The Penalty for Holding

by Georgette Gouveia

  Blaine Mahr was there for the coin toss, relishing his moment back in the limelight, even if it was only a moment. And for that moment, the officials were all fan-boys with man-crushes. Laughter and back slaps all-around.

  "Now, Blaine, none of that," one said, laughing, as Blaine flubbed the coin toss and they started over.

  The Miners’ captains had called “tails,” and tails it was. Luck: So much of life seemed to be luck, didn’t it? Quinn thought, particularly beginner's luck. Win the toss and control the game at the outset—at least in theory. The Miners chose to start on offense.

  "Good pitching stops good hitting. A good defense stops a good offense." It's all Quinn and his teammates had heard all week—from Smalley, from the media, from the "experts," folks who had never read The Iliad or followed Alexander to Persia. Well, we shall see, won't we? Quinn thought.

  "I'm going to bury that mutha," Jeremiah was saying, pounding his right hand into his left fist, and Quinn winced, as he did not want to see Tam buried. But he couldn’t let him win, even though Tam remained his heart, his love, his own. They were combatants now. If the Temps could hold the Miners in the opening gambit, they would win. It was really as simple and as complicated as that, Quinn thought.

  Tam threw a perfect spiral for a first down, but on the next play, the Temps’ D brought him down hard. "Yeah," Lleyton said pumping his fist in the air as he noted the play on the chart. (Had there ever been a more enthusiastic note-taker? Quinn wondered.) He scanned the throng, uselessly searching for Aunt Sarah and her crowd, out there somewhere. He looked up into the VIP boxes for no particular reason—except perhaps to avert his eyes from the sight of Tam on the ground—and spied Daniel Reiner-Kahn with Alí Iskandar. Daniel had changed a lot in the years since Dylan died. He'd filled out a bit, becoming more corporate, even on the ultimate casual Sunday. Alí, whom Quinn had never met in person but talked to once on the phone for a grant from Reiner-Kahn's Ani Foundation for the orphanage, was stunningly ascetic in all black. Quinn could see Dani gesture out to the field, Alí following his gaze, smiling. They looked, Quinn thought with a rueful smile, to be very much in love.

  That could be you and me, Tam, could've been, should've been, would've been but for my ability to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory, Quinn brooded. He couldn’t think about it anymore. He and the offense were on the field. He crossed himself swiftly, inconspicuously and said a silent prayer to Aunt Lena. "Have courage, and…" He didn’t feel courageous, but he couldn’t care about that either. Too much was riding on this—the welfare of his teammates, the pride of his adopted city and, at last, his revenge on Smalley, who had been hounding the team all week, unlike Tam’s paternalistic coach. No matter. A bad Daddy had his uses, too.

  "Krakatoa, Krakatoa," Quinn shouted to the team over the roar of competing Miners and Temps’ fans.

  "What's this crack stuff?" Greg would say when Quinn first became starting QB. Now they knew "Krakatoa" was the call for a feint play that was always changing. This time the Temps would seem to go right but actually break left—that was if everyone wasn’t too nervous to remember, for this was a game like no other and the Temps were a younger, less experienced team than the Miners. Perhaps they had Lleyton's fearless ignorance. Perhaps not. We shall see right now, won't we? Quinn thought.

  He took the snap from between Austin's legs—was there a more homoerotic game than football?—and looked to throw right but actually broke left. He checked to see if Greg was open, but the Miners were on him like a pack of dogs. Quinn felt a tug on his uniform but eluded it and took off running—into the past, into the Jakarta of his dreams, into the arms of the lover he lost, into a time when he was happy and free.

  In the end zone, he knelt, rose and crossed himself in the one graceful gesture that had become his signature. He caught Lleyton whirling about as if conducting the now dominating Temps’ fans as they sang Amazing. Quinn looked up at Dani and Alí, who were standing, clapping, Alí's cane resting against his left leg. The touchdown and their support warmed him and, for the first time in a long time, he felt less alone.

  But Tam answered with a beautiful touchdown pass, and the Temps headed into halftime down 10-7—which Quinn thought was brilliant. They were, after all, in their first Super Bowl and were hanging with the defending champs no less. Things looked good for the second half. All in all, the mood was upbeat.

  Until the Temps entered the locker room, and Smalley opened his fat mouth.

  "That second quarter was an absolute disgrace," he screamed. "What is sport about? Anyone? No, you're too fucking faggot stupid to know, so I'll tell you. The Big Mo—momentum—and you just killed ours, didn't you? Didn't you?"

  Quinn could see the players' eyes glazing over with fear and contempt. He had to stop the Big Mo—the one that had swung over to this narcissistic bully—now.

  "We've done nothing of the kind," Quinn said. "We've played the best team in football and perhaps the greatest quarterback of all time almost to a draw, and we’re well-positioned for the second half."

  "Is that how you see it?"

  "Yes, that's how I see it."

  "If the game ended right now, we would 've lost."

  "And if I were a woman, I could have a baby, but I'm not and I can't. The game isn't over, far from it. We're in striking distance. We can win this. We will win this."

  "Well, I'm not surprised to hear you say that since you're the reason we're in this mess. If Lance were here—"

  "Oh, please. Lance? He never scored anywhere but in the bedroom. He never took you further than fourth place. What, are you in love with him?"

  "You are so gone, mister, after this season."

  "Maybe. But for now, I'm the starting quarterback of the New York Templars and the leader of this team. Guys, we can do this. We will do this. Who is like us?"

  "No one," they shouted, rising as one.

  "Who is like me?" Quinn asked.

  "No one," they cried as they ran back out onto the field after the halftime show, which featured a former teen pop star on the redemptive comeback trail.

  "There's your answer, Smalley," Quinn said with a grin, emphasizing the "Small" in his name.

  He played lights out now. All the Temps did. There was something about cold white anger that was just so bracing, he thought.

  It was brutal though. It had started to snow—the possibility of which had produced much hand-ringing throughout Super Bowl Week. Now that what everyone feared had actually happened, it seemed right, the season's stinging cold and relentless snow, sleet and rain—should that be snain?—providing the perfect backdrop for a game that was more Battle of the Bulge than sport.

  The Temps clawed for every yard, the cold making the clash of bone on bone, metal on metal, bite even more. The Miners managed a field goal. It was 13-7 now and late in the evening.

  "One touchdown. One touchdown," Quinn shouted. "That's all we need."

  Please, he prayed to the D—or the God of D—hold them and give us one more chance. One more chance.

  When the Temps got it, Quinn was brought down by one of the Miners’ new guys—Casey Kasmerek, his old tormentor from his Stanford days. Did Quinn conveniently forget that the Miners had picked him up? Didn't matter. It was fitting, ironic, ironically fitting and fittingly ironic. Quinn should've expected it. It was payback time for what happened earlier. Still, it was exceptionally cruel, as Kasmerek "accidentally" kicked Quinn—not once but twice. The crowd gasped and Quinn’s brain, which had been traveling forward, seemed as if it would burst through his skull and helmet to go on forever. He must’ve been momentarily stunned, he thought, for it took him a while to react as he was helped off the field. On the sidelines, Dr. Ian Zingracz—the neurologist assigned to the team under the NFL's anti-concussion program—was all solicitousness.

  "I'm fine," Quinn said as Dr. Ian peered into his eyes with a light that really hurt.

  "Starling," Smalley screamed, "get your ass in there."

  But after getting th
e team a second down, Lleyton was sacked, his collarbone broken.

  "I can do it. Let me up," he cried. It was clear, though, that he was in terrible pain, couldn’t move his throwing arm, and was having trouble breathing.

  "Off with you," Quinn said, refusing to let him say anymore. "When we next see you, you'll be a Super Bowl champ. No, really. Thank you for everything, Lleyton, but it's time for you to get that attended to and for me to finish up.

  "Please," Quinn pleaded with Dr. Ian, "I'm OK. I was just a little shaken up. I can do this. There's no else who can." In truth—the truth Quinn surely wouldn't have admitted even to myself—he was feeling a little disoriented, as if he were moving underwater. He tried to shake it off. Focus, he told myself. Just a few more minutes—a few long, short minutes and seven points that were the margin between victory and defeat. He threw a couple of passes that inched the Temps deeper into Miners' territory. I need a miracle here, God, Quinn said to himself. Finally, he saw Derrick open and connected. And Derrick ran and ran, falling on his backside into the end zone, cradling the ball even as one of the Miners’ defensemen tried to pry it loose. But that's how some victories are crafted, Quinn thought, ass-backward. Needless to say, the Temps got the extra point.

  One point. One point was the margin between victory and defeat, a win and a loss.

  Confetti: Quinn remembered the confetti in the team colors, and then red, white and blue, such a waste and a mess, he thought, all that paper, like cut flowers. But flowers are beautiful, aren't they? Quinn couldn’t take it all in and, though he should’ve been happy, he was finding it hard to feel any joy.

  There was a swarm of players, reporters, cameramen, family, well-wishers. I must remain poised, Quinn thought, smiling for the curtain calls.

  "Is it everything you imagined?" a SNN field reporter asked. Remember the answer-a-question-with-a-word-in-the-question rule.

  "Everything," Quinn said, smiling.

  Brenna grabbed him. "Congratulations. You so deserve this," she said. "Are you all right?"

  "Fine. Fine. Just trying to absorb it all."

  Finally, Quinn spied Tam. They couldn’t avoid this moment on national TV, though Quinn would’ve given anything for the earth to swallow him whole right then. He hesitated but Tam—devastation written on his face—wrapped him in a bear hug.

  "So close, so close," Tam whispered in Quinn’s ear. Was he talking about the game or something else?

  "I loved you," Tam said. "I always will." And with that, he was gone. And Quinn was the one left devastated as he wrapped his arms around cold metal instead, the MVP trophy. Jimmy Jones Jefferson tried to pull him into a photo with Jeff Sylvan and Smalley, but Quinn stepped back to let them enjoy the spotlight. He did enough for them. He didn’t have to pretend to love them as well.

  For the postgame press conference, Quinn dressed carefully, sharply in a black suit with a black turtleneck and black boots. The look matched his mood. Must keep it together, though, he kept willing himself.

  Difficult. The questions were interminable, dumber and more unrelenting than on Media Day.

  "Is there anyone in particular you'd like to thank?"

  "Yes," he said, "I'd like to thank my teammates. And one more person, who is no longer with us—my Aunt Lena. She delivered me into a brilliant life and I'd like to dedicate my MVP trophy to her."

  There was, however, always one Wicked Fairy at the party.

  "Quinn, do you think this championship and your MVP go a long way to dispelling the rumors that the team may still deal you once Lance returns?"

  Nothing was ever enough, was it? It wasn't for his parents. It wasn't for his surrogate football daddies. It wasn't for Mal or even Tam. I will never be able to do enough, be enough for anyone, Quinn thought.

  He looked out at the room before answering, realizing that nothing would ever be any different, and he was suddenly tired, no, overwhelmed with exhaustion.

  "I can't," Quinn said. "I can't do this anymore."

  And that was the last thing he remembered before waking up in a darkened hospital room—with Tam sitting on the bed, touching his cheek as he turned away.

  Twenty-Three

  Darkness, dreaming, darkly dreaming: He was in the water again, Eagles Airline Flight 2095 having gone down over the North Pacific, again. Drowning, sinking deep into the black water, then resurging, fighting for air, being baptized as it were, being born again.

  "You're going to be all right, son," the flight officer said, offering a hand, a lifeline. "You're going to make it."

  But he could barely hear him, screaming as he was for Aunt Lena, howling in pain.

  We die with the dying:

  See, they depart, and we go with them.

  We are born with the dead:

  See, they return, and bring us with them.

  He was in a dark room, trying to remember the rest of T.S. Eliot’s The Four Quartets, which he once knew by heart—Brit Lit, Stanford. "We die with the dying…"

  Was he dead and born again in the hereafter or in some institution in the here and now? Tam was sitting on his bed, caressing his cheek. And he turned away as if scalded by his touch. We die with the dying…

  What came after those four key lines? Panic: He couldn't remember and, worse, he couldn't remember anything after telling reporters, "I can't do this anymore."

  Why was Tam here and how long had he been here?

  "Good morning. And how are we today?" A nurse, maddeningly chipper.

  "Oh, wonderful. You?"

  She moved to raise the shade.

  "No," Quinn cried, tenting his eyes with his left arm. "Shut out the light. I can't. I can't."

  "It's all right. It's all right," she said soothingly. A hand patted his right arm. A stronger hand stroked his raised left one—Tam's.

  "The doctor will be in in a moment." Footsteps beating a hasty retreat.

  "How are you, Quinn?" A male voice, suddenly familiar.

  "Dr. Matthew?"

  Dr. Matthew smiled. "Yes, Quinn, I'm here. I'm on the case. The minute I saw you collapse on TV, I drove here as fast as I could. You'd be amazed what strings fame can pull. You're the new prince of America, Quinn. Everyone's very worried about you. Do you know where you are?"

  In Hell, Quinn thought, but said, "I think in a hospital."

  "That's right. And do you remember what happened?"

  "I was at a press conference. I remember I was talking."

  "Good. Do you remember what you said?"

  "I think I said something about how I couldn't do this anymore."

  "Bravo. Do you remember anything after that?"

  Quinn shook his head.

  "OK," Dr. Matthew said. "OK, rest. And you are?" he added, turning his attention to Tam. "What a silly question. Of course, I know who you are. You're the one who got away—from Philly, I mean. I'm from Philly."

  Introductions, handshakes, smiles. Then Dr. Matt turned from fandom to doctoring. "Would you mind stepping outside for a moment?"

  Tam's face was a kaleidoscope of anxiety, concern, hurt, guilt, misery. Tam pressed Quinn's arm. "I'll be right out there."

  When he left, Dr. Matthew's smile faded, and he closed the bed curtains around them like a cocoon. "OK, tell me if this is the one who's been doing these things to you, and I'll have him arrested right now."

  "No, no," Quinn cried. "Please. He's the other—the one I loved and lost." See, doctor, we die with the dying…

  "It doesn't seem to me that you've lost him at all. Quite the opposite: He's here with you now."

  Tam was not only there. He had apparently put a rose-gold band with a prominent ruby on the ring finger of Quinn's left hand. He felt something nubby inside—an inscription and another smaller ruby. In the East, Quinn knew, rubies were thought to have healing power. He tried to read the inscription, but his head hurt from the effort.

  When had he and Tam become engaged? Had they always been engaged? He wanted to scream. He wanted to run.

  "Can I get y
ou anything, my love?" Tam said when he returned, tousling Quinn’s hair. He pulled away.

  I must stay calm and try to remember, Quinn thought. But in his mind, he was running.

  Twenty-four

  Heart like a river; like this river, Quinn thought, frozen with shards of snow-covered ice.

  He was staring out at the Hudson through the scrim of a light beige shade, even the buttery winter sun being too strong for his eyes. Or maybe it was too strong for his brain and his mind. Was the mind the same as the brain? Did the mind cease to exist when the brain did, or did it go on in the Great Somewhere? In the weeks after Quinn left the hospital, while others were negotiating contracts, hitting the gym or vowing to come back stronger, faster—whatever sounded good in the press—he and Tam had, unbeknown to anyone, settled into domesticity in Quinn's Lower Manhattan loft.

  This is what it must be like to be loved, Quinn thought, as he sat by the window in his sweats, ski cap, hoodie, booties and fingerless gloves and Tam surrounded him with throws and pillows. Someone asking if you want cocoa. Someone kissing your forehead just because. Someone reading with and to you. Someone holding your hand and rubbing your palm as you ate in silence, because there was both too much to say and nothing left to.

  They had never been a couple and now they were living together, but Quinn guessed they weren't the first to find themselves in such a situation. It's just that Quinn had always imagined that the circumstances would be different. They would get to know each other first, then one day there would be an engagement with decisions about households and mundane things like china patterns. This seemed so rushed with so many questions left unanswered. Was Tam there partly because he felt responsible for the Miners takedown that led to Quinn’s concussion? Then again, weren’t Tam and the Miners just doing their jobs? Could Tam really love the man who had defeated him and was now his chief rival?