Fourth Down Baby: A May-December Romance (32 page)

"
F
oxes
! To me!

I don't care, I may not be a Silver Fox any more, and looking around at the assembled group, I don't recognize any faces, but there are a a few whose names I know, kids who are the little brothers and cousins of my Foxes. Still, it feels great to call out those words again, and as the fifty-odd players in junior high school and the high school gather around, I feel like I'm the one who should be paying for the experience, and not them. Not that I'm making any money off this. The camp fee is for their t-shirts, and any overage goes to the booster club.

It's the feeling of being home again that helps, and yes, taking the two days out of my own training camp in order to do what the team thinks is a purely PR event for a little bit of rest and recovery physically as well. For someone on the line of being cut, something like this could be dangerous, since it’s the last weekend before the first pre-season game, but I'm sure of a slot on the fifty-three-man roster, so I'm happy with things.

"All right, Foxes, good work these past two days. First, I'd like to thank Coach Jackson and the rest of the SLHS staff for letting me come in and work with you guys."

There's a round of polite applause, but I don't expect much more. I run through the rest of my little wrap-up talk, then dismiss the camp, turning it over to Coach Jackson. Walking away, I feel a presence behind me, and I turn to see one of the campers, an intense kid who made an impression as much for his seriousness as he did for the fact that he's totally undersized for his position.

"Excuse me, Mr. Wood?"

I shake my head and smile, chuckling. "Nobody calls me Mr. Wood. Call me Troy—didn't I tell you guys that yesterday?"

"Sorry," the kid says, and I remember the kid's name now. Charlie, Charlie Pride. "I just had a question. Do you have a minute?"

"Sure. What's on your mind?"

"Well," Charlie says, and I can read his mind as he's thinking. He knows the truth, that at five eleven and one ninety, even if he's bulking, Charlie's football career is going to end at Silver Lake High unless he goes on a massive growth spurt sometime during his senior year. He's too short and too small to play offensive or defensive line like he camped for, and he's just a step too slow to play linebacker or defensive back. He might have an outside shot at making a minor school or maybe someone's scout team, but he knows the grim reality—the last ten to twelve games of his playing career are coming up fast.

"Well, I was kind of wondering . . . what's it like with your teammates and such in the pros?"

It's not a question I expect, and I nod my head, needing a moment to form my answer. "It's a lot different," I say, thinking. "First of all, the whole facility is a lot nicer than here, of course. I mean, we've got carpet and everything. But I don't think that's what you're talking about, is it?"

"No," Charlie says, and I'm reminded of some of my former teammates, the ones that I overlooked for too long. Guys like Pete Barkovich, who I found out is getting married to Dani Vaughn when she called me up and invited me to the wedding. "But what's it like between the teammates?"

"Each team's different, or so I've heard," I answer. "Sure, there's a bond, but it's not the same as what you've got here. Some of those guys, the long-term guys, have been with the team for ten years, and we've got one dude who's been with the team for twelve. He started with the team when you were in preschool, and that means he's formed deep bonds with some of those other long-term players. But also, it means that he's seen hundreds of young guys like me come and go. Players get cut, players get traded, players retire. It's strange that in the pros, you could be buddies with a guy one year, and then the very next season, you're lining up across the line from him at the Super Bowl. So there's that. And of course, the money."

"It's a lot, isn't it?" Charlie asks, and I shrug. I haven't really thought about it that much. Contracts are contracts, and I make more than enough money to do what I want to do. It takes me a moment to recall some of the numbers and formulate an answer.

"I guess. If you're worried just about the money, my best advice to you is to hit the books harder than you hit the weights, unlike what I did. I mean, look at it this way. My rookie contract, with signing bonus and before taxes and such, is going to be worth roughly six million dollars if I play it all out and don't re-up at some point. And yeah, that’s a lot of money, I won't play you. But there's a classmate of mine, Cory. He's got a job with an investment bank already, and I've kept up with him on the side. He's the same age I am, and he's already making a hundred twenty-five thousand a year."

"Yeah, but you're making ten times as much," he says, confused.

"For the next few years, sure. In ten years, I'll probably be out of the NFL, and having to make it on my savings, investments, stuff like that. Cory's still going to be growing, and with his brains, he might even retire with more money than me. But anyway, what you were saying about the locker room, that plays a part. It's a job, is what I'm saying. You’ve gotta love it, just to put yourself through the pounding and effort that the game demands at the professional level. But it's still a job. You won't have a tighter team bond than you get with these guys you'll play with this year. Even at Clement, I didn't have it. Anything else?"

"No, thanks. And good luck next week. First pre-season game of the year, right?"

"Right. Good luck to you too, Charlie. See you around."

He jogs off, and Coach Jackson comes up, a little grayer than he was last year, but still the same guy. "You didn't blow smoke up his butt. I appreciate it."

"You know how it is. I want them to be successful, not like . . .”

"Like Russ?" Coach asks quietly. Russ died over the New Year's holidays in a car accident coming back from college. He'd been drunk and lost control of his car on an icy patch of road. I was in the playoffs at the time, so I couldn't come to the funeral, but I visited his grave right afterward. It hurt.

"Yeah," I finally say, then force a smile. "But it's not all bad. Pete and Dani . . . that's pretty cool. Did you get an invitation?"

"Sure did," Coach says, kind of embarrassed. "Seems strange though. I didn't think I made that big an impression on you guys."

"You did," I reply. "But then again, since you're getting the checks as my official agent, I guess you know that, don't you?"

He laughs and shakes his head again. "You know my wife is still just about ready to adopt you because of that? You're paying for my son's college, and a big chunk of my retirement fund.”

“You were there when I needed it. It’s the least I could do. You saved my life, Coach."

"It was my pleasure, Troy," Coach says, then looks at the backs of the retreating players, all of them seeming so young, and it wasn’t even that long ago that I was one of them. "So you're going back to practice tomorrow?"

"Yeah. You know how it is. This first pre-season game is the chance for guys like me to prove we belong in the starting lineup. It's tough on the team. They've got four really good linebackers already, and that crew, they've been together for a few years. I'm not going to be given a spot. I'm going to have to take a spot."

He laughs and pats me on the shoulder. "With an attitude like that, I don't doubt you will. In any case, I'll be watching. I think we all will be."

"Thanks, Coach."

* * *

I
'm feeling
the warmth on my shoulders, even through my jersey and pads, and I feel good as I stretch out before the game. There are butterflies in my stomach, but I know they'll go away as soon as the fans really start filing in and the game gets closer.

"Hey, mister!" a kid calls behind me, and I ignore it, figuring that the kid is trying to get the attention of one of the stars on the team. With a team like ours, you've got a few to choose from. I'm still officially a second stringer, although if I do well this game, maybe I can move up a slot for the next game. Still, the first string defense is taking it easy, and today's my first official start as a pro, even if it is pre-season.

"Hey mister! Number fifty-one!"

I turn, surprised as I see a little blonde girl in the stands, waving to me. I've got time. It's still a half-hour until game time, so I take a moment and walk over. "Hey, what's up?"

"Can I get your autograph?" she asks, thrusting a blue Hawks hat and Sharpie at me. "Mama says you're her favorite player."

"Really?" I reply, touched. "How old are you?"

"I'm five," the little girl says, and there's something about her face, the way she looks, that just seems familiar. It's like I'm looking at a Photoshop of two people that I know, one of those mashups you can see on the Net from time to time, just for some reason, I can't put a name to the faces. "I just turned five, but in a few months, I'm going to be five and a half."

"Really? Congratulations," I say. "You want me to just sign this, or do you want this made out to your mom?"

"Would you? Wow, that'd be great!" the little girl says, and I can start to pick out an accent in her voice, something faint and maybe European. "Mama would love that!"

"Okay, then what's your mama's name?" I ask, switching to the way the little girl talks. "I'll sign it to her, then. And if you have anything else, maybe something for you too?"

"Wow . . .” the little girl breathes, but before she can answer, a man calls out.

"Laurie! Let the man prepare for his match in peace!" The man, who clearly has an Italian accent, says, coming up. He's about my age, maybe a little older, and the way he puts his hand on the girl's shoulder, I'm sure he's her father. Laurie starts to protest when I interrupt, smiling up at the man and waving.

"Oh, it's no problem, it's still warmups," I reply quickly. The man doesn't look convinced, so I know I need to work fast. Seriously, it's a pre-season game. What's he all upset about? I'm the guy playing, and I'm not even this uptight about it. I uncap the Sharpie and get ready to sign for the girl, or her mama, I guess. I don't want to turn her away. She's just too cute. "Laurie here was just going to tell me who to make the hat out to. So, Laurie, what's your mama's name?"

"Whitney," Laurie says, and my pen falters, pausing just before making contact. "Mama's name is Whitney, but I call her Mama."

"I see," I say, forcing my pen to move again. "Well, here you are. 'To Whitney, who has the cutest little girl in the world. Thanks for the support, Troy Wood.' How's that?"

"What's going on?" a voice behind the man says, and my heart stops. Looking up, I see her come down the stairs behind the girl and the man, and it's like I've been caught in a time warp. The face—it's the same beautiful heart shape, with the same gentle bow-like curve to the upper lip. She's got the same little scar on her chin, where she told me that she'd fallen off her bike when she was a little girl and took seven stitches. Her hair's shorter, but still shoulder length and that amazing, lustrous shade of auburn that haunts my dreams, and I can't stop staring.

"Whitney . . .”

Whitney stops and sees me, her own eyes going wide as she looks down on me. Five and a half years, and I feel like I'm back at Silver Lake again, back to the first time we met, except ironically, this time I'm the one on the grass and she's the one in the stands. "Troy. My God, it's good to see you. It's been a long time."

"Very long," I choke out in reply as the man leads Laurie away. Whitney stays behind, and I look up at her, the rest of the stadium forgotten for a moment. "It's . . . it's good to see you."

She's got something in her eyes, and I don't know what, but it's hard to think with so much emotion flowing through me. I feel like the past and the present are crashing together, and I'm having trouble containing myself. "It's good to see you too, Troy. I'm glad you made it . . . the Hawks even. Wow."

"Yeah . . . wow. And you're a mother now. She's a cute kid."

"She's the most important thing in the world to me," Whitney says, glancing back over her shoulder. "She's amazing."

"Amazing," I repeat, and I feel like the breath's been knocked out of me. A mother. Whitney's a mom. "Whitney . . .”

"I need to get to our seats," Whitney says, turning back to me. "It's good to see you, Troy."

She turns to walk up the steps, and I find my voice. "Wait! Whitney, wait!"

She pauses and looks back. I take my chance. "Please, Whitney, I want to talk. Just . . . I really would like to talk."

She considers me for a moment, then nods. "We're having dinner at the Cafe Italiano in town tonight, maybe around seven. Can you make it?"

I know the place. It's not great Italian food, but it works for a town the size of Silver Lake Falls. Screw the post-game press conferences. I can make it. "I may be a little late, but I'll be there."

"All right. Good luck today, Troy. Laurie's really been looking forward to seeing you play."

Whitney walks away, and the public address announce system plays the music that signifies that warm-up time is over. I retreat to the locker room, getting ready for the game. As I finish suiting up, pulling my helmet on and making sure my gloves and shoulder pads are right, the numbers run through my head.