The Snap, page 7
The pressroom was jammed. The camera bank aimed at Nate looked like the set of a space epic, and I could see the sweat glistening off his forehead from my spot just beyond the backdrop. Nate’s fingers were white at the tips from gripping the podium. His neck bobbed as he dry-swallowed. In my crisp navy suit, hair pulled back into a complicated ponytail, I forced all thoughts of the note from my mind. This was happening now, I was needed now. I coughed and, at Nate’s reflexive glance, caught his eye. Slowly, I lowered my chin and raised it back up. I would look out for him. I would call on friendly media, trusted media who knew better than to beat him up with tough questions on a day like today. I had his back.
Nate drew in a breath that strained the front of his shirt, then huffed it out straight into the microphone. The assembled reporters cringed as hands flew to ears, and Nate reddened but pushed forward.
“I know you all never expected to see me here,” he said, “and I’ll be very honest with you—I didn’t either. But as we so often tell our players, this is a game of next man up, and we’re all at some point in our lives called upon to take that step.
“Red Guillory was my friend. We coached beside each other for more than ten years, and I consider it a privilege to have watched a man like that up close for so long. As a person and as a coach, he’s set an incredible example that I know all of us will try to live up to every day. I’m sure you folks understand I can’t answer any questions about the circumstances of Coach’s death.” His voice broke on the last word. “There’s not much I understand about it myself, and we’re going to leave all of that to the people who…” He stumbled here, and I nodded, encouraging. “Who do that. What I can talk about is football. We have a room full of young men back there who have worked very hard, and who will continue to work hard. And we’ll be honoring Coach Guillory with that work.”
I couldn’t smile under the circumstances, but I squinted at Nate and nodded once in a way I hoped conveyed that he’d done well—very well. I stepped one foot onto the dais and pointed to a familiar face near the front. “Brian?”
As the press conference rolled on, I stepped back, relieved that Nate was pulling through. Soon enough they’d choose the real coach, and I’d have someone else to figure out, to cater to, to cover for. But for the next little while, Nate was not going to be a problem.
What would my career have looked like if a Nate had been in charge all along? Easier, for sure, because I would have told Nate what to do and he would have done it. No Super Bowls, probably, which would have meant shorter seasons and fewer one-hundred-hour weeks. It would have left more of me to give to the other parts of my life—it would have made it possible to have other parts of my life.
I shook that thought off before it could settle in and make itself comfortable. The truth was I knew in my bones that without Red I wouldn’t be the professional I was today. He had challenged me. He’d pushed me, hard, and I’d learned to live and then thrive under that pressure. Easy was nice, but hard was good, and I, like so many others who’d come through this building under Red’s tenure, had become the strongest, best version of myself because of him.
I owed him.
* * *
*
We lost, obviously.
New York was a strong team, and we were in a tailspin. The play-calling was a mess, with A.J. throwing pass after pass to empty patches of the field while frustrated receivers waved their arms. But that was nothing compared to watching our co-captain, DeMario, stumble and fall mid-stride with no one else around. He lay face-down, pounding the turf with his fist and clutching at his left leg, and a collective oof went through the press box, followed by the sound of twenty writers frantically typing.
“How many things,” groaned Rodney, “are we going to heap onto the giant pile of shit this season is becoming?”
“Look, he’s getting up.” DeMario put each of his arms around a trainer and hopped back to the tunnel, keeping his left leg bent at the knee.
“That’s not up—that’s hoisted.”
I sighed from my toes and twisted around to Chloe, seated in the row behind me. “Go down to the locker room please and see if you can get an update out of the trainers. At least enough to hold everyone over.”
The final score was 46–3, our lone points coming on a field goal against New York’s second-stringers late in the fourth quarter. We were now 1–5 on the season, coachless, and the back half of our schedule was a showcase of the league’s top teams.
“Don’t worry,” I told Coach Nate when I met him on the sideline to escort him to the pressroom. “They’re more interested in DeMario right now than you.”
“Considerate guy. What’s Doc say?”
“ ‘Lower-body injury’—you know the drill. Anything more than that, tell them we’re waiting to get it checked out when we’re back in Syracuse. And don’t get drawn into speculating.”
Normally I would never boss a head coach around like that, but Nate was not quite meeting his blinking quota and seemed a little stunned. Stunned led to sloppy answers, which led to bad quotes, which led to more work for me. The team bus was already running in anticipation of a quick exit, and I needed Nate to mumble through a few stock answers and get on it.
But the very first question was a curveball. It came from Isaac Dorchester, a pocket-sized national writer known for flirting with the line between tabloid and sports, and I never would have called on him. Instead, when I pointed at a local reporter because he looked new and timid, Isaac took advantage of those same qualities to push in front of him and ask his own question.
“I’m hearing Red’s death is now considered suspicious. What can you tell us about him being found with the back of his head bashed in?”
My mouth dropped open. Could one of the girls have…? Nate looked at Isaac like he’d peeled his face off to reveal something putrid, and I recovered myself enough to say, “Okay, we are going to shut this dow—” before Nate cut me off.
“How dare you, sir.” His voice was low and steady. The stunned look was gone, his gaze now locked in on Isaac like a heat-seeking missile. He was drenched in sweat from the effort of coaching his first NFL game. The whistle still hung around his neck, and as he leaned forward it tapped against the microphone, adding a heartbeat to a room otherwise so frozen it seemed to have none. I was appalled—completely appalled that even a bottom-dweller like Isaac would be crass enough to throw something like that out in a nationally televised press conference. Involuntarily, I pictured Red’s thick black hair mottled with blood, Red soaked in red. I imagined pain. Pain and panic as he fell beside the heavy executive desk he liked to drink behind with his feet up. As he waited for help that never came.
It set my teeth chattering, which was my only excuse for not stopping what happened next. For not grabbing Nate and pulling him from the room before he calmly stepped from behind the podium, waded into the press, and punched Isaac Dorchester full in the face.
CHAPTER EIGHT
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
The Bobcats won again on Sunday, and then the next three Sundays, putting them at 5–0. Game 5 was a blowout by halftime, and so Coach’s decision to go for it on fourth and long in the fourth quarter was the first thing Bernie asked about in the presser. “Why pile on like that when you’re already up twenty?”
Coach Guillory’s massive shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I’d say kicking a field goal there is piling on because it’s an automatic three points. If we go for the first down, you know, at least we’re giving them the chance to stop us.”
Brent’s low whistle was lost in the chatter of the room. Coach Guillory smiled as if the whole thing was a joke, but there was a new hardness behind his eyes. A new heat coming off him.
The vibe inside the building changed with the color of the leaves. It was stiffer now, tighter. When a receiver dropped what should have been a long-range touchdown in practice, A.J. upended a cooler, sending a wave of ice and multicolored bottles of sports drink all over the sideline. In his red no-contact jersey he looked like a matador’s cape but acted like the bull. “These fucking busted routes!” he screamed. A ball boy crouched to scoop up the ice, but the safeties coach grabbed him by the collar and yanked just as A.J. drove his foot into the cubes and drilled them into the stands.
The credential requests ticked up with the same frequency as the wins. The team had become a national topic of conversation, and with that came the first whiff of heightened expectations. The daily clips packet of media coverage grew longer. More often than not when I heaved up the stack of newspapers outside the stadium in the mornings, it was Bobcats red staring at me from the place of honor on the back cover. It felt good to win, and the excitement of game days carried us through the grind of the weeks that followed, but now, I noticed, when the final whistle blew the roar of the crowd held more relief than joy. We’d survived another week.
“Congratulations,” I told Coach Guillory when I dropped off his papers. He was hunched over his computer, brows deeply furrowed as he muttered something to himself about stunts, but he flicked two fingers off his brow in a light salute. When he bent his arm, his sleeve rode up to reveal the bottom of what looked like a nicotine patch—a weird contrast with the water bottle full of neon-green liquid celery at the side of his keyboard. Smoking and juicing didn’t exactly go hand in hand, but maybe it was a way to manage some of the stress without actually lighting up.
“Oh hey, Poppy.” I was halfway out the door but spun on my heel. “You know employees are allowed to use the gym downstairs, as long as it’s not during training, right?”
“Oh, no, I didn’t realize that.”
“I can tell you like to take care of your body, and these hours—they’re way too crazy for a regular gym.”
He looked the same as always. Red Bobcats dryfit shirt, elbows on his desk, open, pleasant smile on his rugged face.
I can tell you like to take care of your body.
The back of my neck itched as I played with the beaded bracelets at my wrist. I’d all but ignored Richard’s one-size-larger rule and was wearing flared dress pants and a short-sleeved fitted sweater. Was this a compliment? A little reminder to stick to the dress code?
That easy smile didn’t match what I was reading into it. Someone under the kind of pressure Coach was facing took time out of his day to try to be nice, and I read the worst, darkest meaning into it—like a complete baby. You loser. I made sure my smile back was twice as bright as normal.
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll make sure I get down there soon.”
When I finished the papers, I detoured to the kitchenette for some coffee before going back to my desk, because I needed to shake myself out, to get out from under my constant, suffocating awkwardness. I lingered over the little metal tree of K-cups, walking my fingers over their tops like I knew the difference between Colombian dark roast and breakfast blend. There were mugs for employees in the cupboard, but I stuck to Styrofoam even though its filmy taste transferred to the coffee. I watched the black spill against bright white, quick drips, and then a steady stream. When I drew in a deep breath, the scent of it filled my nose, bringing to mind as it always did memories of my father.
Twice now I’d repeated my experiment with the hair catcher, and twice it found its way back into the drain. Flossie was definitely going into my apartment while I was out.
I’d always known she was a little much, between the obnoxious notes and asking me last week how her “dollhouse” was doing. But knowing for sure she’d been in my private space ruined the appeal of the little apartment. Now I sat on the sofa instead of lying down. I kept my dirty laundry in a pile on the floor of my closet, because I didn’t want the landlord who wasn’t supposed to be in there to think I was messy. And at least when I was home, I knew there was no one currently in the apartment. All day long at work I squeezed my pen, picturing the lock sliding backward, the knob turning, fuzzy pink slippers padding down my hallway. That was my space! The last thing I needed was another mother hovering over me, picking at me. The whole situation was making me weird over things that were actually helpful, the coach, for God’s sake, taking time out to tell me to feel free to use the gym. And I had the nerve to twist that. I carried my coffee to my desk, thinking that as long as I held a cup of steaming liquid, no one would press me against the walls.
After spending a few hours updating the all-time stats lists, I headed into the locker room with the beat writers, eyes up, recorder in hand. Out of habit, I followed the group to A.J.’s locker, which overflowed with supplements and designer freebies stuffed in behind a copy of On the Road. Bernie caught me looking at its creaseless spine and nudged me. “Think that’s a nod to us?”
“To impress you?”
“No—because Kerouac’s a beat writer.”
Brian quipped, “ ‘I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by Madden.’ ”
We quieted down as the interview began. I was straining to hold my recorder close and trying to keep mental notes when someone behind me said, “Hey—Ponytail.”
DeMario Jackson—mercifully in workout shorts—waved me over to his locker. He was a wall of muscle. He looked like he tossed cars around for fun. I hesitated, and Bernie, seeing what was going on, indicated his own recorder and mouthed, I’ve got you. I crinkled my eyes at him and ducked out of the huddle.
“You’re writing that blog?”
DeMario had bright, expressive eyes and a mouth that twisted easily from resting pout to playful smirk. His shoulder-length locs were tied in a low, loose ponytail, and the sleeves of the T-shirt he pulled on fit like blood pressure cuffs.
I stammered. “I—my boss told me—well, Brent—”
“I asked you—you’re writing that blog?” I nodded and he pulled a face. “How’re you going to write a blog that’s my blog and not talk to me about it?” He pulled a printout from his locker and read from it in a high, thin voice, bobbing his head as he spoke. “I’m so excited to play Chicago. The city has a special place in my heart since my college days—” He stopped. “Does that shit sound like me?”
A rush of heat flooded my cheeks, my ears, my neck. I’d told Brent! Hadn’t I said this exact thing? And what was I supposed to say now, that I wouldn’t keep doing what my boss had assigned me to do? “I’m really sorry. I’ll see if I can switch it to another player—”
“I don’t want you to switch it. But include me. Talk to me. We should do it together.”
Now I was completely thrown. “Seriously? Every week?”
“Hey—I’ve got a lot of feelings. You and me are going to blog them out.” He moved his hand back and forth between us. “Blogging buddies.”
“Okay.” I grinned, relieved. “Blogging buddies.”
* * *
*
“How the hell did you get DeMario to do that?” Brent asked after the first joint blog went live. He and I were in the stadium waiting for an ESPN commentator to finish filming her stand-up. Normally this was a solo babysitting job, but with Monday Night Football coming up Brent was in full hovering mode. It was mid-October, one of the first really cold days of the year, and we were both in red Bobcats coats. For once I was grateful for the man-sized team gear, because the enormous coat hung past my knees and helped block out the frigid wind swirling through the stadium.
“I guess…” I grimaced, a mouth shrug. “He’s a fan?”
“Yeah, right.” We laughed, rocking up onto our toes to keep warm. “Good for you, kid, that’s a big get. I can’t believe Coach G gave him the go-ahead.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know about it.”
“Well for God’s sake, don’t tell him.”
A flash of something on the other side of the stadium caught my eye. I squinted across the field—there it was again, one section to the left. Whatever it was moved fast, not in the stadium bowl but inside along the concourse, and each time it passed the rectangular opening to the seats a shock of red split the concrete.
“What the hell…?”
The figure made its way around the end zone, which was when I realized it was James, full-out running.
“Poppy, here you are—come on. We gotta go.”
“Me?” My stomach cramped as I flashed through emergencies. Was there a fire at my apartment? Had something happened to my dad? James held up one hand while he caught his breath, and I steeled myself, straightening my spine and setting my shoulders against whatever I was about to hear.
“It’s Chase—he switched the labels for the Coke and the Diet Coke on the soda machine.”
I started at him blankly. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“He switched them—to be a dick, like he always is. You know that ticket-sales girl is always talking about Atkins and ketosis. He’s down there now watching to see if she drinks the regular soda. You’ve got to go do that, and then we tell him you have a condition that makes you react chemically to high-fructose corn syrup. It crashes your nervous system, I don’t know, you’ll make it up but we prank the prankster. Finally, we get him.”
“James.” I wanted to use the heel of my hand to push his face away from me. He could get away with frat-boy bullshit as the assistant to the GM, but I was the media relations intern. My job was to shut up and stay out of the way, and here James was suggesting, in front of my boss, no less, that I walk away from work to go pull a prank on one of the players. “That’s really obnoxious, and we’re working here.” I turned to Brent, an apology halfway out of my mouth, but stopped when I saw his face.
“Poppy.” His voice had gone hoarse, and he was gazing into the distance with a thousand-yard stare. “Last season I pitched a community event. The offensive line built a playground for inner-city kids. We took pictures of them putting the slide together, hoisting up the swings, burying giant tires in the sand. A month later, I got a notice of suit—thick paper, on legal letterhead—saying the slide had collapsed and killed two kids.”
