Fantasy League (19 page)

CHARLIE WASN'T ALLOWED TO SEE him until Thursday afternoon.

Joe Warren had done well the first two days in the hospital but then there had been more clotting on Tuesday night and into Wednesday morning, Charlie not finding out until Anna called him before school.

So he had spent another day and night in the intensive care unit before they moved him into a private room on Thursday morning, telling him he would be staying in the hospital at least through the weekend, which meant through the Seattle game on Sunday.

Anna and Charlie waited outside school for Carlos to pick them up and take them to Cedars-Sinai, Carlos a little late because he'd caught some traffic.

“Any other week I wouldn't be thinking about anything
but
the big game on Sunday,” Anna said. “Now Gramps isn't just the big game, he's the only game.”

“He's become what he always says the Bulldogs are in L.A.,” Charlie said. “Only game in town. Just not the way he ever wanted to be.”

When they got to Cedars-Sinai they signed in at the front desk along with Carlos and then checked in at the nurses' station when they got up to Joe Warren's floor.

For what felt like the twentieth time since they'd left school Anna told Charlie to be prepared, he didn't just look weak, it was like his skin had turned this weird shade of gray.

“I got this,” Charlie said.

He didn't. Joe Warren looked even weaker than Anna said he did. Smaller somehow. But Charlie bluffed his way through, smiled at the old man, who smiled back. “Hey there, Charlie boy,” he said, nodding at Anna. “Who's your friend?”

“You must be feeling better,” Anna said, “now it's only your sense of humor that is weak.”

She did most of the talking, something Charlie knew she always did when she was nervous. Or scared. Going on and on about the Seattle game, how she and Charlie were going to bring it home, how she knew her old gramps was going to be out of here and back in his lucky chair when the Bulldogs played in their very first playoff game.

When she finally ran down the way a windup toy does, Joe Warren managed another weak smile.

“And how did your day go, Charlie?” he said.

“Oh, I get it,” Anna said. “Bust on the girl. You guys stay here and have your little fun while Carlos and I go get a snack, it's been ages since I had anything to eat.”

“Probably an hour, tops,” Charlie said.

At the door she turned and said, “Try not to miss me too much.”

When she was gone her grandfather said, “I believe that girl could power my stadium if the lights ever went out the way they did that time at the Super Bowl.”

Charlie said, “If she didn't blow all the fuses herself.”

Mr. Warren patted the side of his bed and said, “Pull up a little closer so I don't feel like I'm shouting.”

Even though his voice hadn't been much more than a raspy whisper.

When Charlie had his chair as close as he could get it to the bed, the old man said, “You doing okay?”

It got a laugh out of Charlie, even here, even in a hospital room. He hated hospitals, hated everything about them, starting with the smell.

“How am
I
doing?” he said.

“Minute you walked in, it was like you'd seen a ghost,” the old man said. “
Me
.”

Charlie thinking there were probably ghosts who looked better than Joe Warren did right now, with all of those tubes hooked up to the monitor next to him.

“You have to get better!” Charlie said now, feeling as if he was the one shouting, the words just coming out.

“I
am
getting better,” Joe Warren said, “though probably not as fast as you or I would want. Told you old people go slow.”

“Don't do what you always tell me not to do and just tell me what you think I want to hear.”

Joe Warren slowly raised his arm, like it had a weight attached to it, formed a fist, reached over so Charlie could bump it with his own.

“I'm not afraid to die, Charlie. I've never been afraid to die.” Now he winked. “I've just informed my doctors that I'd prefer not to do it
now
.”

He reached over and covered Charlie's hand with his own, the way he'd done with Anna when she was sitting next to the bed, his hand feeling as if it had been packed in ice.

“From the time I came down with this disease of mine,” the old man said, “I've had to take stock of my life, Charlie. Add it up, like putting points on the board. It's what everybody does when they get as old as I am. Did I do everything I wanted, make a difference in the world, do right by my family? And no matter what regrets I came up with, the bottom line was always the same, that I'm the luckiest sonofagun I know.”

“I'm the lucky one,” Charlie said. “Having you as my friend.”

Joe Warren had a brief coughing fit then, Charlie not liking the rough sound of it. When it ended, Mr. Warren pointed to the water glass on the table next to him. Charlie handed him the glass, and Joe Warren leaned forward and drank from it.

“What were we saying?”

“How lucky we both are.”

“Oh, yes. You want to know what the worst part of the losing was, in all the other years? How bad my family felt for me. They'd feel bad for me and I'd feel even worse for them, and then I'd remind them that there are only thirty-three of these teams on the planet, and if you can't have fun owning one, even in the bad times, then maybe you just don't know how to have fun.”

“Everybody was having fun until you landed here,” Charlie said.

“And we're going to keep having fun,” the old man said. “All of us. Starting with the two of us.”

“You promise?”

“Cross my heart and hope to live as long as your friend Anna says I'm going to.”

Charlie was sure Carlos and Anna were back by now, probably waiting outside. It was their way of letting him have some extra time with Joe Warren.

“You know what I'd like to do before you leave?” he said to Charlie. “I'd like to talk a little football.”

And so they talked football the way they did when their friendship really began. Like they were over at Bulldogs Stadium, up in his office, looking down at practice.

When they were finally talked out, Charlie just stayed where he was next to the bed, still holding Mr. Warren's hand, the room quiet now except for the beeps of the monitor. The old man was breathing easily now, eyes closed, asleep.

Now Charlie was the one talking in a whisper. “Please don't die.”

And just like that, Joe Warren opened his eyes.

“No more talk about dying,” he said, giving Charlie's hand one more squeeze. “Just remember one more promise I made you about the day we make the playoffs.”

“I forget,” Charlie said to him.

“You still haven't seen me dance,” the old man said.

MORNING OF THE BIG GAME, Charlie awake at seven o'clock, watching the pregame shows on ESPN and the NFL network, switching from channel to channel until he found somebody talking about Bulldogs vs. Seahawks, trying to learn something about the game he didn't already know himself.

At nine o'clock, the Fox pregame show came on, Terry Bradshaw doing an interview with Matt Warren, Matt telling him that he couldn't believe that after all the years when the Bulldogs were just playing out the string and already thinking about next year's draft on the last Sunday of the regular season, here they were in the big game and his dad would be watching from a hospital.

“At least we've arranged to have his lucky chair from his suite set up in his hospital room,” Matt said.

Anna called when the interview was over, saying even she didn't know about the lucky chair, then saying, “I can't wait all day for this game!”

“Usually I care about all the games,” Charlie said. “But today I only care about one.”

“Pretend you're just following all your fantasy teams,” she said. “That will keep your mind occupied.”

“Yeah,” Charlie said. “If I get enough catches out of Mo Bettencourt, I can even win that head-to-head league from that Dream Team guy. I've pretty much already won all the other leagues.”

“Good, focus on that. I'll see you later in our lucky seats. It's going to be fun.”

Charlie was in front of the big screen in his den watching the early game, Redskins-Cowboys, when his phone buzzed, a phone number Charlie didn't recognize, and then Charlie heard Joe Warren's voice saying, “Happy Sunday, Charlie boy.”

“How you feeling, Mr. Warren?”

“Feeling like I should be at my own stadium watching my own team—that's how I'm feeling.”

Charlie wanted to tell him that the way the week began, he was just happy the old man was watching at all, but just said, “Totally not fair.”

“But that's not why I'm calling,” the old man said. “I'm just calling to tell you to make sure you remember every part of this day when you get to the stadium, from the time Carlos walks you in. You got it?”

“Got it.”

“You be my eyes and ears one more time, okay?”

“Okay.”

“We're gonna make a memory today, Charlie,” he said. “Even though you'll be there, and I'll be here, we're still a team.”

“No team I'd rather be on,” Charlie said, smiling as he put down the phone. Brain, feeling like one again on the last Sunday of the regular season.

Feeling brilliant all of a sudden, like he could see the whole day unfolding exactly the way it was supposed to.

• • •

Anna and her mom and her uncle Matt had to be at the stadium early to do an interview with Bob Costas about Joe Warren that was going to air at halftime.

Mr. Warren had arranged for Carlos to pick up Charlie and take him to the game at three o'clock. If the Bulldogs won and made the playoffs, Anna and her mom and Charlie would all go celebrate with Mr. Warren in the hospital.

“The after-party,” Anna said to Charlie in their third or fourth phone conversation of the day.

“I'll think about after-parties after we've won the game,” Charlie said.

“I can't wait to be in my seat,” Anna said.

“Me neither.”

Carlos was out in front of Charlie's house at five minutes to three, and as soon as Charlie had his seat belt buckled, they were talking about the game, what they thought the keys would be, like they were their own pregame show. And Carlos talked about how he had only ever dreamed about what Bulldogs Stadium would feel like and sound like for a game like this.

“Me too,” Charlie said. Then he asked if they could change the subject for a minute.

Carlos smiled. “Is there anything else in the world to talk about today?”

Charlie told him.

“Really?” Carlos said.

“Really.”

Fifteen minutes later Carlos dropped him off at the hospital.

“You're sure this is where you want to watch the game?” Carlos said.

“Exactly where I want to watch.”

Next to Joe Warren's lucky chair, just like always.

“CARLOS HAD ASKED IF HE could keep me company,” Joe Warren said to Charlie. “And I told him no, he should be at the stadium, where you should be, young man.”

“I'd rather be with you.”

“You should be at the stadium, today of all days.”

“I should be with you,” Charlie said. “Today of all days.”

Then the old man smiled.

“And I with you, Charlie boy. And I with you.” He sighed and said, “We'll deal with the fallout from my granddaughter later.”

“I already texted her,” Charlie said. “And you know what she said back?”

“Not a clue.”

“She said I was right.”

“How can we lose today,” Joe Warren said, “if a miracle like that can happen?”

• • •

It was 10–10 midway through the second quarter, Tom Pinkett and Colt Marley, the Seahawks' QB, each having thrown for a touchdown pass, each having been picked off once, the game more of a defensive battle so far than anything else. Jack Sutton already had two sacks, was playing the best game he'd played so far, making things pretty miserable for Colt Marley every time he got near the Seahawks' backfield.

“You know we would've had no shot at first place without him?” Joe Warren said. “Not to inflate that ego of yours Miss Anna is always worrying about.”

“You don't know that for sure, Mr. Warren. Fallacy of the predetermined outcome.”

“You listen too well, Mr. Boy General Manager.”

Charlie said, “Assistant boy GM.”

“One thing you can see today from Sack Sutton,” Joe Warren said. “He's not afraid of the occasion. You look at some of these guys, both teams, you'd have trouble pulling a needle out of their backsides with a tractor.”

Just trying to picture it made Charlie laugh. When he stopped he said, “You know he's never made the playoffs, either. This might be the best chance
he's
ever going to get.”

It was as though Jack Sutton could smell the playoffs and was determined to carry the whole team on his back if he had to. Which is what made what happened next so hard to watch.

Seahawks driving, third-and-eight from the Bulldogs' thirty, Colt Marley passing from the pocket for a change, or trying to, before he was flushed out by defensive pressure.

Jack Sutton was the one chasing him, running in that moment as if the season was making him younger rather than older.

Marley, running to his right, turned upfield to evade the pass rush and saw he had a chance to make lot more than eight yards and a first down.

Marley cut back suddenly toward the middle of the field, clearly seeing he could pick up a block on Jack from his tight end.

Everything was happening at once now, the tight end crashing into Jack and taking him down just as he was reaching for Colt Marley, Ray Milner flying in from the other side like it was Marley's blind side in that moment, knocking the ball loose.

There was a big scramble for the ball, a huge pileup in the middle of Bulldogs Stadium.

At the bottom of the pile was Ray Milner with the ball. The crowd was going crazy.

That's when the television camera focused on Jack Sutton, still on the ground, five yards from where the play had ended.

Reaching for his knee. Writhing in pain.

• • •

The television cameras showed the golf cart coming out of the tunnel about two minutes later, showed Alex Beech and Chuck Stoner, the other Bulldogs' linebackers, helping Jack onto the back of the cart. Every football fan watching knowing that a golf cart never meant anything good for the player about to get a ride on it out of the game.

“Same knee,” Charlie said. “Same stinking knee.”

The camera stayed on Jack Sutton and the cart until it disappeared into the tunnel, out of sight, as the old man said, “He was the one always telling me you never know how many Sundays you're going to get.”

Joe Warren paused and said, “Goes for all of us, doesn't it, Charlie boy?”

Anna called as soon as the half ended, Tom Pinkett having moved the Bulldogs into field goal range after Jack Sutton's injury, making the score 13–10.

“This stinks,” she said.

“At least we're ahead,” Charlie said.

“Sack getting hurt, I meant.”

“I know what you meant,” Charlie said. “But it doesn't mean we still can't win the second half without him.”

“His season wasn't supposed to end like this.”

“We just gotta make sure ours doesn't end, too.”

Anna said, “I'm not calling again until we win, I'm afraid I might jinx us.”

“Not gonna be anything
to
jinx.”

“How's Gramps doing?”

“A lot better than me,” Charlie said. “A couple of times I thought I should be the one attached to his heart monitor.”

“Let's see if we can get through the third quarter with a lead,” Anna said.

They didn't. The game went sideways on the Bulldogs' first series of the quarter, a blocked punt in the end zone putting Seattle ahead 17–13. Only a few plays later, the Seahawks got a pick six when Silas Burrell, coming out of the backfield, broke inside on a play he was supposed to take outside, nobody even close to the linebacker who took the gift pass and ran thirty yards down the sideline, straight into the end zone.

24–13, Seahawks.

Neither team scored the rest of the quarter. The Bulldogs opened up the fourth quarter with the ball, still trailing by eleven, their season on the line.

There was a knock on the door then, one of Mr. Warren's nurses poking her head in and asking if they wanted some company.

Then she was opening the door wide and Jack Sutton said he didn't need her help, he could wheel himself in. Jack Sutton wearing a Bulldogs sweatshirt over his hospital gown, his bad leg stretched out in front of him, ice taped to both sides of it, Jack explaining that the doctors had said all the pictures they wanted to take would be no good until they could get at least some of the swelling down.

“They think it's about half the alphabet,” he said. “ACL, MCL.” Gave a long look at Mr. Warren and said, “I'm done for good this time, Mr. Warren. I don't need the doctors to tell me the score.”

The old man smiled at him. “But we're not, are we?”

“You sure?” Charlie said.

Jack Sutton moved his wheelchair to the left of Joe Warren then, Charlie staying where he was on the old man's right.

“It's like Mr. Warren keeps saying,” Jack Sutton said to Charlie. “This is Hollywood. We all know how the movie's supposed to end.”