The Silver Linings Playbook (13 page)

“I’m sorry,” I say. I’m so, so sorry.”

“For
what?”
Jake laughs, pulls out his cell phone, dials a number, and holds the small phone up to his ear.

“I found him,” Jake says into the phone. “Yeah, tell him.”

Jake hands me the phone. I put it up to my ear.

“Is this Rocky Balboa?”

I recognize the voice as Scott’s.

“Listen, the asshole you knocked out—well, he woke up and is super pissed. Better not come back to the tent.”

“Is he okay?” I ask.

“You should be more worried about yourself.”

“Why?”

“We played dumb when the cops showed up, and no one was able to identify you or your brother—but ever since five-o left, the big guy’s been searching the parking lot, looking for you. Whatever you do, don’t come back here, because this Giants fan’s hellbent on revenge.”

I hand the phone back to Jake, feeling somewhat relieved to know I did not seriously hurt Steve, but also feeling numb—because I lost control again. Plus, I’m a little afraid of the Giants fan.

“So, are we going home now?” I ask Jake when he finishes talking to Scott.

“Home? Are you kiddin’ me?” he says, and we start walking back toward the Linc.

When I don’t say anything for a long time, my brother asks if I’m okay.

I’m not okay, but I don’t say so.

“Listen, that asshole attacked you and threw me to the ground. You only defended your family,” Jake says. “You should be proud. You were the
hero.”

Even though I was defending my brother, even though I did not seriously hurt the Giants fan, I don’t feel proud at all. I feel guilty. I should be locked up again in the bad place. I feel as though Dr. Timbers was right about me—that I don’t belong in the real world, because I am uncontrollable and dangerous. But of course I do not say this to Jake, mostly because he has never been locked up and doesn’t understand what it feels like to lose control, and he only wants to watch the football game now, and none of this means anything to him, because he has never been married and he has never lost someone like Nikki and he is not trying to improve his life at all, because he doesn’t ever feel the war that
goes on in my chest every single fucking day—the chemical explosions that light up my skull like the Fourth of July and the awful needs and impulses and …

Outside the Linc, masses form thick lines, and with hundreds of other fans, we wait to be frisked. I don’t remember being frisked at the Vet. I wonder when it became necessary to frisk people at NFL games, but I do not ask Jake, because he is now singing “Fly, Eagles, Fly” with hundreds of other drunken Eagles fans.

After we are frisked, we climb the steps and have our tickets scanned, and then we are inside of Lincoln Financial Field. People everywhere—it’s like a hive full of green bees, and the buzz is deafening. We often have to turn sideways just to squeeze between people as we walk the concourse to get to our section. I follow Jake, worrying about getting separated, because I would be lost for sure.

We hit the men’s room, and Jake gets everyone inside to sing the Eagles fight song again. The lines for the urinals are long, and I am amazed that no one pees in the sinks, because at the Vet—at least up in the 700 Level—all sinks were used as extra urinals.

When we finally get to our seats, we are in the end zone, only twenty or so rows up from the field.

“How did you get such good tickets?” I ask Jake.

“I know a guy,” he replies, and smiles proudly.

Scott is already seated, and he congratulates me on my fight, saying, “You knocked that fucking Giants fan
out cold!”
which makes me feel awful again.

Jake and Scott high-five just about everyone in the section, and as the other fans call Scott and my brother by name, it becomes obvious that they are quite popular here.

When the beer man comes around, Scott buys us a round, and
I am amazed to find a cup holder in the seat in front of me. You would never see such a luxury item at the Vet.

Just before the Eagles’ players are announced, clips from the Rocky movies are shown on the huge screens at each end of the field—Rocky running by the old Navy Yard, Rocky punching sides of beef in the meat locker, Rocky running up the steps of the art museum—and Jake and Scott keep saying, “That’s you. That’s you,” until I worry that someone will hear them, understand that I just fought the Giants fan in the parking lot, and tell the police to take me back to the bad place.

When the Eagles’ starting lineup is announced, fireworks explode and cheerleaders kick and everyone is standing and Jake keeps on pounding my back with his hand and strangers are high-fiving me, and suddenly I stop thinking about my fight in the parking lot. I begin to think about my dad watching the game in our family room—my mother serving him buffalo wings and pizza and beers, hoping the Eagles win just so her husband will be in a good mood for a week. I again wonder if my dad will start talking to me at night if the Eagles pull out a victory today, and suddenly it’s kickoff and I am cheering as if my life depends on the outcome of the game.

The Giants score first, but the Eagles answer with a touchdown of their own, after which the whole stadium sings the fight song—punctuated by the Eagles chant—with deafening pride.

Late in the first quarter, Hank Baskett gets his first catch of his NFL career—a twenty-five-yarder. Everyone in our section high-fives me and pats me on the back because I am wearing my official Hank Baskett jersey, and I smile at my brother because he gave me such a great present.

The game is all Eagles after that, and at the start of the fourth quarter the Eagles are up 24–7. Jake and Scott are so happy, and I
am beginning to imagine the conversation I am going to have with my father when I get home—how proud he will be of my yelling whenever Eli Manning was trying to call a play.

But then the Giants score seventeen unanswered points in the fourth quarter, and the Philadelphia fans are shocked.

In overtime, Plaxico Burress goes up and over Sheldon Brown in the end zone, and the Giants leave Philadelphia with a win.

It is awful to watch.

Outside of the Linc, Scott says, “Better not come back to the tent. That asshole will be there waiting, for sure.”

So we say goodbye to Scott and follow the masses to the subway entrance.

Jake has tokens. We go through the turnstiles, descend underground, and push our way onto an already packed subway car. People yell, “No room!” but Jake mashes his body in between the other bodies and then pulls me in too. My brother’s chest is against my back; strangers are smashed against my arms. The doors finally close, and my nose is almost touching the glass window.

The smell of beer resurfacing through everyone’s sweat glands is pungent.

I don’t like being this close to so many strangers, but I don’t say anything, and soon we are at City Hall.

After we exit the train, we spin another turnstile, climb up into center city, and begin walking down Market Street, past the old department stores and the new hotels and The Gallery.

“You wanna see my apartment?” Jake asks when we get to the Eighth and Market PATCO stop, which is where I can hop a train over the Ben Franklin Bridge to Collingswood.

I do want to see Jake’s apartment, but I am tired and anxious to get home so I can do a little lifting before bed. I ask if I might see it some other time.

“Sure,” he says. “It’s good to have you back, brother. You were a true Eagles fan today.”

I nod.

“Tell Dad the Birds will bounce back next week against San Fran.”

I nod again.

My brother surprises me by giving me a two-armed hug and saying, “I love you, bro. Thanks for getting my back in the parking lot.”

I tell him that I love him too, and then he is walking down Market Street singing “Fly, Eagles, Fly” at the top of his lungs.

I descend underground, insert the five my mother gave me into the change machine, buy a ticket, stick it into the turnstile, descend more stairs, hit the waiting platform, and begin to think about that little kid in the Giants jersey. How hard did he cry when he realized his father had been knocked out? Did the kid even get to see the game? A few other men in Eagles jerseys are sitting on the chrome benches. Each nods sympathetically at me when they see my Hank Baskett jersey. One man at the far end of the platform yells, “Goddamn fucking Birds!” and then kicks a metal trash can. Another man standing next to me shakes his head and whispers, “Goddamn fucking Birds.”

When the train comes, I choose to stand just inside the doors, and as the train slides across the dusk sky, over the Delaware River, across the Ben Franklin Bridge, I look at the city skyline, and—again—I start to think about that kid crying. I feel so awful when I think about that little kid.

I get off the train at Collingswood, walk across the open-air platform and down the steps, stick my card into the turnstile machine, and then jog home.

My mother is sitting in the family room, sipping tea. “How’s Dad?” I ask.

She shakes her head and points at the TV.

The screen is cracked so that it looks like a spiderweb. “What happened?”

“Your father smashed the screen with the reading lamp.”

“Because the Eagles lost?”

“No, actually. He did it when the Giants tied the game at the end of the fourth quarter. Your father had to watch the Eagles blow the game on the bedroom television,” Mom says. “How’s your brother?”

“Fine,” I say. “Where’s Dad?”

“In his office.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry your team lost,” Mom says, just to be nice, I know.

“It’s okay,” I answer, and then go down into the basement, where I lift weights for hours and try to forget about that little Giants fan crying, but I still can’t get the kid out of my mind.

For whatever reason I fall asleep on the rug that covers part of the basement floor. In my dreams the fight happens again and again, only instead of the Giants fan bringing a kid to the game, the Giants fan brings Nikki, and she too is wearing a Giants jersey. Every time I knock the big guy out, Nikki pushes through the crowd, cradles Steve’s head in her hands, kisses his forehead, and then looks up at me.

Just before I run away, she says, “You’re an animal, Pat. And I will never love you again.”

I cry through my dreams and try not to hit the Giants fan every time the memory flashes through my mind, but I can’t control my dream self any more than I could control my awake self after seeing the blood on Jake’s hands.

I wake up to the sound of the basement door being closed, and I see the light streaming in through the small windows over the washer and dryer. I walk up the steps, and I cannot believe the sports pages are there.

I am very upset about the dream I had, but I realize it was only a dream, and despite everything that has happened, my father is still leaving me the sports pages after one of the worst Eagles losses in history.

So I take a deep breath. I allow myself to feel hopeful again and start my exercise routine.

I’m at the Crystal Lake Diner with Tiffany; we’re in the same booth as last time, eating our single-serving box of raisin bran, drinking hot tea. We did not say anything on the walk here; we did not say anything when we were waiting for our server to bring the milk, bowl, and box. I’m starting to understand that we have the type of friendship that does not require many words.

As I watch her spoon the brown flakes and sugared raisins into her pink lips, I try to decide whether I want to tell her about what happened at the Eagles game.

For two days now I have been thinking about that little kid crying, hiding behind his father’s leg, and I feel so guilty about hitting the big Giants fan. I did not tell my mom, because the news would have upset her. My father has not talked to me since the Eagles lost to the Giants, and I don’t see Dr. Cliff until Friday. Plus, I’m starting to think Tiffany is the only one who might understand, since she seems to have a similar problem and is always exploding, like on the beach when Veronica slipped and mentioned Tiffany’s therapist in front of me.

I look at Tiffany, who is sitting slouched, both elbows on the table. She’s wearing a black shirt that makes her hair look even blacker. She has on too much makeup, as usual. She looks sad. She looks angry. She looks different from everyone else I know—she cannot put on that happy face others wear when they know they are being watched. She doesn’t put on a face for me, which makes me trust her somehow.

Suddenly Tiffany looks up, stares into my eyes. “You’re not eating.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, and look down at the gold sparkles in the table’s plastic coating.

“People will think I’m a hog if they see me eating while you watch.”

So I dip my spoon into the bowl, drip milk onto the sparkly table, and shovel a small mound of milk-soaked raisin bran into my mouth.

I chew.

I swallow.

Tiffany nods and then looks out the window again.

“Something bad happened at the Eagles game,” I say, and then wish I hadn’t.

“I don’t want to hear about football.” Tiffany sighs. “I hate football.”