Given that the barns are constructed of what is essentially fire starter, it’s no wonder that when one of these barns catches fire, it makes quite an impression. There’s a very short window to stop it before it gets out of control. Within seconds, it can turn into a raging blaze. Best thing to do is back up and watch the show. You’ll seldom see its equal.
The aroma of manure, tobacco, earth, and turpentine, delivered in the suffocating packaging of humidity and heat, filled and reminded me as I walked in. It’d been a long time. And while the memories were sweet, they paled in comparison to those hanging inside.
Filling one third of the barn were posters, awards, plaques, game balls, jerseys, newspaper articles, every form of memorabilia ever associated with my career had been found, bought, uncovered, purchased, or stolen and hung on the inside walls, where it was accessible and viewable by absolutely no one other than Wood and Coach Ray. I climbed the rafters, rising in the heat, and hung the lantern. Thirty feet off the ground, I straddled the beam and viewed in amazement my own private hall of fame. One wall was covered in the WELCOME TO GARDI—HOME OF MATTHEW “THE ROCKET” RISING sign stolen from the city limits. On the ground below me, covered in dirt and manure, lay the head of my bronze statue, along with pieces of arms and elbows. I had no idea where this stuff had come from, who had collected it, and had never seen most of it, but sitting there I felt thrust back into a world from which I’d been banished and that I’d tried to forget.
I climbed another twenty feet to the top of the rafters and stared out the vents. The world around me was dark. Quiet. In the distance beyond the cabin, a train sounded. One of the things I’d always loved about Audrey was her resolve. Relentless and unwavering. But now that resolve was aimed at me, and rather than fighting for me, she was fighting me.
Below me, the door squeaked. A tall figure stepped into the lantern’s umbrella of light. He looked up and found me hanging in the rafters. “Mr. Rising? Sir?” The voice was young, deep, male, and I didn’t recognize it. I climbed down and dropped onto the dirt before him. Nearly eye level with me, his large hands held a well-worn football. He asked again. “Mr. Rising, sir?”
He was dressed in the uniform of St. Bernard’s. White button-down. Shirttail tucked in. Belt. Dark-blue pants. Tie. A good-looking, handsome kid. His skin color suggested that one of his parents was black and the other white. His features were distinct, chiseled, not much fat on him, pretty muscled.
He extended his hand. “Sir, my name is Dalton Rogers.”
I shook his hand. “Matthew.” His grip was strong, firm, and calloused.
He got right to the point. “Sir, I need some help.”
I glanced out the barn door. “Kid, they can put me back in jail for having this conversation.”
“Sir, I’ll sign a waiver or whatever. You can put me on video saying that I came to you. Do whatever. I just know that I need to fix a few things and Sister Lynn, she always said—”
“Sister who?”
“Sister Lynn. She always said that if you weren’t in prison, you’d be the best coach I could ever find, and now that you’re out and, well—”
Audrey’s middle name is Lynn.
I glanced down the road leading back to the cabin and on through the gate where the boom trucks were parked. “And what would you have me do for you?”
He mimicked a throwing motion with his right arm. “Help me.”
“Why?”
He tried to find an answer and couldn’t. “Sir, I’m—I don’t know. I just—I’d like to play in college and, since last season, things have gone from bad to worse, or even real bad. I can’t seem to—”
“I can’t help you.”
He looked confused. Like the person he was talking to didn’t match the image that someone else had created in his head. “But you said—”
“I said what?”
“You said you’d love to coach one day.”
My eyes narrowed. “When?”
He looked up above me, then at me. “After the Texas game, your sophomore year. And then when you beat Louisiana in Death Valley. You said after your pro career, or if one didn’t pan out, that you’d—”
He was right. I had said that, but the interviews he spoke of were fifteen years old and films of them weren’t just lying around. “Where’d you see these interviews?”
He pointed toward the school.
It wasn’t out of the ordinary that St. Bernard’s would have film of me. I wouldn’t be surprised if they still had all my high school films, but that’s high school. Not college. There’d be no reason for them to have film of me that contained both the game and postgame interviews. Unless someone donated them.
“You’ve watched film of me?”
Not feeling the need to say more, he simply nodded. “All your high school games.” Another nod. Followed by, “And college.”
“You’ve seen a few of my college films?”
He shook his head. “No. All of them.” A pause. “Maybe a hundred times.”
“You’ve seen my college films a hundred times?”
He nodded matter-of-factly. “Yes, sir. Sister Lynn and me. She—” He chuckled at what he thought was an embarrassing admission. “She loves football, and knows a pretty good bit about it too. She lets me into the archive at school and she’s even watched them with me, but she doesn’t let me check them out. She makes me watch them right there.”
After that one visit at the prison, Audrey disappeared, along with everything we owned—including the $27,000 left in our checking account. I had always assumed that she had emptied our house and pitched my belongings, including my film library, in the nearest Dumpster.
“You two have watched my films together?”
He nodded matter-of-factly.
“For how long?”
He held out his hand, level with the ground, about waist high. “Long as I can remember.”
I tested him. Starting off easy. “Who did we play third game of my freshman season?”
“Mississippi State. 42–20. You threw six TDs.”
“Junior year, what play did we use to start the fifth game of the season?”
He smiled. “Quarterback sneak. The safeties were playing twenty deep, so you audibled at the line and went eighty yards. 52–0.”
“Last play of my career?”
“Twenty back fade storm deep sticky weak.” He held up a finger. “Except Roderick Penzell ran a fade and not a post, which there’s no way for him to know that unless you read it in the defense and called it at the line, but the film doesn’t show that too well.”
He’s right. I had called it but not at the line. Only Roddy, Wood, and I knew the truth.
He continued. “Mr. Kneels asked you about that pass in your last interview before your arrest. And Sister Lynn—” He dropped his eyes and wouldn’t look at me. “Your wife.” He made eye contact. “She talked about it, too.” He turned, almost embarrassed. “And so did Roddy in a later interview, after you’d been locked up and he was playing with the Steelers.”
“You’ve done your homework.”
“Sister Lynn isn’t really a sister, but that’s what we all call her. She made me promise not to tell anyone about her, and you, ’cause… well, she just did and I never have. That is, until just now.” He tucked the ball beneath his arm. “Will you help me?”
I wanted to. I really did. I lifted my pant leg.
“Can’t.” I walked out in front of him. The thought of him living in my shadow for one second longer bothered me. I turned. “Can I give you one piece of advice?”
“Sure.”
“You’d do well to remember that I didn’t make me. All that stuff—I was just being me.”
He smirked. “You said the same thing to Jim Kneels.”
“True then. True now. Good luck to you.” I left him alone in the dark of the barn and returned to the cabin, where I kept looking over my shoulder. I laid awake a long time.
CHAPTER TWELVE
It w
as four a.m. when the boards squeaked on the front porch, followed by a petite figure opening and closing the door. The figure remained silent for several minutes, staring over at me. Then, she tiptoed to the side of my bed. I was awake because I’d never gone to sleep. Audrey’s light footsteps betrayed her, as did her breathing, the angle of her shoulder, the lines of her cheek, and the pale reflection shining from underneath her sweatshirt hood.
I broke the long silence. “Hey.”
My voice had not startled her. She stood over me. Breathing down. Hands in her pockets. “Dee needs your help.”
I sat up. The only light in the room came from a streetlight.
“Sounds like he’s got pretty good help.”
“I’ve done all I can. He needs you.”
“Honey, I can’t help that kid.”
She paused. Her tone changed. More venomous. “I’m not your honey.”
I let it go. I lifted my ankle. Even in the dark, the protrusion of the anklet was visible. “Even if I wanted—”
She crossed her arms. “Sure you can.”
“You do it.”
“Can’t.”
“Why not?”
She slowed her speech. “I don’t know how. His throwing motion is a mess, and it starts in his head.”
“Based on what little I’ve seen, you’re correct.”
“So you’ve seen him?”
The surreal nature of this discussion struck me. “Audrey, after twelve years in prison, there are a few other things I’d like us to talk about before we take up the case of Dalton Rogers.”
“Answer my question.”
“Yes, I’ve seen him. Ray and I watched him from top of the Bucket.”
“So you’ll help him?”
“If I get anywhere near that kid, they’ll put me back in prison for the rest of my life.”
“Nobody will ever know.”
“So you want me to lie?”
“You’re pretty good at it.”
“Aud—”
“I want you to help Dee’s dreams come true.”
“What about mine?”
She stepped back, distancing herself from me. “Yours are dead. His don’t have to be. He’s got a legitimate shot.”
“I cannot do this. I won’t. I’m not going back in there.”
She stepped closer. Leaning down over me. Inches from my face. “I don’t know what you thought would happen when you got out. That you’d waltz back into my life and we’d settle down? Pick up where we left off?” She held up her ringless left hand. “Your life with me is over. Finished. We’re done. Has been since the trial. Since the draft.”
“Audrey—I’m here for you. Not Dalton. Not anyone else.”
She cut me off. “You can’t have me.”
“Then why should I help you?”
“He was four when I met him. His mother dropped him off and never looked back.” She turned, quartering away. “He’s the son you never gave me.” She turned back. Facing me. Eyes narrowed. “Matthew, I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. You owe me.”
“Even though spending one second with that kid of my own volition will land me back in prison?”
“Even though.”
“Why’d you never divorce me?”
“Doesn’t really matter.”
“I spent twelve years lying on my back, rotting, waiting for anything. A phone call. Letter. Visit. Divorce papers. I wondered every time the mail cart squeaked down the ward if today would be the day. But that day never came. So yeah, it matters. Why didn’t you ever contact me?” My voice rose. “Nothing. No contact for twelve years. I saw the videos. I get it. Even I would’ve thought it was me. But no matter what you think of me, I deserve more than your backside walking away.”
She chuckled and almost said something but snuffed it at the last minute.
The silence moved in. Neither spoke. She began to mumble under her breath, carrying on a conversation with herself, and both sides were angry. Slowly, she reached up and pointed. “You want redemption?”
“Yes.”
She said it again. Slower. “Do you want redemption?”
“Yes.”
She walked to the door, opened it, and stood, her back to me. “Help Dee.” She took a step, then stopped. “We’re done. Have been. But maybe by helping him, you can salvage something of what remains of your pathetic excuse for a life. And in the process, maybe he can become what you never were.” She looked over her shoulder. “You owe me that. And… you owe you that.”
I stood, speaking softly, “Will he listen to me?”
She had not expected the sight of me in the moonlight. My body in boxers. My scars evident. Her eyes quickly fell to them, then her resolve returned and the steel rod reinserted itself into her spine. “He’ll do everything you tell him.” She paused. “And more.”
I stopped her. “One condition.”
She waited.
“You’re present at every workout. You don’t show… I don’t coach.”
A question surfaced on the tip of her tongue. Something she’d wanted to ask. Her eyes quickly glanced at my scars, then back at me. “You were…” Her voice faded. “Stabbed?”
“Twice.”
A pause. Another glance. “Were you scared?”
“I don’t really remember. It happened pretty fast.”
“Did you suffer?”
“Not as much as being there.”
She stood several seconds, finally speaking. “Matthew—” Her eyes were cold and tired and the window to her soul was closing. “They gave you twelve years. That’s all.” She shook her head. “I got life without parole.”
Turning away, hiding her face, she stepped through the door and pulled it closed.
I stood in the shadows and peered around the bleachers. He walked onto the field at daylight. Audrey stood alongside. I knew I’d better make this quick, so I pulled the hood of my sweatshirt up over my head and jogged onto the field. He saw me coming and met me on the twenty yard line. Before he said a word, I started. “We work out twice a day. Six and six. You’ve got eight weeks until the season starts, and we’ve got a lot of work to do.” He nodded and smiled. “But before you get giddy, a couple of rules.”
He stopped tossing the ball in the air.
“You do what I say, when I say it, every time I say it, as soon as I say it. Got it?”
He nodded.
“You give me any flack, argue with me, or offer me some lame excuse and—” I pointed at the trail leading back through the trees to the junkyard. “I’m gone. And ‘please give me another chance’ won’t bring me back.” I pointed at the ground on which we stood. “This is your chance right here.”
He nodded again. “Yes, sir.”
“And stop this ‘yes, sir’ crap. I’m old enough to be your dad, but you don’t have to rub it in.”
“Yes, sir.”
Whatever that is, that ability to respond quickly and do exactly the thing I’d just told him not to do—but do it with jest and a fun amount of playful disrespect—great quarterbacks need that. And he had it in spades. It’s a built-in level of self-assuredness and self-confidence that you can’t coach. They also need to be able to roll with the punches. Coach Ray once said the same is true with all the great racehorses—it’s either there or it’s not. The trainers’ job is to take a fast horse with all the tools and make him faster. And every now and then you find a horse that has all the tools, and all the possibilities, and then you add some honest self-confidence bubbling just beneath the surface, and, well—I liked this kid from that moment. I turned to Audrey. “Can I ask a favor of you?”
Her lips moved but there was no emotion in it. “You can ask.”
“You mind running by the Army-Navy?”
She shook her head. “I don’t mind.”
“You know his shoe size?”
She nodded.
I turned back to Dee and lifted my sweat pants, exposing my ankle. “I need your word that you’ll never tell anyon
e, not a soul, that we’re doing this. You do and they’ll put me back in prison. I’d like to avoid that.”
“You have my word.”
Audrey stepped up alongside. “He won’t. I’ll see to that.”
I stepped closer to him. Inches from his face. I pointed at Audrey. “Just so we’re clear, I’m here for her. Not you. She’s your ticket. I don’t care how much you beg me, if she’s not here, you’re on your own.”
“But that’s outside of my control.”
I turned and started walking away. “Life’s like that. Better get used to it.”
He tossed the ball and hit me square in the back. “I’ve got a question for you.”
I stopped but didn’t turn. I was starting to like this kid even more.
“How do I know you’re still any good? How do I know you can help me?”
The sun was just breaking the tree line. Standing on the twenty, I picked up the ball, dropped two steps, and launched the ball toward the far end zone. While Dee watched the ball spiral through the air, I whispered to Audrey, “Just because they let you out, doesn’t make you free.” The ball split the uprights midway up, some ninety-two yards away. Dee’s eyes grew to the size of Oreos. I shoved my hands in my pockets and began walking away. “And we can’t work out here. I’m not allowed to step foot on this grass.” I pointed at the junkyard. “Don’t be late.”
In all this time, Audrey’s eyes never watched the ball. Her eyes never left me.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It was a Thursday night. Two weeks shy of Christmas. The ring-throwing issue with Ginger had faded and, while still red, the scar above my eye had healed. In characteristic tenderness, Audrey had smiled and said, “Chicks dig scars.”
A Life Intercepted Page 11