Hannah Gersen - Home Field

“Dean, if you want to respect me, drop the subject.”

Stephanie watched her father absorb this reprimand. Behind him, a framed cross-stitch above the sideboard said TRY A LITTLE KINDNESS. Stephanie had stared at that thing for years before she realized it was an acrostic that spelled TALK.

Uncle Ed reached for a brownie. “These look great, Jo. Come on, everybody, eat up. We have to get going soon.”

“Yummy!” Bryan said, with an especially adorable smile. He had a way of turning up the cute when things were tense.

In the car on the way to the game, her father was still annoyed. “Joelle really pisses me off. Here she’s got this daughter with God-given talent and she denies her. For what reason? It makes no sense.”

“I guess she doesn’t want Megan involved with anything at the high school.”

“I don’t get that. Maybe it’s not the best school academically, but it’s not the worst. Anyway, she doesn’t care about academics.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want Megan to be too into clothes or being popular or whatever. Maybe she’s against materialism. You heard her going off on those shoes.”

“She’s controlling and narrow-minded. That’s what happens if you stay in one place your whole life.”

Her father wasn’t exactly a world traveler, but Stephanie could see that he wasn’t in the mood to be tested. She had never heard this kind of bitterness from him. They were driving through town, past houses whose porches were level with the sidewalk, past the drive-through Tastee Freez in need of renovation, past the gas station that sold Swisher Sweets, past Mike’s Video Time (where she and Mitchell had once seen the home ec teacher going through the beaded curtain into the adult section), past the fire station, the bank, the Catholic church, the liquor store, the stoplight, past the town cemetery where her father, but not her mother, was buried. Night was falling quickly, darkening everything that was familiar to her.

DEAN COULDN’T REMEMBER the last time he’d watched a game from the bleachers. They were playing against Beech Creek High, a small school that was traditionally an easy win. Beech Creek had never been known for its athletic program; it was considered an “artsy” school, with a year-round theater program and several choirs. Dean had a theory: Methodists founded Beech Creek, and Methodists liked to sing. Willowboro, on the other hand, was founded by Brethrens — a pacifist, agrarian people. Kids who grew up on farms were doing chores from the time they could walk; they naturally became strong and athletic.

“How does it feel to be a fan? Takes the pressure off, right?” Ed handed Dean a fountain soda.

The band marched in, and then everyone stood for the national anthem. Dean eyed his players. They still felt like his players, especially Brett Albright, who had not seemed like anyone’s idea of a football player when he started in ninth grade. Now he was QB! Dean had seen that he was not truly scrawny, just underweight. He had an eye for late bloomers, probably because he had been one. Those years of waiting for your body to catch up to your mind were difficult, but ultimately beneficial. You learned to be patient with your body, to let your mind pick up the slack. Maybe you also learned to be patient with your mind, to trust that your body would pull through. That was what he had been trying to explain to Joelle about Nicole, the life philosophy she had mocked. He glanced in her direction; her eyes were shut and she had a little smile on her face as she listened to the music. For a moment, he could see the sweet, sincere girl she must have been once, the girl Nicole admired.

Ed nudged Dean to take the lid off his Coke and poured some Jack Daniel’s into the cup. The first sip reminded Dean of college, and of beach vacations on the Eastern Shore. The second sip was just sweet on sweet.

Willowboro lost the coin toss, and Beech Creek chose to receive. As the players took their positions, Dean noticed a new player on the field. He couldn’t recognize him from a distance.

“You see that kid? Devlin?” Ed pointed to the very player Dean was eyeing. “He’s from the baseball team. Apparently he joined this week! They were desperate because Laird up and left without any warning.”

“You shouldn’t put someone with no experience in the defensive unit,” Dean said. He couldn’t believe Garrett had gone behind his back. He’d clearly made an effort to hide his new recruit. Or maybe he hadn’t; maybe Dean hadn’t noticed a new name on the roster. It bothered him that some part of his mind had actually let his job go.

“Here we go!” Ed said, as Willowboro kicked off. It was a good strong kick that angled left, moving the action toward Willowboro’s fans. Everyone cheered, but Dean was too worried about the baseball recruit to enjoy the pure drama of the scene. Beech Creek was quickly pushed out of bounds. In the next play, Willowboro intercepted a pass and gained possession. The offensive unit came out, to Dean’s relief — until he realized that Brett Albright was not lined up at QB. Instead Garrett had him at tight end, and Jimmy Smoot was QB. This made no sense; Smoot had good hands, yes, but he wasn’t the brightest.

“Don’t run,” Dean said under his breath. Theirs should be a passing strategy. But Smoot ran. The others rushed downfield, slamming into the players headed toward Smoot. It was a mess, but it was working. Smoot had already covered enough ground to get a first down. He didn’t make it much farther, though; after a few seconds, a Beech Creek player tackled him from behind.

“Not bad,” Ed said. “Not bad at all.”

“He should have passed,” Dean said.

Ed shrugged, and Dean realized he sounded sour. He told himself to sit quietly through the next few plays. But he couldn’t understand why his team had been rearranged. Maybe Garrett was having trouble managing the players and this was his way of showing them who was boss. Or maybe he’d always thought Dean was doing everything wrong. He winced as he watched the baseball player, Devlin, trot back out onto the field to try his hand at offensive tackle.

“They could have scored by now,” Dean said, “if they would throw the ball.”

“Take it easy, Coach.” Ed tipped a little more booze into Dean’s soda.

“I’m going for a hot dog.” He couldn’t sit here any longer and pretend to be happy getting wasted and nostalgic.

He slid past Robbie and Bry and the girls, who were paying more attention to the band and the cheerleaders than the game. He caught sight of Stephanie as he made his way down the bleachers. She was sitting with some girls he recognized as former cheerleaders. Not her usual crowd by a long shot, but then, her usual crowd was at college. As she should be. He felt disoriented as he stepped off the bleachers and onto the worn grass at the edge of the field. A group of teenage girls brushed past him, not recognizing him, and almost knocking his Coke out of his hand. The band was playing “Go, Fight, Win!” noisily and slightly off tempo. Suddenly the crowd cheered crazily, and he heard the shuffle of the scoreboard numbers flipping into place. Willowboro had finally scored a touchdown.

He got in line for the concession stand. The wait was longer than he expected, and he could barely see the field, but that was fine with him.

The woman who had come to stand behind him in line tapped him on the shoulder. He turned to find Laura.

“I thought it was you!” she said. “Everyone looks a little different in their civilian clothes.”

She was wearing a blue baseball cap and a blue zip-up sweatshirt, both emblazoned with Willowboro’s eagle mascot. Her long hair was in a ponytail, pulled through the back of her cap.

“Looks like you made a run on the school store,” Dean said.