Red Dirt Rocker (14 page)

“Thanks,
Sopie
." I return. "I’m glad you liked it. Well, I'd better get to football. I dread the thought of
talkin
’ to Coach. If we win on Friday, we’re
gonna
be in the State Championship game, and I'll be halfway across the world in
Sweden.,
" I reply quietly. “I’ve been really confused lately…a lot of decisions to make."

It’s all a little overwhelming—knowing that I’d have to disappoint Heather, no matter how snide she’s been, by choosing Sophie, but most of
all my
dad by choosing my music over football.

"Just follow your heart, Forrest. It'll all be okay," Sophie says quietly in a comforting tone.

It’s so refreshing that her words are totally sincere, and are about me, not her. That’s something I never get from Heather. Just follow my heart…I think my heart has just officially chosen Sophie.

“Good luck at your football game. I’ll be rooting you guys on,” Sophie adds, clasping her hands together just like Mama does when she gives me words of encouragement. I decide, on the spur of the moment, to lean in and give Sophie a quick hug goodbye. She feels so little in my arms. She feels like the one little thing I’m missing in my life.

W
e’re victorious—we win our football game tonight. My brain was not in the game, and I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I missed several important tackles, but thanks to our lightning-fast safety saving the day, my mistakes were not game-changers. My team is chugging like a freight train that can’t be stopped, but I feel like I’m just a passenger along for the ride. The Coweta Tigers will be playing for the State Championship. My team, and the entire town, is ecstatic—but I feel indifferent.

My head swims in confusion. This is the big game I’ve dreamed of playing from the first time I set my cleats on the field for little league, and I'm going to miss it. I can't believe it. I don’t want to let my teammates down, but I just can’t pass up the opportunity of a lifetime with my band in Sweden. Luckily, the Tigers’ lineup is deep. There are strong backup players waiting in the ranks.

The hardest part is dealing with my dad's disappointment. He’s been giving me the silent treatment. The quieter my dad is, the more upset he is. After the game, Dad just gives me a firm look, a pat on the shoulder pad, and walks away. It’s breaking my heart. I’m so torn. I can’t remember a time when Dad and I were on the outs.

The following day, I still participate in football practice. As the final whistle blows, I jog off the field and head for the showers. I pause at the sight of the sun setting over the west bleachers. The sunset is blazing orange and purple. The oak trees in the distance look like they’re sketched in black ink across the canvas of the evening sky.

I love sunrises and sunsets; they always inspire me. I stand gazing up as the fiery globe appears to be igniting the metallic bleachers and decide that my next song will have a sunset in it. My band and I will be leaving for Sweden tomorrow.

It suddenly hits me that this might be the last sunset I’ll see from the fifty-yard line. I feel lonely and sad.

Inside the locker room, Coach's favorite Toby Keith song, “Made in America,” is blaring on a dusty, circa 1990’s boom box. The
twangy
, boot-
scootin
’ tune elevates my mood. I hear Coach Bryan yell my name over the music.

"Hey, Forrest…
ya
ever think a
cuttin
' a country album?" Coach Bryan asks. His
hick
accent lays thick as biscuit gravy on his words. He spits a black, liquid stream of chewing tobacco juice into an empty Gatorade bottle.

"If I do, Coach, you will
definitely
be my inspiration!" I holler back, shaking my head.

"
Ahhh
, son,
ya
know, country music’s where it's at," Coach says with absolute conviction. Coach crosses the room and places his well-worn black felt cowboy hat on my head. He pats me firmly on the back with his huge, callused hands. Coach is like a bear that doesn’t know its own strength.

I squint my eyes shut and jolt forward a step, which prompts me to begin riding a fake bucking horse all the way to my locker. I swing an imaginary rope over my head, grab my Joe’s Tire Shop ball cap and throw Coach back his cowboy hat like a Frisbee.

"It fits me pretty good, Coach, but I'd better let you keep it. You’ll need it after the big game Friday. I’m not sure if the Swedes are ready for a cowboy from Coweta just yet!" I laugh.

"Hey, Forrest.
Ya
know we're all really proud a
ya
, bud. Knock
em
' dead, son! We're
gonna
miss
ya
on the field, but we’re glad
yer
followin
’
yer
dreams,” Coach Bryan says, with genuine sincerity.

"Thanks, Coach. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all you’ve done for me." I feel my heart grow heavy.

“I know
yer
gonna
see a lot more of this big ole world, Forrest,” Coach
returns
. His smile widens in approval, revealing bits of brown tobacco in his teeth. “I just wish you would’ve learnt to play country music.” He teases, as he slaps me on the back again. This time I brace myself and stand firm. I extend my hand and Coach shakes it firmly. The calluses on my hands from playing guitar are small compared to the calluses on Coach Bryan’s hands, which developed from years of daily farm labor. I respect Coach more than I can say.

“KISS, huh? Well they
ain’t
no
Toby Keith, but I guess they’ll do, son!”

On my way out of the locker room, I can hear the shrill sound of hair clippers buzzing. The trainer wielding shears turns to me as he shaves a no-neck lineman’s hair down to a faint shadow of stubble.

"Hey, Forrest, come have a seat. I'll give
ya
a buzz cut!” he says, patting the back of the rusty metal folding chair.

"Oh, no thanks, dude. I'm good. Maybe I'll catch
ya
’ when I get back." I kindly decline, as I shake my long, shaggy hair and replace my ball cap.

I
arrive back home to a packing frenzy. Mama’s bluesy Eric Clapton CD mingles with the mechanical sloshing sound of the washing machine’s agitator. She has on her favorite old-as-the-hills
Lynyrd
Skynyrd
t-shirt, and just as aged, faded, holey jeans. A glass of amber wine sparkles on the kitchen counter under the chandelier light.

“Wine…all right!” I tease. I raise the crystal glass to my lips and pretend to partake.

“Yeah, right.”
Mama huffs with an exhausted sigh. She takes the glass from my hand, swirls the liquid contents, takes a sip and then continues in her zone. Mama runs between the dryer, the ironing board and the suitcases as she gathers things for my trip to Sweden. As much as Mama wants to go, Dad will be the one who travels with me. I’m sure the glass of wine Mama has is intended to numb her disappointment.

The other boys are bringing their fathers as well, except for Jake. He’ll be chaperoned by his favorite uncle. It’s going to be a guy’s trip. I wish Mama could go with us, too. I hug her tight and tell her she’ll be my date if I ever get to go to The Grammys. I’m hoping the adventure will help take Dad’s mind off of the football game. I hope it’ll help take my mind off it, as well.

Mama’s blonde braid snakes over her shoulder. She looks like a mad scientist as she measures out three-ounce bottles of shampoo, conditioner and, most importantly, my hair gel. We can only take three-ounce size liquids on the plane because of airline regulations, and I need extra gel because of my thick hair. Mama prides herself on finding the products that are just right for keeping my curls in check.

She laughs when she notices that she’s packing more accessories for me than she would have packed for herself. Laid out on my bed are: four wrist bands (ranging from black leather, to metal, to terry cloth), three necklaces, two wallet chains, two leather silver-studded belts with heavy duty buckles, and last but not least, a blue and white knit scarf. I have to promise Mama that I’ll wear it to keep the cold air from giving me a frog in the throat. I hate to break a promise to her, but know I won’t wear it. I figure I can give it to snappy-dressing Frank to accessorize with. I can’t imagine what the X-ray technician will think as my luggage sets off the metal detectors.

“Rock stars have to carry a lot of baggage—I hope that suitcases are the only kind of 'baggage' you’ll ever have in your life,” Mama says, proud of her analogy.

I grab two Double
Stuf
Oreos and sit at the kitchen table as Mama rolls the last suitcase into the dining room.

“Can I help?" I ask, as I unscrew the chocolate cookie sandwich and scrape the thick, sweet white icing off with my front teeth.

"That's okay, honey. Just about got it whipped," Mama
replies
with a sing-song sigh of relief. She lays her hands on my shoulders and kneads my aching muscles. "I love you, bub. I’m so glad that your dad gets to go with you to Sweden. You know I wish I could be there, too, but I’m sure you and your father are going to have the time of your lives.

“I know you feel as though Dad doesn’t care about your music, but he’s excited—Dad just wants the best for you…truth be told, he’s really nervous for you, "she explains.

"I know, Mama. I just can't help feeling that he's really disappointed with me for missing the football game. We’ve been working toward that game for all these years. I know it's Dad’s dream," I voice quietly.