Kid Owner (3 page)

Mr. Markham was accepting a check from the dad while Mr. Simpkin offered back a birth certificate, along with some other papers. They froze at the sight of my mother.

She marched toward them with her arms crossed. “What do you people think you're doing?”

Mr. Simpkin stuttered without really saying anything. Mr. Markham wore that bold smile and let fly with a nasty snort. “These people already signed up. They just came back with the right paperwork. Like I said, we closed it down right before you got here.”

“Mom?” I whispered. “Please.”

My mother didn't hear or didn't care. She went right for Markham, got up in his face, and spoke through clenched teeth. “You can't keep my son off this team and you know it. You get that sign-up sheet back out and put his name on it or you'll have
lawyers swarming you and your little mess of a football league like buzzards on roadkill.”

My mother stared. Mr. Markham stared right back. Neither of them moved and I held my breath. Suddenly, Mr. Markham snorted again and rolled his eyes. “Suit yourself.”

“That's exactly what I plan to do.” She took her checkbook back out of her purse, along with my birth certificate, slapping them down.

The boy and his dad left without further comment. The coaches sat stiff, and what few words they uttered plunked out of their mouths like ice cubes in a plastic cup, hard and cold. As we walked away, the team schedule, fund-raiser forms, and medical permission slips clutched in my mother's hand, she held her head high in triumph.

I stole a glance back at the two coaches, who watched us like unblinking crocodiles, and wondered if, in fact, we'd won anything at all. The idea of playing for coaches who had no interest in having me on their team didn't seem fun at all, let alone smart.

We got back in the truck and my mother looked over at me and chuckled.

“I don't see what's funny. I gotta spend seven days a week with them. They're my coaches, and you just got them steaming mad before I even got my pads on.”

She cranked the wheel of the massive truck and we careered around a corner with tires yipping for mercy. “Don't get between a bear and her cubs. That's the natural order of things. A
mother
fights like nothing else.”

“I don't even know what that means.”

My mom shook her head and I clenched my hands at the
thought of those two coaches making me run laps and do sets of twenty push-ups as punishment for all sorts of imagined violations.

“They can't threaten, bully, or intimidate me in any way, and they know it. They don't want to see my claws. They're afraid of me.”

“Mom, they're the coaches.”

She patted my hand as we pulled into the driveway. “They aren't going to give you a hard time. I promise.”

One of the very few things I can't stand about my mom is that she's pretty much right about everything. She was right about the coaches, too. I wonder if she could have even imagined that them
not
giving me a hard time was about the worst thing they could ever do.

On that first day of Highland football, I had strutted around in my full uniform the moment I got home from school. The only thing I took off for dinner was my helmet. The rest of it came off only after practice, when I gleefully got hosed down by Julian to rinse the mud before I was even allowed in the laundry room. It rained in buckets during that first practice, a big Texas rain, and the coaches had us do bull in the ring right in the middle of a big mud pit down where the field drains off.

I knew what bull in the ring was because I'd heard kids talk about it in school. Everyone would circle up around a single kid. The coach would shout out numbers, and if he shouted your number, you ran full speed at the kid in the middle and
CRASH
.

I remember pulling up to the field after dinner just as the first random sprinkles of rain spotted our windshield, imagining what it would be like to be that bull.

“Oh, I doubt they'll practice when this hits.” My mom waved her hand at the weather out her side window. Towering black clouds climbed over the tops of each other in their haste to get to the Oklahoma border.

“Only if there's lightning they won't.” I had my hand on the door handle already, eager for her to take the truck out of gear so I could jump out.

“I don't see how you can get anything done in rain like
that.
” She pointed and finally put the truck into park.

“It's
football
, Mom,” I shouted back to her, and slammed the door. She'd started to say something more, but I was already gone, sprinting across the field toward my new teammates, some of whom were tossing around a ball as if there were a bright blue sky. I ran up to a few of the guys who lounged by the blocking sled, their arms draped across the big blue canvas blocking dummies like best friends.

“How about that storm coming, huh?” I hated myself for speaking, but in my excitement I felt if I didn't say something, I'd bust wide open.

“It's
football
, Zinna.” Bryan Markham punched the blocking dummy like it was supposed to be me. It rattled and shook and he folded his arms across his chest. “Not
soccer.
”

“I know.” I nodded brightly. “I just said that to my mom.”

Bryan scoffed and muttered under his breath as he snapped his chin strap and walked away. “Your mom.”

Coach Simpkin gave his whistle a blast and without so much as a word, the players all took off for the sideline, running in single file around the perimeter of the field and then spilling out through the goalposts into six perfect columns spaced out every five yards
on the line. I followed and stumbled into place, just doing what everyone else was doing. While my equipment suddenly felt too tight in some spots (like the forehead pad in my helmet) and too loose in others (like my girdle and all its pads drifting down my butt), excitement still won out over discomfort. I had waited so long to be here, and finally, here I was.

I stretched my hamstrings and shoulders and everything else you could stretch, barking out a ten count with the others, thrilled to be a soldier in the football army. The coaches wandered among us like generals, the wind whipping their hair. They wore shorts to their knees and shells for the coming rain. We compressed our columns to the goal line and did agility drills, running out to the twenty-yard line before re-forming and waiting to return. When the first serious drop of rain hit my helmet, I looked around for the person who'd thrown a rock. Then I heard the next tap, then another, until it was a patter that made it hard to hear Coach Simpkin shouting to us all.

“I thought this was gonna happen.” Coach Simpkin cinched the strap of his floppy coaching hat as the rain pounded its brim, his voice already going raspy from raising it. “We got a lot of plays to put in and stuff, but you all know where Coach Markham and I like to go when it rains?”

“The RING!” my teammates cheered as one, already slapping one another's shoulder pads and helmets, giddy with anticipation. Coach Markham had his hood up, a stubby green unlit cigar waggling from between his grinning teeth.

“That's right, bull in the ring!” Coach Simpkin blew his whistle and pointed toward the far edge of the field where the grass dropped off to the drainage grate.

Everyone had cheered—me included, even though I'd never seen it done—and took off in a stampede, the rain pouring down on us in sheets. Just before I disappeared over the lip of the field, I looked back at the parking lot. My mom's King Ranch sat parked facing the field, headlights on, wipers slapping away the rain. I gave a quick wave and thumbs-up to the dark shape behind the windshield where my mother's face had been swallowed up by the gloom.

Then I turned, joyfully, like a lamb to the slaughter, and entered the ring.

I felt like a real football player, with those sheets of rain and the thick mud and everyone focused on chopping his feet to the tune of Coach Simpkin's whistle. We'd chanted in a huge circle, like mad prehistoric warriors, running in place to warm up for the main event. On the whistle, we'd throw ourselves face-first into the mud, then pop right back up. Our sweat mixed with the rain. We gulped for air.

Then, Coach Simpkin pointed to Bryan Markham and shouted, “Markham, bull in the ring!”

Cheers. Markham, growling, sprinted into the center, chopping his feet and spinning in place.

“Get 'em going!” Coach Simpkin followed his cry with a whistle blast.

We all started chopping our feet again, running in place.

“Seventy-three!” the coach shouted through the rain.

A lineman I knew as Big Donny Patterson took off running toward Bryan Markham with the bellow of a crazed water buffalo. Markham spun to face him, crouching and lowering his pads. The two boys smashed into each other, but Markham got his pads beneath Donny. He exploded up and extended his hands, throwing the huge lineman right off his feet to come crashing down in the mud. Everyone went bananas.

So it went, Coach Simpkin calling out numbers, players racing toward the destruction waiting at the center of the ring. After a dozen hits, Coach Simpkin changed the bull to Big Donny. When Jason Simpkin knocked Patterson down, he took over the middle of the ring. Then another player took out Jason Simpkin and so it went, each player taking a turn in the center until he was defeated.

Except me.

I'd checked the number on my jersey several times: twenty-three. A number I couldn't associate with any NFL player or college star, past or present. I kept my feet chugging, staying ready, believing after each impact that Coach Simpkin would call out my number on the very next turn. Finally, I raised my hand. Teammates around me were huffing and puffing, groaning and growling.

Coach Simpkin had looked right at me, but only smiled and winked. I'd thought about just running out there and hitting someone on my own, but it was my first day, and I knew there must be some kind of initiation I must have missed before I'd be allowed to join the fray.

The drill finally ended and we marched back up the hill for more practice. I caught up to Coach Simpkin and tugged at the sleeve of his Windbreaker.

“Coach? How come I couldn't get a turn?”

“Hey, Ryan.” Coach Simpkin swept the raindrops from his face with one hand. “Oh, you'll get plenty, don't worry about that. We've got to ease you into this. You just watch and get a feel for things. That's the best way.”

I felt relieved at that news, and so I watched and waited while the raindrops danced on the surface of the puddles like popping corn.

The team did tackling drills and blocking drills.

The only things I
was
allowed to do was hit dummies or foam pads and run—run through obstacles, run laps, run sprints, run forward, sideways, and backward.

That lasted a week, and at the end, I asked Coach Simpkin again. He smiled and patted my shoulder pads and suggested patience. I watched and waited a few more practices, and then a strange thing happened, something I can't explain. Something I'm ashamed to admit.

I don't know if those two coaches did it to me, or if it was just growing up in a house where physical violence was the only thing worse than an F-word. I began to
fear
hitting. I'd stopped asking to be put into full-contact drills, not because I didn't think they'd listen but because I didn't
want
to go in. I'd grown accustomed to being the shell of a football player. And no one, not even the mean kids like Bryan Markham and Big Donny Patterson, ever said a word to me. They'd tease other players for shying away, or getting knocked off their feet, but me they ignored. And I was okay with that, because I didn't
want
to hit or, most of all,
be
hit.

They let me be on the team. My teammates even let me sit with them at lunch in the elementary school cafeteria if one of the regular guys was sick or something. When that happened, I'd nod my head in agreement when they all talked big about how we'd smash whoever was our upcoming opponent. (Of course,
I'd never talk about smashing anyone.) I wore my jersey on Fridays like everyone else. My teammates would nod to me when we passed in the halls. And for the next four years, I got to collect the golden statue awarded to our championship team at the end-of-season banquets, same as the rest. I don't think any of our other classmates suspected I was anything but a full-blown Highland Knights football player.

My mom had no idea either because I'd even gotten some playing time. I was no starter, but our team was so good that we rarely went into the fourth quarter fewer than four touchdowns ahead of whoever we were playing. That's when Coach Simpkin emptied the bench, putting the less skilled players into the game to get their taste. Me they sent out as the Z wide receiver, where I could stand away from the rest of the crowd. Occasionally, I'd have to run a pass pattern, always a go route, straight up the field, no chance to hit or be hit.

And it was in this way that Coaches Simpkin and Markham coaxed me into a state of complete and total cowardice. I was further from a football player than if I'd never put the pads on. It went on for four years, until a few months ago, when we graduated from the Highland Knights to middle-school football.

Now, everything's changed.

PRESENT . . .

My alarm woke me and for a few seconds, I didn't even know where I was.

It all came back quickly, though—crashing down on me: the father I never knew was now gone.

Exhausted from my sleepless night, I got dressed and went downstairs. My mom sat quietly at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, reading the news on her tablet. When I sat down, she put it aside with the half a grapefruit she hadn't touched. Teresa asked me if I wanted eggs. I said yes, strongly aware that my mother was watching me. Her eyes looked tired and her mouth sagged.

“What?” I asked.

“I'm going to the funeral later today.”

I paused a moment and picked up my fork, even though I had nothing to use it on yet. “Why are you telling me?”

“Because I'm not taking you,” she said. “It'll be a zoo—your father knew many, many people. Plus, you have practice anyway. I know you won't want to miss that, right?”

I shifted in my seat. It wasn't like she was even giving me the option, and I wanted to protest, but something in her eyes kept me quiet. “Well, Jackson is coming home with me after practice. Can you pick me up?”

“If I can't, Julian will. Jackson is welcome anytime. You know that.”

I shrugged. “I don't know what I know,” I mumbled. It was as much of a protest as I felt comfortable with.

“You don't need to know,” she said. “Trust me.”

Trust her? I trusted her about not needing to know my dad and now he was gone. Part of me wanted to scream, but I buried it and went to school in a daze. After practice, it was my mom who picked us up, and after a short swim, Jackson's mom arrived to take him home.

“You're welcome to join us for dinner,” my mom said to his mom.

“You're too kind, but I made a tuna casserole that's waiting for us,” replied Jackson's mom.

Before he left, Jackson pulled me aside. “You okay, Ry? You're acting too quiet, even for you.”

“Yeah, sure,” I said. I don't know why, but I still hadn't told him about my dad.

He gave me a doubtful look, then shrugged. “Okay.”

I watched them pull away, then returned to the kitchen.
Teresa had dinner all out on the table. My mom sat with a napkin in her lap, sipping iced tea and watching me closely. I wasn't going to ask about the funeral. Something in me refused to make a fuss. It wasn't until halfway through dinner when my mom cleared her throat to speak.

“You're going to have to leave practice early tomorrow.”

An alarm went off in my brain. “What? Mom, I can't just leave practice early.”

“I'll talk to your coach, Coach Hubbard,” she said. “You don't have a choice.”

I dropped my fork and it clanged off my plate. Missing football practice wasn't something you just did. “What do you mean? Why?”

I watched her face turn red and then she scowled. “Am I not your mother?”

“I can't miss practice.”

“For this you can.”

“For what?” I wanted to know.

My mother made a fist and brought it down the way a judge hammers his bench with a gavel. Everything shook. The silverware jingled and even Teresa froze with a pot in her hands at the kitchen sink. “If I knew for certain, I'd say it, Ryan, but I don't know. Let's just say that it has to do with your father and leave it at that, shall we?”

The tone of her voice didn't allow for anything other than total agreement.