Allen Zadoff - Food, Girls, and Other Things I Can't Have

The Trojan Horse. My play, the fake-out. O. is going to hand off to me.

If he hands off to me, I’ll have to run. If I run, I won’t be in front of him anymore.

Evers will.

O. looks at me. “Can you do it?”

“I can try.”

“Then try. Break!” O. shouts, and everyone rolls out of the huddle.

O. makes a big show of whispering in Bison’s ear. It’s what Coach calls Psy-Ops. Psychological Operation. O.’s telegraphing the handoff to Brookline. Telegraphing it in the wrong direction.

I get up to the line, position myself opposite Everest. A running play. My hands are shaking. I can’t do it. I’m going to get killed. I’ll make a fool out of myself.

That’s when I think of the song. “True Colors.”

Everest snorts.

I listen to the song in my head.

I feel O.’s touch, pulling me back to the moment.

“Haa-eee!” he shouts, and I press the ball into his hands.

I hit Everest hard and at an angle, but instead of continuing to drive forward, I use the collision to spin me around backwards towards O. It’s an elegant move. Like dancing.

I feel Everest hesitate for a second, surprised that I’m not up in his face. I twist around and cup my arms.

O. fakes towards Bison, then shifts back and pops the ball hard into my stomach.

I pivot off to the left, trying to hide the ball in the center of my gut. Out of the corner of my eye I see Everest headed directly for O., but it’s not my job to protect him this time. Instead I push off and run as fast as I can towards the goal line. I hear a crash behind me as O. gets splattered. But I don’t look back.

A couple of Brookline players notice me go. I hope they think I’m confused, or maybe I saw a hot dog on the sideline that I couldn’t resist. They can think whatever they like, because I know what I have.

The ball.

By the time they catch on to what’s really happening, I’m past them, running for all I’m worth. Unfortunately, all I’m worth is about fifteen yards. That’s when I get winded and slow down.

The Brookline defensemen easily catch up to me. I don’t get the touchdown. I get massacred.

Whatever.

The important thing is that I make it inside the twenty-yard line before they wrestle me to the ground. That’s field-goal range. And Cheesy is known to kick a hell of a field goal.

He kicks one now.

We win. 17–14.

There’s chaos on the field. We shake hands with the Brookline guys, and they quickly retreat as the stands empty and we’re mobbed by fans. The last thing I see is Everest looking back at me, giving me the nod. I gesture with my hand like I’m tipping my hat to him.

Coach gets a barrel of Gator poured over his head. It’s the only time I’ve seen his moustache droop. It looks like there’s a wet mouse sleeping on his lip.

O. gets hefted on top of the guys’ shoulders. I watch him up there, his eyes twinkling. He lives for this stuff. Not just winning. Football. I knew it from the first practice when I saw him on the field. It reminded me of Mom when she’s in the kitchen. Or Dad in his office. They’re perfectly in their element.

The field is O.’s element. He may get to play college ball or he may not. But he’s home now. All the guys are. I can feel it.

Suddenly I’m sad because I know I’m not like them. I practiced with them. We played together, and I held my own. Tonight we’ll celebrate together.

But I don’t love this game. Not the way they do. Which brings up an interesting question. If not football, then what do I love?

Dad appears out of the crowd. He runs towards me, smiling and calling my name.

“That was fantastic!” Dad says. “I couldn’t believe it was you out there. It’s like I had another son and nobody told me.”

“It was okay,” I say. “I didn’t score.”

“It was more than okay,” Dad says. “Outstanding.”

Coach comes over, wringing green liquid out of his shirt. He’s smiling, too.

Dad thrusts his hand out towards Coach. “I’m the father,” he says.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Coach says. “Hell of a game, wasn’t it?”

“I was just saying as much to Andrew,” Dad says.

Coach puts his arm around my shoulder. “I’ve got big plans for your boy, Mr. Zansky.”

“Do you hear that, Andrew?” Dad says.

“Big plans. We’ve got ourselves a natural talent here. A diamond in the rough, so to speak.”

“You’ve got three years to polish it,” Dad says.

“A little guidance, some strength training. This is just the beginning.”

Dad looks so proud, and Coach is really excited. I can see he’s thinking about winning, not just this year, but next year when O. is gone. That makes it hard to say what I have to say, but I take a deep breath, and I do it anyway.

“No thanks, Coach. I quit,” I say.

“Quit what?” Coach says.

“Football.”

Dad laughs. “You’re joking, right?” He nails Coach in the ribs with his elbow.

“I never really liked football. I only did it to impress a girl.”

Dad looks at me like I’m crazy. “What’s wrong with that?” he says. “That’s how I met your mother.”

Coach nods like it’s a fact of life.

“If I’m going to impress someone,” I say, “I’d rather impress them doing something I like.”

“But you’re good at this,” Dad says. He sounds desperate. I know Dad wants me to succeed. Maybe he thinks this is my one chance.

Do you only get one chance? I hope not.

“I’m good at a lot of things,” I say.

“Not like this,” Dad says.

I think about that for a second. Dad’s right. There aren’t a lot of things that three thousand people watch you do in a stadium. I imagine taking the American History AP exam in the middle of the field with people watching. I bubble with a number-two pencil and the fans go wild. Never going to happen. Then I imagine writing a short story. That’s something else I want to do. But people don’t jump up and down when you write a story.

“Take some time to think about things,” Coach says.

“I’ve had lots of time.”

Coach twirls his droopy moustache. “Take some more. You don’t want to do anything you’re going to regret.”

A bunch of guys rush past, and they grab Coach and pull him along with them.

“I’m serious,” Coach calls back to me. “This team is championship material.”

I turn back to Dad. He just stares at me.

“You’re quitting?” Dad says. “Why would you say something like that?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think you do.”

“You wouldn’t understand, Dad.”

“Try me.”

You can’t out-argue a lawyer. I forget that sometimes.

“It’s like I did everything for the wrong reasons,” I say.

I think Dad is going to yell at me, but instead he says: “Right and wrong. It gets confusing sometimes, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“You think it gets easier when you’re older, but it doesn’t.”

Dad shuffles uncomfortably and kicks the turf with his loafer.

“I don’t want you to go to New York,” I say.

As soon as I say it, I wish I hadn’t. Even though it’s what I’ve been thinking for months. Even though it’s the truth.

“You don’t just give up an opportunity like this, Andy. They don’t come around every day.”

I’m not sure if Dad is talking about his new job or football. Before I can ask him, Miriam comes walking towards us across the field.

“Sorry. I had to run to the little girls’ room.”

“She has a tiny bladder,” Dad says. “It’s like living with a gerbil.”

“Stop that,” Miriam says. “It’s your son’s big day.”