In the locker room after the game, I was changing when I saw a bunch of guys, including Rahim and Austin, huddled in the opposite corner.
My shoulders tensed up just seeing it, because things were going so well. I knew it was self-centered, but I was afraid it was about me.
It’s not all about me, I know. But anyway, enough had happened recently that I guess it wasn’t the weirdest thing to think.
As I dried my hair and buttoned my shirt, I kept peering over.
About six of them were huddled together. Finally, I decided to go over and just see what was going on.
As I approached Rahim saw me and pulled back from the group.
They’d been fussing with a large metal boom box, the one we use to play psych-up music before games.
“Hey, it’s Bobby!” Rahim shouted, which was a little strange, because why wouldn’t it be? And they all turned around and greeted me like they hadn’t seen me in a year.
“Hey, Bobby!” Austin said, smirking.
“Hey,” I said, suddenly very nervous.
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“We have something for you,” Dennis said.
“Uh,” I said, wishing they’d stop freaking me out. Rahim turned back to the boom box, and seconds later I heard it.
The opening notes of a familiar tune.
I looked at Austin. He had this look on his face that I had never seen before, sort of like a bad boy who’s just been caught doing something and is a little embarrassed.
And then the dancing started. And the singing, the horrible, terrible singing, of my teammates.
“Young man, there’s no need to be down.
I said, young man, pick yourself off the ground . . .”
They had choreographed it, and with every line, there was some horrible hand movement, all of them almost in sync but not quite.
And I lost it. I fell on the ground in hysterics. It was the strangest, funniest thing I had ever seen.
My friends were serenading me with the Village People.
“It’s fun to stay at the Y-M-C-A . . .” they shouted along with the music, spelling out the letters with their arms and bodies. I watched them from the locker-room fl oor, tears streaming down my eyes.
“Make it stop!” I screamed. “Help! Please! Stop!”
“We just wanted you to feel welcome in the locker room,” Austin yelled above the music. And as the guys continued their awful, pathetic attempt at some sort of gay tribute to me, Austin smiled real wide and winked at me.
I could tell some of the guys were singing in support, and others were being a little nasty.
I chose to focus on the supportive part.
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Todd’s party was the night of our opening playoff win. I brought Carrie, but not Bryan. I thought that was maybe a little much, and Carrie thought that was way weak of me. It made me think of my dad, when he was asking about Bryan. That made it two of the people closest to me who seemed more okay with my gayness than I was. Weird.
Carrie got lost in the crowd in the living room, and I wound up, as usual, with the football team. In Todd’s bedroom. I was trying to figure out how I could get my entire team out of there, and Todd in.
Yeah, I know, Bryan wouldn’t like that too much.
We were all celebrating the win and getting pretty stupid. I got teased a little about gay things, but that’s just how we all are. If they didn’t make fun of me, I’d be a little scared. Half of the guys were drunk. I was drinking soda.
“What kind of gay guy are you, not drinking?” asked Austin. “I thought at least gays drank a lot.”
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I just rolled my eyes at him.
Rahim was playing cards with Dennis on the other side of Todd’s room, and I was hanging out with Austin, Colby, and an underclassman named Scooter, who plays on the line. Somers, Mendez, and Bolleran were all in the other room. They didn’t hang out with me away from the fi eld anymore.
“We need to teach you to talk like a straight guy,” said Colby.
“Go for it,” I said.
“Nice rack,” Scooter said slowly. Austin and Colby laughed.
Rahim and Dennis put down their cards and looked at us.
“Nice rack,” I repeated, even slower, as if I’d never heard it.
“Nice can,” Scooter said, moving on.
“Nice can,” I replied, like I was learning how to pronounce the words.
“Now that one he’s said before,” Austin said. They all broke out laughing, so I did, too. It was basically harmless. Austin gave me a high fi ve.
“Why am I hanging out with you losers?” asked Dennis, standing. “I need to get me some action.”
I shielded my eyes. “Please warn me when you’re gonna get naked,” I said. “I don’t want to start bleeding from my eyes.”
Rahim laughed loudest, and Dennis swatted at him. “Shut up,”
Dennis said.
“Go scare some girls,” Rahim said in return, smiling.
Dennis jogged out of the room, removing his shirt as he went.
I groaned. After he was gone, we were all sort of quiet for a while.
That’s the thing I knew I’d miss about this team. They way we could all just hang together, the way we didn’t need to always be talking.
“You think we’re gonna see La Habra again?” Austin asked.
“They beat up on Laguna Hills today. Probably,” Rahim answered.
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“Good,” I said. “I want to beat the best.”
“True dat,” said Austin. And we were all quiet again, imagining the glory of winning a title game.
At around 11 P.M., just about half an hour before I had to get us both home, Carrie came galloping into Todd’s room. With her was Todd, who didn’t seem to mind that we were strewn out all over his floor. Carrie and Todd was not a pairing I’d expected to see, ever.
She had the manic smile on her face that she got when she was really excited.
“Bobby, you have to see this!” she shrieked. I stood up, but she motioned for me to stay seated. Then Carrie looked at Todd. “Ready?
Okay, go!” Carrie said, and Todd, totally straight-faced, lay down on his bed.
“Unplug me!” he hissed. I started laughing. It was our old euthanasia skit.
“What, honey?” said Carrie, holding his hand.
“Unplug me!” he hissed, harder.
“No; no, honey, you’re not ugly.” I saw Todd’s lips twitch, and then Carrie suppressed some sort of giggle, and finally the two of them broke out laughing like it was the funniest thing they’d ever done. I felt sort of silly, having been that guy that Todd was now, but I loved the glow in Carrie’s face. Todd, it seemed, had a similar one.
I smiled at her.
“Sister found . . .” I said.
“Shut up!” she shrieked at me.
“What the hell are you all talking about?” said Austin.
“It’s some sort of gay thing,” Colby said.
“Yeah, that’s what it is,” I said, punching him in the shoulder. “A gay thing. Moron.”
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“That’s their car, pulling up,” Coach said, looking through the blinds.
“Quick, everybody hide,” yelled Carrie.
“Right, great idea. Scare the cancer patient to death,” said Dennis.
Bryan scowled at his cousin. I didn’t like the way Dennis had said it, but I had to admit, for once he was right.
The party had been my idea, actually. It was a Sunday morning, a day after another win for us, this time against Fullerton, to put us in the semifinals. My dad was coming home after five weeks and I knew he’d want to watch football on TV, so I made it a welcome-home brunch. Most of the football team came, and a lot of people from my dad’s work. Bryan came, too, which made me sort of nervous. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t help but feel weird in front of my teammates.
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We didn’t hide, and there wouldn’t have been any point, anyway.
There were dozens of cars parked along the curb near the house.
The key jiggled, and in walked my mother, leading my dad by the arm.
He was totally bald, which was kind of shocking, and his face was a bit red, but otherwise, he looked good. He pretended to be surprised, but it was clear he wasn’t.
“Oh my God,” he yelled, his face lighting up. “Look at all this!”
I ran to him and hugged him tight. “Dad!” I said.
He put his arms around me and squeezed.
This time it was me crying. Ever since missing that week of school, I’d learned a couple things about holding in emotions. I sobbed onto his shoulder and he held me tight. I didn’t want to pull away.
He stroked my hair. “I know I look horrible, but I’m really good.
Cancer-free,” he said.
I just kept holding on and crying.
When I did pull away, I tried to avoid looking at my teammates.
But I found Austin’s face and saw he was wiping his eyes. I looked around and there wasn’t a dry eye to be seen.
My father greeted his guests, getting hugs from his employees and my coach and shaking hands with some of my teammates.
“Where’s the food?” he asked. “I’m starved.”
“It’s out back,” I said, glad to hear it. We’d set up a buffet in the backyard with all his favorites.
Carrie, who had never met my dad in person before, grabbed him by the arm and led him out back like they were old friends.
“Now that you’re not going to be my father-in-law, I feel like I can be honest about a few things,” she said as they exited through the patio door to the backyard.
A lot of the team headed outside after them, leaving just a few 245
stragglers. Bryan was one of them. He was sitting on a stool near the kitchen counter.
I walked over to him. “You ready?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said.
We walked, slowly, over to my mother, who was tidying up, picking up some used plastic cups off the dining-room table.
How do you introduce your boyfriend to your mom?
It was all so weird. I stopped walking, and fi gured Bryan would do the same, and I’d do some formal introduction.
Instead he just kept going.
“Can I help you with that?” he asked.
She looked up and smiled. “That would be lovely. Thanks.”
“I’m Bryan,” he said, sticking out his hand to shake hers.
“Call me Molly,” she said. They walked into the kitchen together, and once again there I was, the one making everything harder than it was.
Later, after he had eaten and many of the guests had left, my father thanked me for organizing the party.
“I’m still a little tired. Hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to just sit down and watch me some football,” he said.
“Me, too,” I said. “Can I join you?”
“Of course.”
“Can I?” Bryan asked. I hadn’t had a chance to introduce them yet. Bryan had stayed on cleanup patrol with my mother, who now absolutely adored him—finally, a son who cleaned—and I was hesitant to make a scene with the team around.
My father, who had flopped down on the couch, looked up. “You must be Bryan,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
“I must be,” Bryan said.
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“You like football, Bryan?”
“San Diego Chargers, all the way,” he said.
My father smiled. “Now that’s what I like to hear. I keep telling Bobby, if he could just survey the field like Phillip Rivers, he’d be an even bigger prospect.”
Bryan sat down next to my dad, intent on his every word, and I smiled, glad to know, if nothing else, that bald man was still the father I knew too well.
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“It was awesome. That’s two easy wins. And two to go,” I told Dr. Blassingame as we sat in his office on a Thursday afternoon. It was December 4. After beating Corona Del Mar, 35–10, we knocked off Fullerton, 26–9, the following week. One more win the next day at Western would put us in the fi nals, and I was walking on air.
He stood up and smiled at me. “Things are really coming around for you, Bobby.”
I nodded. “I guess so.”
He turned around and reached for the bent golf club on his wall.
“Remember when you were so angry about that initial article?” He unhinged it and put it on the desk in front of me.
“That seems like forever ago.”
“Yet it was just six weeks ago. Bravo,” he said. “Did I ever tell you the story about this club?”
“Nope.”
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He stared at it while he told me the story. “When I was in my thirties, I was a fairly good golfer, believe it or not. I loved golf, but I also had a temper. One day, I overshot the green on my second shot on a par four. I hit it into the woods, a good twenty yards past the green.
“I was furious, Bobby. You wouldn’t know it to look at me now, but back then, when something didn’t go my way on the golf course, the clubs sometimes felt the wrath. That day, when I couldn’t find my ball in the woods, I got so furious that I wrapped my club around a tree.”
I looked at it. It was pretty nicely bent. “Wow.”
He touched it, and slowly pushed it over to me. “I want you to have this,” he said.
“Dr. Blassingame—”
“No, no, let me explain,” he said. “I’ve kept this around for many years, as something to help me remember an important lesson. I have a feeling you may know the lesson to which I am referring.”
I shrugged. “Something about getting angry, I guess?”
“Well, yes, in general that’s so,” he said, nodding. “Specifically, it was the lesson about what happens when I try to control things I can’t, such as past events.”
“You get a bent fi ve-iron,” I said, nodding.
He laughed. “Precisely. And you’ve learned this lesson, Bobby.
In order to remember it always, I’d like you to have this. It’s time for me to pass it on.”
I shook my head in disbelief, and touched the club. “Thanks a lot, Dr. B.”
He smiled at me.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course, Bobby.”
I looked directly into his eyes. “How do I know when to take control, and when to just let things go?”
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“Now that, Bobby Framingham, is an intriguing question.”
“So what’s the answer?”
“If any of us knew, we’d all be just about perfect,” he said.
“Well that sucks as an answer,” I said, pulling at the club as if to straighten it. It wouldn’t budge.
“I can tell you what I do. It’s just me, but I can tell you my way of doing things.”
“Okay,” I said.
He leaned in as if telling me a secret. “I listen to my heart, Bobby. If I really want to know what to do in a certain situation, if I’m not sure if I should take control of something or let it go, I listen to my heart. I let my heart tell me what to do.”