Today Will Be Different (22 page)

Coach Carroll, chewing his three sticks of gum, paced outside the exam room. In five minutes he had to submit his final roster; he needed Vonte on it.

“How does this feel?” Joe squeezed Vonte’s wrist, watching for a wince.

“Pretty good,” Vonte said with a loaded smile. He knew Joe knew he’d say anything to get out there and play.

“Any stiffness?” Joe asked.

“You know.”

Gordy, a trainer, stood at attention. Joe turned to him.

“Let’s do a padded splint.”

“Thanks, Doc,” Vonte said.

Pete Carroll stepped in. “We good, then?”

Joe gave the nod.

“Ready to play some ball?” Pete gave Vonte a big, sloppy shake.

“All in God’s plan,” Vonte said.

“You mean all in the Sanders Splint Supply’s plan,” Joe said.

“My plan now.” The coach headed out, full of vim. “Thanks, Joe!”

“Got the whole family here,” Vonte said as Joe cut the foam.

“My wife too,” Joe said. “Her first game.”

“First game?” Vonte’s head jerked back. He launched into a long, sympathetic laugh. “Man, oh, man.”

Joe said nothing.

Eleanor not going to games had been understandable at first; over time, it grew annoying; over more time, it felt like a personal dig. Which was why Joe had insisted she come today.

Joe applied the splint himself. It would give Vonte’s wrist good stability but allow full movement of the fingers.

“First pick-six is for you, Doc,” Vonte said.

“I’d expect nothing less,” said Joe.

Joe followed up with other players and their minor dings. A sore knee. A back spasm. A sprained toe from a barbecue flip-flop accident.

Close to game time, Joe found himself in the flow of players and personnel making their way to the field. Spirits were high but not too high. It boded well for a win.

The team waited for their cue in the shadowy mouth of the tunnel. Out on the field, men rolled fire-shooting columns into place. The Sea Gals formed their glamorous gauntlet. Yellow-vested video crews swarmed. When the camera lights hit, the players pressed together in an amoeba-like cluster, bouncing and chanting.

Joe ducked out of the way and found his friend Kevin, another team physician who’d agreed to run lead today on account of Eleanor’s rare appearance.

“I’ll be in the stands,” Joe told him.

“Cool,” Kevin said. “I’ll text if we need you.”

Joe pulled out his shiny ticket and headed up.

He emerged from the pleasantly echoing concrete of the concourse into a swaying, sparkling ocean, the seventy thousand fans an undulation of blue. White lights set the field ablaze in freakishly fake green. The September sky felt moody with patches of black; wisps of clouds rushed overhead. A twist of wind brushed Joe’s face. He breathed in the salty air.

This.

Jeopardy!
champ and Seattle native Ken Jennings hoisted the
12
flag, then rushed to the rail, whipping a rally towel over his head, twirling the ecstatic crowd into a frenzy. Even the kickoff siren couldn’t compete with the ear-busting roar. The stadium quaked underfoot.

Kickoff!

The Cardinal return man signaled fair catch. The fans registered their disappointment, ripples on the sea.

Joe lingered on the promenade, basking in the optimism. How he wished Timby were here! First thing Monday, Joe would submit a ticket request for every home game. On his way out, he’d hit the fan shop and scoop up matching jerseys.

“We’ll take that if you’re not using it.” A pair of shopworn blondes with blue-and-green streaked hair made puppy eyes at Joe and the ID around his neck:
FIELD AND LOCKER ROOM ACCESS.

Joe chuckled and tucked the lanyard inside his shirt. He started down the popcorn-littered stairs. Every few steps a tipsy white dude high-fived him.

“Seahawks!” screamed one who’d forgotten he was holding a beer. A wave of amber grain sloshed onto his fingers. He slurped at them lovingly.

Every face said what didn’t need to be spoken:
We made it inside this place, the best place
. The collective pride buoyed Joe as he made his way to row J.

His seat was six in. He scanned the row for Eleanor. Perhaps she hadn’t arrived yet.

“Sorry, folks,” Joe said cheerily, making his way to his seat. “Hate to do this.”

Eleanor
was
there. Sitting, legs crossed, hugging the purse in her lap. She stood to let Joe pass.

“Hey, babe!” Joe had to yell. “Can you believe this craziness?”

“I know! The rows are like sliced prosciutto. You have to be Flat Stanley to get by.”

“That too,” he said, and gave her a peck on the cheek.

“Oh!” she said. “I just stopped by the hospitality suite. Have you been?”

“I don’t think so.”

The Cardinal offense had taken the field. The first play of the year, a running play. Gain of five.

“Gah,” Joe said. “We should have stopped that.”

Those around him grumbled in stressed-out agreement.

“All they have there,” Eleanor was saying, “is bottles of room-temperature water, SunChips, and a giant bowl of watery fruit salad. It looked canned. At least the apples were fresh. You know how I know?”

“Honey,” Joe said. “The game.”

A pass play, the Cardinals quarterback going long… broken up… by Vonte!

“There’s my man!” Joe cheered.

A riot of high-fives, Joe giving and getting the love from all sides.

Two rows down, four jerseys bobbed:
DAGGATT, DAGGATT, DAGGATT, DAGGATT.
Vonte’s family. Joe recognized them from the hospital. His wife, Chrissy, going bananas as the girls, Michaela, Asia, and Vanessa, took videos of the video replay.

Joe sensed something near his face.

Eleanor’s thumb. On it, the sticker from an apple.

“Look what I almost choked on!” she said, grinning.

A sudden rush of dark thoughts grabbed Joe by the throat.

She doesn’t want to be here. She doesn’t like anything I like. Jazz, documentaries, bike rides. If it’s not her idea, she’ll sit there making disturbing grimace-y faces. My wife is a solo act. She’s always been a solo act. Why am I just seeing it now?

“You don’t have to stay,” he said.

“Huh?”

“The plan wasn’t to torture you,” he said. “The plan was for us to enjoy the game together.”

Eleanor’s whole being settled; her face relaxed. “Have I told you lately that I love you?”

Joe chuckled. It was their least favorite Van Morrison song.

“I can’t hear you!” a voice boomed. Macklemore, pretaped, hamming it up on the Diamond Vision.

Third down. Every fan knew what to do: Stand up and scream their guts out. Joe joined in, shrieking through cupped hands.

He turned to Eleanor. She wasn’t there.

Over his shoulder, between the fans, he saw her zipping up the stairs, two at a time.

Unbelievable.

She’d actually fucking left.

Her seat was still down. The disbelief, the outrage, the alienation.

The empty chair.

Joe stumbled backward, one foot landing squarely on a clear plastic Seahawks tote. He picked it up. It was full of cracked makeup.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

Three frat bros standing above did the slow, sarcastic clap.

Green sparkly fingernails snatched the bag. A pissed-off woman in a pink camouflage T-shirt with a sequined
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whimpered in dismay.

“I’m sorry,” Joe said.

“Walk much?” her husband quipped.

“My favorite rouge!” the woman cried. “Now the hinges are cracked.”

Clap. Clap. Clap.

Something within Joe awakened. His eyes darted between the frat guys and the husband and wife.

“For real?” he said.

To a person, they averted their gazes.

Joe got the hell out.

Shaky, he jogged along the promenade, back through the section tunnel, and along the concession stands with their meaty, yeasty, cloying smell-storms. He pushed down the stairs past agitated latecomers. Up on a platform, a shiny Toyota truck frozen in mid-adventure, tilted, about to flip.

He flashed his pass at the guard posted outside the blue curtain. The restricted area. He followed the blue-and-green stripe on the concrete floor. It veered left.

Overhead:
FIELD ACCESS THROUGH THESE DOORS.

“Dr. Wallace!” Another guard, Mindy, a secret Colts fan, stepped aside to let Joe through.

In giant blue letters along the white cinder-block hallway:

GET THE WIN.

ALWAYS COMPETE.

LET’S DO THIS.

NEVER QUIT.

Joe’s stomach seized from the harsh smack of the words.

Another rush of dark thoughts.

The sending money to my parents. The charity trips. The fund-raising. The twenty-six-hour flights to Kenya. The extra time I take with patients. The lifting weights at the WAC. The cute links I send Eleanor. The steam engine built with Timby. The showers before getting into the pool. Notes praising helpful customer-service people. Picking up garbage off the sidewalk. Trips to the e-waste center. Keeping the thermostat at sixty-eight. Not wasting dinner rolls. Letting other cars into traffic. Mnemonics to remember the names of the OR staff. Salt-free potato chips. Games of Clue. Colonoscopies. Giving Eleanor the better parking space. The weekly hardcover purchase at Elliott Bay. Resoling shoes. Tipping hotel maids. Refilling growlers. Punctuating text messages—

Boom!
The thud of a cannon going off on the field.

Coming toward him down the tunnel: A bird of prey. Eye level. The real, live Seattle sea hawk, perched on its handler’s gloved arm. Joe locked eyes with the bird as he passed. The raptor held Joe’s stare, head gliding around, its penetrating gaze suggesting both wisdom and weariness.

Joe’s shoulders jerked with tension. He stepped out onto the turf.

The Sea Gals jogged up in formation and took their places, eight across, two deep, and began a lurid shimmy to “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap.” Makeup thick as tree bark, man-made cleavage, flesh-colored tights: a living affront to the natural world.

Joe looked away.

The Cardinals had the ball again; the ’Hawks must have gone three and out. The coaches and players were clustered at the far end of the field.

Joe spotted Gordy at the fifty. Just the sight of the trainer brought Joe a tickle of relief: his people.

Gordy was joking with the team “flexibility specialist,” basically a yoga teacher, a little guy with spindly legs who always wore a bandanna. He said something that had Gordy cracking up.

Joe picked up his pace, eager to join the camaraderie.

But then, in Gordy’s hand: a splint.
The
splint.

Joe scanned the action. Their defense was getting into position. He found number 27.

His back to Joe.
DAGGATT
.

Joe’s whole body juddered in disbelief. He stormed toward the trainer.

“What the fuck, Gordy?”

Gordy turned. He knew how bad this was.

The yoga teacher got out of the line of fire.

“Vonte wanted to try a possession without it,” Gordy said, panic cracking his voice. “He was feeling good.”

“Not your call.”

“We’re cool,” said the yoga teacher.

“No,” Joe snapped. “We’re not cool.”

“He almost made the pick—” Gordy stammered.

“What, you have him on your fantasy team or something? You have one concern: to make sure none of those men have a career-ending injury.”

“I know.” Gordy looked on the verge of vomiting.

“That’s his livelihood! These guys have ten years in them if they’re lucky! He has three daughters!”

“I know.”

“You don’t fucking know!” Joe got in his face. “Stop saying you know!”

The yoga teacher got between them.

“Hey, bro, relax.”

“You don’t talk to me!” Joe bellowed.

“Let’s dial this whole thing down,” the yoga teacher cooed. His orange bandanna was covered in a logo—

GODADDY.

Joe shoved the yoga teacher, hard.

“The hell?”
Gordy cried—

The yoga teacher flew back and almost went down—

But was saved by his remarkable balance—

And sprang back up.

Joe charged again, this time slamming the bewildered yogi to the turf. Joe drew back his fist and—

From behind, a big pair of arms clamped him in a bouncer hold.

“That’s enough!” Kevin, his friend, hustled Joe off the field.

“They let Daggatt go out without his splint!” Joe raged.

“Joe, man, pull it together!” Kevin shouted over the cacophonous 70,000.

Joe looked back.

A consternated ref was trotting over to Gordy and the dazed yoga teacher, who was now standing, one foot inbounds.

Kevin stepped into Joe’s line of sight. “I’ll deal with it. Just go inside. Go!” Kevin gave Joe a hefty push toward the tunnel.

“C’mon, man!” Voices. “C’mon, man!” Heckling voices. Hanging off the rail overhead and on both sides: potbellied, faces painted, green-Afroed, tongues out, drunk before noon. “C’mon, man!” Jeering at Joe.

He reeled into the tunnel. Vertigo hit. The fact of what he had just done. It raised his head off his shoulders and made it wobble, left and right, around and around. He teetered against the cold cinder-block wall.

“Need something, Doc?” Yet another guard, sitting and watching the game on a phone balanced on his big knee.

A door. The press room. Empty now. Joe lunged for the knob.

Pete Carroll’s lectern. Seahawks wallpaper. Rows of empty chairs. More chairs stacked, so high they seemed to sway. Joe closed the door behind him.

A tomblike quiet descended.

Joe, jangly, panting, his heartbeat on the fritz.

He took it.

He took it.

Until he couldn’t take it.

He slumped onto a bench and pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.