess-loving Moore, already done with his soup. And even he’d been raised in the Church.

  “You have talent, too,” Goldman said, generously, as though he’d been the one to give it to him.

  “Yeah, but it can’t just be about talent. If it was, it’d be a whole different league. I know the guys who’d be in it.”

  “Of course, absolutely, it’s about hard work,” Goldman said, emphatically, to dispel any dangerous confusion.

  Mitch’s mind floated to Jason Booker, the only other Monacan Warrior to play both sides of the ball with him. He could’ve gone to college on his talent. Instead he went to Iraq, twice. And not because he didn’t work hard.

  “What we want to do,” Goldman was saying, “what Eddie Hatchett does every day, is cultivate the widest possible pool of talent. And that takes hard work, too. A tremendous amount.”

  Did Mitch flinch at the mention of Hatchett’s name? He hoped not.

  “I’ll tell you what I love about football,” Dave Brewer said. They were on to the main course by now; they’d grown used to the room, the chairs, the company, everything necessary to finally get real.

  “I love that men can come together and lift each other up,” Brewer said. “And it’s not just about winning. It’s about quality. It’s about doing something really, really well.” He looked at his wife.

  “And hitting people,” she said.

  The men roared. Unused silverware rattled on the table.

  “It’s true!” Natalie Brewer said, her round face reddening happily. “It’s not even a secret. Y’all love hitting people. You say it all the time.”

  “That’s also about quality,” Dave said.

  “Quality hit,” Mitch agreed, thinking suddenly of his dad, who was obsessed with the concept of quality, and who owed him a call. Or maybe it was Mitch who owed Joe a call. It was hard to keep track of that stuff in-season.

  Goldman sat back in his chair. He looked comfortable, even vigorous in his lumpy, unathletic body. “Hits feel good, don’t they?”

  “Not good,” Mitch corrected. “They feel great.” He didn’t mind pulling rank in the moment. This was something he knew about. It was something Goldman did not.

  On reflex, Goldman licked his lips. “What’s a great hit feel like?” he asked, his appetite piqued.

  The players looked at each other.

  “Come on, you know I know, generally.” There was that monkishness again, that deliberate slowness in his voice that somehow commanded respect. “I watch you thump your chests every week. But I want to know how you see it. Paint me a picture.”

  “Go on,” Moore said.

  Mitch shrugged. “It feels…” He closed his eyes, tried to visualize himself in that blinding moment, when you can’t even see the guy you’re hitting, but you know you’ve messed him up. “It feels like the most power you’re ever going to have on this Earth.”

  “Yeah,” Goldman said softly. Then, more emphatically, “Yeah. See, that’s what I’m talking about. I’ve been attending these conferences. Leading minds from around the world talking about science, psychology, creativity—every subject you can imagine. And it’s an important thing, that feeling of power. Comes up again and again. By accident, practically. Except it’s no accident. Same thing happens over and over and pretty soon it’s not an accident, right?”

  “It’s a pattern,” Jennings murmured.

  Goldman’s eyes darkened, turned genius. “That’s right. A pattern.” He looked at his wife. “People want to feel powerful. They also want to feel safe. They want to feel loved. But they want to feel powerful.

  “I ask myself, why do I care if the team wins? To be perfectly honest with you, I make money if the team is popular. The team wins, sure, that helps with popularity. But it’s not the only factor. So why bother with winning? Why care?”

  He looked at them. He seemed to want an actual answer.

  “Because you don’t care about money?” Korenna Jennings asked.

  He laughed and the rest of the table fell in line. “Oh, bless you, sweetheart,” he told her. “Are you that good? I’m not. No one’s that good. But in a sense, of course, you’re right. Because it’s about more than money. It’s about the city. It’s about giving people something to believe in. That’s true for the fans, and it’s true for you guys, too.”

  “Like D’s doing,” Moore said. This time Mitch definitely flinched.

  Goldman perked up. “What’s that?”

  “D—” Moore said, carefully, darting his eyes from Mitch to Goldman then back to his empty plate. “D’Antonio Mars? He’s starting a little thing for the guys. Making videos of us in the locker room, just being ourselves.”

  “Yes.” Goldman nodded himself into comprehension. “That’s exactly right.” He sat back in his chair. “You know, we are lucky in football, because we love it. Most people never get to do what they love. They might not even get a whiff of it. But I think every man here would play for free if I asked him to. If only politicians felt that way. If only teachers did. But they do get paid, and so do you and I. Which means we all lose a little something. It’s not corrupted, necessarily, but it’s a little less pure, right?

  “You mentioned D’Antonio, and it’s a funny thing, because I’m actually something of a filmmaker myself. I get it from my dad. He was a serious man, with rules for everything, which is how he got to be so successful. We were afraid of him, mostly. He would come home after we’d spent the whole afternoon arguing with our mother, trying to see what we could get away with, you know, my brother and my sister and I. And we would think we really had her nailed on something, some point of hypocrisy, like how come we have to go to college when she never did, that kind of thing. And she was always very calm about it. She’d look at us and say, ‘We’ll see what your father has to say about that.’ And sure enough, all he really had to do was show up and we’d think, ‘Never mind, okay, she’s right.’

  “But he had a soft si
de behind that authority. He loved movies, and when Eastman came out with the eight millimeter, he was first in line. This is before I was even born. We have a film of him leaving the synagogue with my mother on their wedding day. Someone else took that. There’s also footage he took of me coming home from the hospital. You might say my entire life has been lived on film. In three-to-four-and-a-half minute pieces.

  “Anyway, I got interested when I was a kid. I had to petition my dad to let me use the camera, and he would say, ‘Write me a proposal,’ which is a pretty good test for a kid to see how bad he wants something. Just about every film I ever made I had to summarize first and explain what I would do. He would review the application and then grant me film and license to use the camera for a stated period. But I wanted it, so I did it. I don’t think I ever had an application turned down.

  “I would make these little adventures. Hero stories, really. I would stage the whole scene in advance, get everything set up, and then make my brother or mother hold the camera while I performed. I always had to be the hero. Wasn’t going to be my little brother. No way. I remember one film, the one I’m most proud of. I still have it. I was obsessed with space. Kennedy had said we were going to land a man on the moon and we were going to do it within ten years. My imagination was just on fire with this idea. Are you kidding me—the moon? That tiny dot?

  “So one day in winter, I’m in my backyard. The grass is dead, no wind, and there’s this feeling of total desolation, everything all flat and gray and small. But it gets me thinking: this is what the moon is like all the time, and how disappointing is that going to be? And suddenly I just have to make a movie. It can’t wait. It can’t get held up in the approvals process. Is my dad going to kill me? Probably. But I don’t have time to worry about that. I have to work while the mood is right. So I just take the camera and get going on my moon story, which is going to be about the first man on the moon—me—and the civilization he builds against all odds.

  “After that a few weeks go by, and somehow, I’ve forgotten about the film. Did I give it to my dad and apologize for breaching our protocol? Did I just leave it for him to find without owning up to what I’d done? I couldn’t tell you. All I remember is being at school one day when the teacher wheels out the film projector and tells us she has a surprise for us. She dims the lights, and a feeling of destiny ripples through me. It had always been my favorite moment in a classroom: the lights dim and we all kind of settle into ourselves. Finally, we are not being watched. Finally, we can watch something interesting. So I have that usual feeling, but I also have an unusual one. I sense, the way we sometimes do, that this is actually all about me. It’s my turn. I’m sure you all know what I’m talking about. It’s such a powerful feeling that it’s almost as though you’ve raced ahead of your body. That’s the only way I can think to describe it. Because I knew, a moment or two before it began, that we were going to be watching my film. My film about the moon.”