Patterson,” he said again, grinning. “You know, I went to Hamilton years ago. Played ball, too. Great school. Best in the city. By the way, the name is Tom. Tom Clarkston. I’m an attorney.” He winked at me. “If you ever need anything, you just call me up.”
Preston’s mom offered me a glass of water, which I accepted. “Thank you.” I wondered how many ambulances Tom had chased in his career.
Preston’s mom sat on the other couch. “So, how long have you and Preston known each other? I’m afraid he’s not much of a talker.”
I felt like I was being interrogated, but nicely. “A little while. We met in the guidance office. I’m horrible at math, and he’s really smart. Actually, like a genius or something.”
Tom crossed his ankle over his knee, fiddling with the leather tassel on his shoe. “So, Stick, tell me about the season. It looks like you’ll nab the title again. Great team, great team. Even read you might have some scholarships coming your way.” He nodded like he was going to endow me with some sort of old-guy wisdom. And of course, he did. “You just be picky, huh? To be the best, you’ve got to go with the best. Definitely stay West Coast, though,” he said, then leaned over and patted Preston’s mom’s knee. “Better-looking women, you know?”
I drank the water, remembering that Preston and his mother came from Chicago. “Thanks,” I said, then looked at Preston’s mom. “You don’t know where Preston is, then?”
Tom straightened his neck, glancing at Diane with a glint in his eye. “Didn’t he say something about playing with his little comic book things?” He grinned at me. “Hey, Stick, you still play with dolls?”
Diane cleared her throat. “Tom, please.”
He nodded. “Fine, Diane, but you know how I feel about it. It’s just not normal. What is he, fifteen? And he still pretends? Hell, I was working at a burger joint and smashing offensive linemen into the turf when I was his age.” He winked again, smug and satisfied. “Defensive lineman. I was the guy going after your quarterback.”
I wondered what it would be like to hook a car battery to his testicles and pull the switch, and I could easily imagine that Preston hated his guts. “Yeah, I’ve heard that’s what defensive linemen do.”
“You know, I’ve got a thousand dollars on the Saxons winning this week. Pretty big money, huh?”
“That’s awesome, sir.” I gave him a nod. “In fact, if I were you, I’d put two thousand on it.”
He slapped the arm of the recliner again. “That’s what I like. Confidence. I’m going to do just that.”
I turned to Preston’s mom. “I’d better get going. Could you tell Preston I stopped by?”
She stood, smiling at me. “Yes. And it’s nice meeting you, Brett. Maybe we could have you over for dinner sometime?”
“Sure. That sounds great.” I walked to the door.
Tom called out from the living room, “You take care of those hands, boy. They’re golden!”
M y dad was sitting in one of the chairs on our front porch when I got home. It was a bit after five. A half-empty beer sat on the little table next to him, and he held a football in his hands.
I walked up the steps. “Hi.”
He stared at the lawn. “You said you missed playing catch. Like we used to.”
“Yeah.”
He stood and tossed me the ball. “Well, then, come on. Let’s play.”
It took a second for me to register that he was serious, but when I did, I brightened. He’d listened. Finally. I set my pack down and we spread out on the grass, just like we used to. Start close to warm up, then move back farther and farther. He lobbed the ball to me, stretching his arm. “How was school?”
I threw it back. “Weird.”
He took a step back, throwing me a wobbly spiral. “Figured it would be.”
I caught it, the skin of the ball warm in my hands. We’d do this after school all the time before things got serious. Just him and me, throwing and catching and talking. I
Preston’s mom offered me a glass of water, which I accepted. “Thank you.” I wondered how many ambulances Tom had chased in his career.
Preston’s mom sat on the other couch. “So, how long have you and Preston known each other? I’m afraid he’s not much of a talker.”
I felt like I was being interrogated, but nicely. “A little while. We met in the guidance office. I’m horrible at math, and he’s really smart. Actually, like a genius or something.”
Tom crossed his ankle over his knee, fiddling with the leather tassel on his shoe. “So, Stick, tell me about the season. It looks like you’ll nab the title again. Great team, great team. Even read you might have some scholarships coming your way.” He nodded like he was going to endow me with some sort of old-guy wisdom. And of course, he did. “You just be picky, huh? To be the best, you’ve got to go with the best. Definitely stay West Coast, though,” he said, then leaned over and patted Preston’s mom’s knee. “Better-looking women, you know?”
I drank the water, remembering that Preston and his mother came from Chicago. “Thanks,” I said, then looked at Preston’s mom. “You don’t know where Preston is, then?”
Tom straightened his neck, glancing at Diane with a glint in his eye. “Didn’t he say something about playing with his little comic book things?” He grinned at me. “Hey, Stick, you still play with dolls?”
Diane cleared her throat. “Tom, please.”
He nodded. “Fine, Diane, but you know how I feel about it. It’s just not normal. What is he, fifteen? And he still pretends? Hell, I was working at a burger joint and smashing offensive linemen into the turf when I was his age.” He winked again, smug and satisfied. “Defensive lineman. I was the guy going after your quarterback.”
I wondered what it would be like to hook a car battery to his testicles and pull the switch, and I could easily imagine that Preston hated his guts. “Yeah, I’ve heard that’s what defensive linemen do.”
“You know, I’ve got a thousand dollars on the Saxons winning this week. Pretty big money, huh?”
“That’s awesome, sir.” I gave him a nod. “In fact, if I were you, I’d put two thousand on it.”
He slapped the arm of the recliner again. “That’s what I like. Confidence. I’m going to do just that.”
I turned to Preston’s mom. “I’d better get going. Could you tell Preston I stopped by?”
She stood, smiling at me. “Yes. And it’s nice meeting you, Brett. Maybe we could have you over for dinner sometime?”
“Sure. That sounds great.” I walked to the door.
Tom called out from the living room, “You take care of those hands, boy. They’re golden!”
M y dad was sitting in one of the chairs on our front porch when I got home. It was a bit after five. A half-empty beer sat on the little table next to him, and he held a football in his hands.
I walked up the steps. “Hi.”
He stared at the lawn. “You said you missed playing catch. Like we used to.”
“Yeah.”
He stood and tossed me the ball. “Well, then, come on. Let’s play.”
It took a second for me to register that he was serious, but when I did, I brightened. He’d listened. Finally. I set my pack down and we spread out on the grass, just like we used to. Start close to warm up, then move back farther and farther. He lobbed the ball to me, stretching his arm. “How was school?”
I threw it back. “Weird.”
He took a step back, throwing me a wobbly spiral. “Figured it would be.”
I caught it, the skin of the ball warm in my hands. We’d do this after school all the time before things got serious. Just him and me, throwing and catching and talking. I
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