That's My Son

                Down here in Texas, football isn’t the most important thing. That’s what all of them northerners think, but it ain’t true. Down here in Texas, football is the only thing.
         When I was younger, my daddy used to tuck me into bed and tell me something. He’d tell me the same thing every night. “Brian,” he’d say, because that was my name, “Football is the greatest game ever played. And down here in Texas, it’s our…well, it’s our pride, son. Us Texans ain’t smart, and we ain’t too attractive either. Ya know, son, if a football game was goin’ on right out in front of the school, that buildin’ could start on fire. A-blazin’ and a-burnin’; and ain’t a-one person in the stands that’d look up. I’d say even the firemen would come out to watch ‘em play.”
         I used to imagine myself as one of the players (always number 16, but I don’t know why), and we were all lined up and ready for our next play, and then, by chance, I would look up into the stands just for a second. And he would be standin’ there under the burnin’ blazin’ fire, just a-smiling at me. And then I would see a tear in his eye, just a tiny glint of a tear, and he would point at me and say, “That’s my son.”
         I always took after Mama more than Dad. Daddy was a big guy, tall and muscular, with a shaved head and blue eyes. Mama was tiny and frail, a wisp of a feather that might just blow away in the winter breeze. She had dark, Spanish eyes and hair the color of a fawn’s fur.
         Like I said, I took after Mama mostly. By age three I had dark hair like hers, and even my baby blue eyes were starting to darken. I was a little kid, way too small for my age all up through the years. By the end of fifth grade I was the shortest kid in my class, and probably the smallest at sixty pounds.
         When I started junior high, I still hadn’t gained an ounce. I had pretty good hand-eye coordination, but I wasn’t the fastest or the strongest. I’d come home from school and throw down my books, and Dad would take me outside to “bulk up.” Every night I’d do a hundred pushups – if I collapsed in the middle I had to start over counting. And then we’d go running: Dad would lead me out into the part of the city where I could get lost real easy, and then he’d take off driving and make me chase the car.
         “You must hate him.” My best friend Billy had asked me to come to his house after school one day, and I had told him about the exercises I had to do.
         “No,” I answered honestly. “I just wish he didn’t have to do this. If I was bigger like you, or like him, I maybe could actually be good at football like a real Texas man.”
         When football season started, the sixth grade coach, Tom Biggy, rounded up all of the boys in our class.
         “Now, listen here, young’uns,” Coach Biggy began, and I thought of what a fitting name he had. Coach Biggy probably weighed the same as my dad, only instead of muscle he was composed entirely of fat. He had shaggy brown hair that always made me think of our old mutt, Scraps. And always, I don’t know if he meant to or not, but he always had an angry frown plastered on his face.
         “Boys, football is our pride and joy here in Texas. It’s what we’re made for. If the whole school was on fire, not a-one of those firemen would be gettin’ dressed.” He paused, then continued fiercely, “Because they’d all be watchin’ you play. And as long as I’m your coach, you’d better make ‘em proud.”
         To a lot of people I guess it musta been redundant, to hear the same thing their fathers had been telling them for years. But not for me. Coach Biggy’s insistence that it was true only made it that much more impressive, intimidating, and astonishing in my mind. Once again I imagined myself in the number 16 jersey, looking up and seeing Dad and Coach Biggy and the chief of the fire department, all there to watch me.
         I thought my try-out went good. I caught every pass that came my way even though some of the other kids didn’t. I went home and told Dad that. The way he smiled…I’d never seen him so happy. The light sparkled in his eyes, and he beamed so big I could see every single one of his teeth. He picked me up and swung me around – which he could still do, light as I was – and then he told me to hit the showers and hit the sack, a smile still in his voice.
         The rest of the week was great. Dad let me go to Billy’s after school on Thursday, and on Friday he “accidentally” left a ten-dollar bill in my room, which he let me keep. I went to bed with the greatest feeling, like there was a balloon in my chest that kept growing and growing…
         “Brian, you’re the greatest son a man –“
         SLAM!
         My eyes fluttered open, taking in my surroundings. I was still in bed. What on Earth could make such a noise?
         SLAM! Again. And shouts. Dad. “How dare he? He lied to me! He’ll get it…”
         Mom. “Please, Butch…don’t! Don’t hurt him!”
         Dad again. “Get out of my way, woman,” he growled, “or I’ll do the same to you.”
         My bedroom door burst open, revealing my father. There was something in his hand, but I couldn’t see what it was. He charged to my bed, and I sat up in fright.
         “You lied, boy!” he screamed. His eyes were darting back and forth; I thought he was mad, or having some sort of seizure. “B Team! Second string! You’re no good, you dirty, rotten…”
         He raised his arm.
         I could see the object that he was holding clearly.
         A hammer.
         That’s the last thing I can remember before here, now. There’s no pain. I can see a lot of things at once.
         I can see my grandfather. That’s weird. I thought he was dead. I remember his funeral that we went to when I was seven. He’s calling to me. I don’t know how he recognizes me. The place where he is looks warm, inviting.
         I can also see my mother. She’s holding the hand of a young nurse and standing beside a hospital bed. The boy in it looks like me, but it can’t be. I’m here. I don’t know where here is, but I’m here. My mom looks up and calls to me. She’s crying. I want to go to her, but that place is cold and frightening.
         I don’t know what to do. I’m scared. I just want to crawl up in a ball and cry, but I can’t seem to find my body. I’m confused. Please…someone help me…
         I can see one more thing. The school is on fire. Out in front, a football game is in progress. That boy in the number 16 jersey sure looks like me. Or maybe like the boy in the hospital bed. The stands are full, and I can see Coach Biggy shouting plays and the chief of the fire department standing still and staring at the scoreboard. But one person stands out most among the rest. My dad. He’s smiling like the day of the try-outs, when I came home and told him that I thought I would make the team for sure. In his left hand is a hammer, the tiniest drop of blood on the head. As I watch, he lifts his right arm and points at me: not at the me in the number 16 jersey, and not at the me in the hospital bed. The me that’s here. He points and me and says something. I can’t hear him, but I can read his lips.
         “That’s my son.”