Out of the Pocket (5 page)

Rahim and I did that, but not me and Austin. But he didn’t laugh.

The house was incredibly quiet. My folks were both still at work.

I looked away from Austin, studied the beige walls. There was a crack near the ceiling.

“You think anything could ever stop you from . . .” and I couldn’t finish the sentence.
Being my friend,
I thought, but I couldn’t say the words.

Austin looked over at me and raised an eyebrow. “Dude, you just have a stroke or something?”

I turned to Austin and smiled. “Could anything stop you from playing football?”

“No way, dude. I mean, like a bad injury maybe. But no way.”

“Yeah, me neither,” I said. “You ever think about what you’ll do after?” It was another sentence I couldn’t finish. How do you say to your brother, your best buddy, whose only dream is pro football,
if
you aren’t good enough to play in the NFL
?

“I like to talk to girls. You think I could get a job doing that?”

“You could be a pimp,” I said, and he laughed.

“Yes,” he said. “I have a new career. Thanks, dude.”

We just sat there, looking at each other for a while.

“You didn’t answer the question,” he said. “What’s up with you and Carrie?”

My brain was on like three tracks at once, and the thoughts tripped over one another and I realized as I struggled to think of what to say that I was exhausted.

I was tired of thinking about it alone.

I exhaled. “I don’t know,” I said, squirming in my seat.

He reclined, his hands clasped behind his head. “What don’t you know?”

37

“If I should tell you,” I said. “I think you know.”

And when I said that, I felt like I was going to crawl out of my skin because there was almost no going back.

Austin sat up. “Know what?”

I remained still, trying not to even breathe. Maybe if I stayed quiet, we could move on to something else. But at the same time I really wanted to tell him.

“What?” he repeated, and I could hear an edge of panic in his voice.

I sat up and faced him. “Do you know what I’m going to tell you?”

His forehead was creased in a way that I hadn’t seen before.

I could almost imagine what Austin was going to look like as a middle-aged guy. “No,” he said.

“I’m going to tell you something, but you have to promise not to tell anyone else.”

“Did you get Carrie pregnant?” he said.

I laughed, way too hard. “No!”

“What?” he said.

“I’m not dating Carrie,” I said. “I’m not dating anyone. I’m gay, Austin.”

We sat there, staring at each other for a few seconds. His left eye twitched. Then he laughed.

“Dude,” he said. “Yo. You’re kidding.”

“No,” I answered, unable to look away from his face.

Austin laughed and pounded the arm of the couch with his fist, gently. “No, dude, yo. You shouldn’t say shit like that. People will start to think it’s true.”

“It
is
true.” My head was buzzing like a hundred bees.

Austin stared at me, with his mouth half open, sort of like an idiot. I wanted to say something that would let him close it.

“For real?” he asked quietly.

38

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“Wow,” he said, and then he smiled again. “That’s, wow.”

I laughed. “You already said that.”

Austin laughed, too, and I felt a chest fluttering that made me feel almost elated.

“I’m totally cool with that,” he said.

I closed my eyes tight and just breathed for a while. When I opened them, he was still sitting there, looking at me and smiling.

“You are?” I asked.

“Dude,” he said. “I don’t give a crap who you, you know. That’s your business. I don’t tell you what I do in bed, do I?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Um, yeah, like all the time,” I said.

He laughed, way too loud. “That’s true,” he said. “But I mean, it doesn’t matter if you’re banging a girl or, you know, a, you know, a guy or whatever. I don’t give a—”

“I’ve never done it,” I said quickly.

He nodded his head like he already knew this. “Oh,” he said.

“Right.”

“You’re freaked,” I said.

He stood and shook out his legs. “Dude,” he said. “I’m fine. It’s not a big deal. Chill. I know there’s gay people and straight people.

It’s like, what’s the difference anymore, right?”

“You’re freaking me out,” I said, watching him stretch manically for his toes.

He stood tall and walked over to where I was sitting. He put his hand on my shoulder. “Relax,” he said. “We’re cool.”

I closed my eyes and exhaled. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to tell you that.”

He walked to the front window and peered out the blinds. “One question,” he said.

“Shoot.”

39

He turned to face me. “You’re not like, interested, in me, right?”

I laughed. “You’re my best friend,” I said. “No.”

He pretended to wipe sweat off his forehead. “That’s cool, because I’m sticking with the ladies, you know.”

“Duh,” I said.

“And also, I’m pretty damn good-looking.” There was a familiar glimmer in his eye that made me so grateful.

“I think it’s the bald head that allows me to resist you,” I said, rolling my eyes. “And your odor.”

He smiled. “Thank God I shaved.”

40

We knew the first game of the season wasn’t going to be a major challenge, and going into the second quarter, it appeared we were right. Huntington Beach is just not a football powerhouse, or even close. Last year we beat them 33–10. It looked like this year would be even more of a blowout.

In the four days between our conversation and the first game, Austin and I hardly spent any time alone together. On the field it was business as usual, but part of me was wondering if he was avoiding me after practice. I didn’t know what to make of it, but once the game began, it was a relief to put everything else away.

We looked good, much better than in practice. In the first quarter I hit Somers in the corner of the end zone for our first score, and after a quick turnover, Mendez took a pitch out around the left side for a thirty-one-yard touchdown run.

I felt confident, completing eight of my first ten passes, and at 41

least early on Coach seemed to have abandoned the tier formation.

Leading 21–0 early in the second quarter, we huddled up at the Sharks’ forty-fi ve-yard line. I looked over our guys and felt a rush of emotion fl ood over me.

Here we are, the Durango Bulldogs, my brothers and me, wreaking havoc on our opponents together. Nothing’s better than that.

Coach sent Rahim into the game with the play.

“Forty-eight Tier Gun XZ Flag,” he said into my ear. Coach was putting us into tier formation for the fi rst time.

“Damn,” I said under my breath.

Rahim shot me a look and I buckled down and got into leader mode. You couldn’t be showing dissension when you were a team captain.

The tier formation called for three guys—two running backs and a receiver—in our backfield plus me, the quarterback. Instead of a straight line behind me, we curled a bit to the left, like a dog’s tail.

It was hard to know why it even existed or why Coach liked it so much, but he did.

I put on my poker face in the huddle and called the play with the same enthusiasm as any other play. I heard a few groans.

“Chin up!” I said forcefully, and the groans went away, quick. I looked over at Rahim, who was grinning at me. He winked.

The play was one I liked, a chance for me to go deep to either Rahim on the right side or Somers on the left. I nodded at Austin.

He hadn’t caught a single pass yet, and he was a decoy on this one.

The nod meant,
Give me a chance, I’ll hit you real soon
.

We stepped to the line and got set. I looked out at the crowd.

Lights blinded me. It was a beautiful Friday night, a slight chill in the air. The Huntington Beach fans were pretty quiet with us leading by a big margin so early. There were plenty of people in the stands, 42

but it almost felt like I was looking at a silent movie, looking out at them as if through a screen.

Things often felt this way when I was in the zone: no distractions, just me and my brothers doing our thing like a well-oiled machine.

I surveyed the field and saw that they’d made a change. Their linebackers were playing toward the line, looking for a running play.

Their strong safety should have been closer to the middle, where Austin was lined up at tight end, but instead was doubling Rahim on the right side. Their other safety seemed to be edging toward the left, away from the middle, as if to key on Somers, who was in the backfield. It left them with little coverage in the middle of the field. It was as if they were discounting Austin’s ability to make a difference.

How could they have forgotten? Austin was one of our best weapons, and that wasn’t exactly a secret.

I called an audible. “L thirty-nine, L thirty-nine!” I yelled, keeping us in the tier but telling them that I would be looking for Austin over the middle.

“Thirty-three, fourteen, hut, hut . . . HUT!” Bolleran snapped the ball and I dropped back about fi ve yards, my eyes darting left to right as I watched the play develop. I could see my left tackle was struggling to contain the rush, and my heart sped slightly.

That’s when I noticed that their free safety, who I thought was going to cover Somers out of the backfield, was actually back covering Austin. He was right in the path of Austin’s route. I tried to fake him out by looking left. I watched Austin’s progress out of the corner of my eye, just as I sensed, out of the corner of my left eye, a defender breaking free and heading right at me.

I was forced to throw a second before I wanted to in order to avoid the sack, and I hung the pass a little high. Then I noticed the free safety hadn’t bit on my fake. He was right there, and Austin was 43

going to have to battle for the ball. He stretched up high and made a great catch, leaving his midsection vulnerable. The Oilers’ free safety rammed him in the lower back. Austin held on to the ball, but crumbled to the ground.

Coach ran onto the field to attend to Austin, along with our trainer. I hurried over, feeling horrible for having caused the problem by throwing high. Austin was holding his right side and writhing on the ground. “It’s his rib cage,” the trainer said, instructing Austin to breathe. “We’ll need to take him in, see if he broke something.”

“Austin, I’m so sorry,” I said, guilt flooding through me. “All my fault.”

“Dude, you hung me out there,” he said, moaning. “Nice audible. Next time you have the idea to change a play at the last second, leave me out of it.”

“Man. I owe you big-time,” I said. “Sorry.”

He grimaced as he sat up with the trainer’s help and got to his feet. He walked off with the trainer and Coach on either side of him.

Damn tier. My body felt cold, and I blamed the formation. If we’d just stayed with what we were good at, this wouldn’t have happened.

Coach glared back at me. “You lose track of the free safety? Keep your mind on the game, Framingham,” he said. He turned away from me and continued to walk Austin off the field. The crowd cheered supportively for Austin.

My head felt foggy, and in the huddle, that was obvious. I hesitated and didn’t know what play to call. A teammate ran in with the new play, but I still felt a bit lost until Rahim shook me out of it.

“Part of the game, Framingham. If you’re gonna be big-time, you need to deal and move on.”

He was right. I shook it off and set up the play, and by the time I started the snap count, I was back. The next play was a simple fly pattern to Rahim, who streaked down the right side. Their corner44

back got no help from his safety and Rahim was too fast. An easy touchdown gave us a 28–0 lead.

We won big, 44–7. After halftime, we mostly ran, since the Oilers showed no ability to stop our ground attack. In the raucous locker room, we got the news that Austin had gone to the hospital and that X-rays had been negative.

I breathed a sigh of relief, but was brought back to earth by Somers, who rat-tailed me as I bent over to dry my legs. “He’s still gonna kick your ass, Bobby.”

I rubbed my stung butt and shrugged, knowing that wouldn’t happen. But I couldn’t help but wonder how things actually would go. I’d never caused a friend to be injured before. Instead of feeling great after a win, I dressed quickly and trudged out of the locker room, thinking about what Austin was going to say to me.

Outside I found a bunch of reporters, many of whom were familiar from last year, waiting for me. I felt a little sorry for the old ones, coming year after year as if high school sports were their life. I mean, it was my life, but I was only seventeen.

“Bobby! How do you feel?”

A circle of reporters closed in around me. I was still smarting about Austin, but I put on a happy face. “Great. Not bad for an opening game.”

“Do the Bulldogs have a chance to compete for the Division Nine title?” asked a short guy, one of the older ones.

“Your guess is as good as mine. You watched us play. I hope so,”

I said, and they all shook their heads as if this was a brilliant thing to say.

“Hoping to be recruited this year?” This came from a guy I knew wrote for the
Durango Sun.

“Yeah, I hope so,” I replied.

“Any calls yet?”

45

“Colorado State and Arizona. None from California yet, unless they came in to you and you’re here to tell me about them.”

It was an awkward thing to say. Carrie would have rolled her eyes, but they all laughed, way bigger than necessary, as if this was a great line for their stories.

As I answered their questions, I was thinking about the recruiting thing. I knew that the top players in the state were already visiting programs and talking to many schools at once. I was disappointed that more of this hadn’t happened for me. I wanted to be sought after. I wanted calls at all hours of the day, and for my father to be proud of me.

My parents hadn’t made it to the game. I knew they’d wanted to, had planned to go, but at the last minute they called and said they couldn’t make it. It was weird—they never used to miss my games.