Just A Game

by Dustin Stevens

  “Now it was going on dawn when we made it into the house and the folks were already awake and sitting around the table,” Rich continued. “We marched right in, dog tired and smelling like hell, and told the folks what we intended to do.”

  Lyle paused for a moment, then spoke in a very quiet voice. “Daddy would not hear of it. Told us that the one thing he looked forward to each and every week was getting to come down to the stadium and watch us play ball.”

  “And that he’d be damned if we were going to miss our senior year on his watch,” Rich added.

  “We’re telling you all this not to make anybody feel sorry for us or to sound like a sob story,” Lyle said. “We’re telling it so you understand what it means to us.”

  “And what it should mean to you,” Rich said. “Whether you guys realize it or not, the joy of a lot of people is tied to us walking out on that field every week.”

  “That’s a responsibility we take very seriously, and I hope it has shown this year,” Lyle said.

  “And we hope it’s a responsibility you guys embrace and take seriously moving forward as well,” Rich said.

  The two nodded and returned to their seats as the room applauded.

  Goldie looked at Clay, puffed his cheeks and raised his eyebrows. Without waiting for the clapping to fade away he pushed himself up from his seat and walked to the front of the room.

  “Hey everybody,” he began, “as you all know, it’s me, Goldie.”

  The room broke into laughter, guys shaking their head as their chests bounced with deep chuckles.

  Goldie chuckled a few times himself and said, “As you guys all know I have a habit of not knowing when to shut up, unless you get me in front of a room of people, and then it’s kind of tough getting me to speak.

  “I guess, like Matt, basically I just want to thank a lot of people. First the coaches, for taking a chance on me, putting me out there each week. Even back when I was a scrawny sophomore that barely ever went the right way, you guys stuck by me and made a player out of me. I appreciate it.

  “Second to the senior class,” he turned and addressed them as he spoke, “it’s been a hell of a ride guys. But we’ve still got one week left.”

  He turned back to the team and said, “And I’d like to thank all of you.

  “It’s no secret that I’m not exactly Einstein, or Tom Brady, or Brad Pitt…well, maybe Brad Pitt,” he said as the room erupted again, this time with cat calls and wolf whistles.

  Goldie grinned and said, “The fact is, I’m just a good old boy. A good old boy from a small town that likes playing ball and having fun, and that’s what this year has been for me. I couldn’t ask for anything more and I thank you all for making that happen.” He paused as if to add something else, but bit it off, nodded to the room and headed for his seat.

  Applause arose from the room as Goldie took his seat beside Clay. “Where’d that come from?” Clay asked.

  “What happened, I just blacked out,” Goldie said, a sly grin across his face.

  Clay smiled, stood and walked towards the front. Things seemed to slow down for a few moments as the laughter died away and he took his place at the head of the room.

  Every week he played in front of a few thousand people and never thought anything of it. Tonight, standing here though, he felt every last pair of eyes on him.

  “For the last week now, I’ve been running through my head all the things that I might say up here tonight. Trying to find the words to put into context what playing football here in Huntsville means to me and has meant over the years. I’ll probably forget some things and I may ramble a bit, so I ask you up front to please bear with me.

  “Several days ago I was talking to my brother about what went through his mind as his senior season wound down. I asked him if it was different knowing he was going to the playoffs and not knowing if any given week would be his last. He told me that every person that has ever played ball knows the end is coming, whether they choose to admit it or not.

  “Up until a week ago, I had never really admitted it. I’d like to say I never thought about it, but the truth is I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want to concede that it would all end one day.

  “Over the last six days, I’ve been paying special attention to everything going on around me, trying to figure out why that was.”

  He paused for a moment, drawing in a deep breath. “Last summer I was sitting on the front porch with Pop talking about this season and I asked him if he had any advice. All he said to me was ‘Son, the ones who are great are those who learn to enjoy the struggle.’

  “I remember looking at him a few times and wondering what the hell that meant, but I never had the nerve to ask him. But this last week, opening my eyes and taking in everything around me, I think I finally figured out what he was saying.

  “A lot of the guys have already touched on it up here tonight, but what I’ve come to understand this week is that this is much, much larger than just a team playing ball. This is a group of guys that have grown up together, and have seen each other through the best and worst of times. It’s about a town that looks to us, that derives a great deal of its identity from what we do out there on Friday nights.

  “Now to some people that may seem foolish. They may wonder why anybody would willingly sign up for something like that.

  “To me, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I embrace talking to the Killer B’s at Formaggio’s and having people recognize us around town, having the pastor give us a special shout out at church and being the joy that helps people get through their week. I consider myself blessed to have grown up with such great people around me and to having my identity linked to the collective efforts of the town I come from.”

  Clay paused and looked down at his shoes for a moment before lifting his gaze back to the room. “I don’t mean to short shift anybody up here. Coach Stanson, Coach Bellick, staff, I thank you for all you do day in and day out for us. Seriously, I appreciate it.

  “Senior class, I can’t thank you enough for the last, well, eighteen years. Everything from running out together on Friday nights to sitting in the locker room on Saturdays and listening to stories of whatever skank Goldie took home the night before. I thank you for all of it.”

  A round of laughter broke out, but Clay continued forward anyway.

  “But most of all, if you guys take anything away from this, let it be the best piece of advice I ever received. Learn to enjoy the struggle. I just told you what that means to me and for each one of you it will mean something different. But I urge you to find whatever that is and embrace it. You won’t be sorry.

  "Thank you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The gravel crunched beneath Clay’s feet as he headed past his truck and through the tunnel towards the stadium. He walked onto the edge of the grass and skirted the field, heading straight for the visiting bleachers.

  He dug his cell phone out of his pocket and hit speed dial three, then pressed the phone to his ear as he continued to walk.

  Chelsie answered on the third ring. “Hey there, how’d it go?”

  “It went pretty well,” Clay said. “Everybody was surprisingly good.”

  “Everybody?” Chelsie questioned.

  “Yeah, everybody. Nobody got too far out of their comfort zone, nobody said anything they may later regret.”

  “Well good. And yours went well?”

  “Yeah, I think so. The guys all told me it was one of the best they’d heard.”

  “Of course it was,” Chelsie agreed. “My man’s quiet a smooth talker.”

  Clay smiled and said, “Hey, I don’t suppose this smooth talker could persuade you into joining me down at the stadium?”

  Silence filled the line for several moments. “I don’t think I can tonight Clay.”

  “Is everything alright?” Clay asked as he reached the far edge of the grass and looped through the gate on the visitor’s side.

  “Um, yeah, I just can’t
come out tonight.”

  Clay smirked, shaking his head at her reaction. “Alright. I guess I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Please don’t be mad, I just can’t tonight.”

  “Naw, it’s fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He snapped his phone shut and trudged up the stairs along the side of the bleachers, weighing each of his steps as he ascended.

  “Don’t be mad at her,” a familiar voice said from the darkness above. “I asked her to tell you she couldn’t come as a favor to me.”

  Clay’s head shot up to find the long, thick frame of his brother stretched across two rows of the bleachers in the seat Clay was headed for. “Well I’ll be damned. What are you doing here?”

  Colt stood as Clay hurried up the stairs and the brothers slapped hands and moved into a shoulder hug.

  “All we have on Fridays are meetings, so I told Coach it was a family emergency and made the drive back,” Colt said.

  Clay snorted and said, “This counts as a family emergency?”

  “Doesn’t it?” Colt asked, raising an eyebrow as the brothers took a seat next to each other.

  Clay weighed the question and smiled, shaking his head. “Maybe until an hour or two ago, but then things just kind of clicked.”

  “You made peace with it,” Colt said.

  “Yeah, I did,” Clay said, sighing.

  Colt turned to him and nodded. “So you figured out what ‘learn to enjoy the struggle’ meant for you?”

  Clay’s jaw dropped open before a slow smile spread across his face. “Pop.”

  “Pop,” Colt said, mirth in his tone. “The old man’s a lot sharper than we sometimes give him credit for. He never says too much, and he never says it unless we’re ready to hear it.”

  Clay laughed and shook his head in agreement.

  “So, first things first. You hungry?” Colt asked.

  “Yeah, somewhat. That same spaghetti they’ve been serving for years is a nice gesture, it’s just not a very good dinner.”

  “I thought you might say that,” Colt said and reached down for a black Indiana gym bag on the bleachers by his feet. He drew it up on to the seat beside him and unzipped it as the smell of grilled meat and melted cheese poured out.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Clay said, leaning forward to see what was inside the bag.

  “It is indeed,” Colt said. “Two Hoosier Daddy subs from the Bulldog.”

  The Bulldog was a pizza and sandwich dive that Colt and Clay found when out exploring in Bloomington two summers before. They stumbled across the place after getting into town late and the little Greek man behind the counter insisted that the Hoosier Daddy was what they wanted. Grilled chicken, onions, mushrooms and peppers with melted provolone on a freshly baked hoagie roll that was served piping hot.

  “I know you’re a little bit of a girl with what you eat,” Colt said, “you think you can handle this the night before a game?”

  “Bring it here, smartass,” Clay said, holding his hand out for the sub.

  Colt laughed and passed him the sandwich, followed by a Gatorade. “I even told Marco this was for you and to wrap it up extra well because it would be a while before we ate.”

  “Mighty nice of you both,” Clay said as he tore open one end and started in on the sandwich.

  Colt did the same and said with a full mouth, “And let me tell you, smelling these the whole way back without eating them both was no easy task.”

  Clay held the sandwich up and said, “Much appreciated” before taking another enormous bite.

  “So how long you back for?” Clay asked.

  “Until about this time tomorrow,” Colt said. “I’ll head back the minute the game is over, get in around midnight.”

  “Coaches won’t be happy with that,” Clay said.

  “Eh, what they don’t know won’t hurt them. We don’t play until seven Saturday night, so we’re staying in our own rooms. I can sleep in that morning. Besides, you know as well as I do that I’ve never had a problem getting up for a game.”

  “This is true,” Clay said, thinking back to his brother bouncing off the walls hours before games.

  Clay finished off the sandwich and crumpled the aluminum foil into a ball. “So what’s it like? Playing college ball?”

  Colt finished the last of his sandwich as well and took a long pull on his Gatorade. “It’s a job.”

  “How’s that?” Clay asked, turning his head to look over at his brother.

  “It’s not like this,” Colt said, waving a hand towards the field. “This, this was fun. We were good. Everybody loved us.”

  Clay’s eyes bulged a bit. “And it’s not even better there?”

  “Not even close,” Colt said. “The first thing you learn in college football is everyone is dispensable. Everybody treats you like a replaceable part in a machine. And really, that’s all you are.”

  “So you don’t like football anymore?” Clay asked.

  Colt exhaled, pushing his breath out in a long slow manner. “I didn’t say that. It’s just, different now.”

  “How so?”

  “See, here football is revered. Not because we’re all so great but because the town loves it, lives and dies with it, derives its identity from it. Get what I’m saying?”

  Clay thought back to his speech just a short while before and smiled. “Definitely.”

  “There, you’re a number. The team’s not very good, it’s a basketball school. The professors hate the football team and think we’re a bunch of Neanderthals that don’t deserve to be there.”

  Clay was certain it was the only time anybody had ever called his brother a Neanderthal, but he said nothing.

  “I guess what I’m saying is, when you play in high school you love football. When you play in college, you respect football but you’ll never love it again.”

  Clay let out a low shrill whistle and continued staring over the field. “Favorite memory?”

  Colt smiled and said, “You mean besides lighting you up for Senior Hit Day?”

  “Shoot, you barely even touched me,” Clay countered.

  Truth be told it was still the hardest he’d ever been hit, though he would never admit that to his brother.

  “Oh, okay,” Colt said, raising his eyebrows in sync with the words. “Let’s see, favorite memory. Lots of random stuff. The smell of the locker room, the sound of the gravel, the feel of the lights. If I had to pick one thing though, it would be Friday nights after the games. The four of us sprawled out in the living room, Mama making food, watching the scoreboard show on Channel 10 with Pop.”

  Clay thought back and smiled. At the time he’d still been terrified of the post-game Critique, though in truth he’d barely played enough that year for it to matter.

  “How about you?” Colt asked.

  Clay pursed his lips and thought about it for a second and said, “Tomorrow night.”

  Colt smiled and stood, stretching his arms high above his head. “Good answer. It’s getting cold, what say we go surprise Mama?”

  Clay stood beside him and said, “Yeah, the folks will throw a party when they realize the favorite’s home.”

  “The favorite hasn’t left yet. You know, the quarterback, the golden boy.”

  “Ah hell, here we go,” Clay said, following Colt down one step at a time.

  Together they walked towards the open gate and across the back of the end zone, turning as they reached the opposite sideline and gazing across the field.

  Then, without a word, they turned and walked through the tunnel towards the parking lot.

  Friday

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  A lot of the bigger schools had uniforms made by Reebok or Nike, jerseys that were specially designed to fit tight over shoulder pads and had elastic in the sleeves to keep them snug around the arms. Some even had jerseys with names and numbers sewn on them, made of heavy mesh and canvas.

  Those were schools with big budgets and boosters that could cover such e
xpenses just by writing a check. Huntsville was no such school and had no such benefactors.

  The jerseys they wore were purchased eight years prior. The ones before that had been around since the early eighties and finally had to be retired when the state changed the rules mandating that jerseys at least reach a player’s waistband.

  Clay pulled his blue and gold number eight over his head and tugged at the neck and sleeves to get it to sit right over his white ribbed tank top. The year before he had cut two small slits into the hem around the sleeves and wound a shoestring through them. The strings hung down along the inside of his biceps and he bunched the sleeves just enough to tie them, then tucked them under.

  Goldie had done the same thing with his, but as an excuse to tie his as high and tight to his shoulders as he could. Clay did it so his sleeves wouldn’t get in the way when he threw the ball, he could care less about how it looked walking down the hall.

  The smell of bacon wafted up the stairwell and he could hear voices downstairs as he stood in front of the mirror and checked the reflection of himself in the blue jersey and jeans for the last time. He then smiled and shook his head at how sentimental he was being and headed downstairs.

  “I still can’t believe you just showed up like that!” Beth Anne said as she scooped pieces of bacon out of the frying pan and onto a plate lined with paper towels.

  “The coaches going to be pissed you’re here?” Pop asked, swooping in and sniping a piece of bacon.

  “Naw, I told them I had to get home for an emergency and would be back tonight. They were cool with it,” Colt replied.

  “Good,” Pop said, nabbing another piece, “one game’s not worth getting in trouble over.”

  “This is hardly one game,” Colt replied. He saw Clay enter the kitchen and said, “This is the night our very own Clay Hendricks makes high school football history!”

  Clay smiled and tossed his gym bag on the floor by the table. “Got that right.”

  “Oh yeah, how you going to do that?” Pop asked, taking more bacon from the plate.