Starting Over

Starting Over
Sean O'Connor had always been lucky: tall and muscular, from a solid family, intelligent but not nerdy, with a full athletic scholarship to play football--what more could he want? He had always tried to be grateful and humble, to get outside himself and think about others. He was a good son, a good brother, a good friend, a good student. And now he had a bad knee.
Sean had been disappointed, maybe even anxious when the doctor told him three weeks ago that he was done with football. But he wasn't devastated. Football was important to him, but he'd always known it wasn't going to last forever. So far, though, time had made adjustment harder, not easier. He had a lot to be grateful for, sure: a family that was going to see him through college, scholarship or no, and the ideal job--an assistant coaching position that could be his ticket to the perfect career. Sean had always liked Coach Ross, a gruff man about his grandfather's age with a loud opinion and a soft heart, but since Sean's injury, he'd been fantastic. Still, there were so many pinpricks. Sometimes the cool air and the crunch of leaves would bring on a wave of nostalgia that nearly knocked Sean off his feet. He could almost feel the pre-game butterflies, the stifling pads, the moment of tension waiting for the ref's whistle--then it would hit him that it was over. Worse, though, was the loss of camaraderie. The team tried to include him, but it felt, well, like they were trying to include him. And then there was Jason.
Sean had met Jason Thompson--an inner city kid with no dad, a crazy mess of cousins and step-siblings, and football skills like you wouldn't believe--at a Jr. High football camp. By the end of the week, the two were inseparable. They'd carried their high school team to two state championships, and worked together on their scholarship applications. By the end of freshmen year, both were stars, with impressive records and promising careers. Then Sean hurt his knee. It was like they didn't know what to do with each other. If Jason tried to be sympathetic, it felt wrong, and anyway made Sean mad; if he ignored it, it felt bigger than ever. Sean knew it wasn't Jason's fault, maybe not anybody's fault, but still . . . losing football and his friend seemed like adding insult to injury.
These thoughts--nostalgic, angry, pathetic--ran circles in Sean's head. Sometimes they morphed into heroic tragedies, and after a while Sean didn't bother to distinguish memory from fact from fantasy. Injured, redirected, hopeful, Sean was also painfully conscious of his loneliness.
But if there were fewer friends to hide behind, Sean could still lose himself in a good game. On a perfect day in late September, they had their first game. It was an easy victory, but it was weird. Jason, the all-star quarterback destined for the NFL, never left the bench. Taylor Richardson played quarterback instead. Richardson was a walk-on whose dad had played for the school twenty plus years ago before going on to a career in the NFL; he was a commentator now. But Richardson, Jr did not take after his Dad. In fact, as far as anyone could tell, he didn't even like football. He cringed before he got hit. His throws were rushed. He threw up before games and stood in the huddle like he was going to his execution.. And, to his chagrin--and everybody else's--he played quarterback the whole game. The team was one big question mark when it assembled in the locker room.
When it happened again the next week, Sean saw Taylor talking ostentatiously to the coach during half-time, like he was trying to absolve himself. But nothing changed. After the third game, Jason skipped a practice. Then another. Three unexcused absences and you were off the team: school policy, no exceptions. Though he barely acknowledged it, Sean was kind of glad for the chance to pull Jason out of a tight spot.


When Sean opened Jason's door, the dorm was dark and smelled of body odor and stale caf food. A Criminal Minds rerun was playing on Jason's laptop. "Hey, man." Sean stopped, suddenly wondering exactly what he was going to say. What did he know that Jason didn't? Would he want his help? Would he think he had come to gloat? The possibility that he had wafted through his mind, and Sean ignored it.
Jason grunted an acknowledgment of his presence, his eyes barely flicking away from the screen.
"Missed you at practice, man."
Snort.
This was going to be tough. Sean picked his way through dirty clothes, books, and takeout trash and sat down gingerly on the edge of the unmade bed. Gunshots and sirens blared from the screen. "So . . . you don't get to play for three games, and you're ready to just give up on football in general?"
Jason visibly stiffened. He exhaled, hard. "Know what, man? That ain't your problem." He voice was painfully matter of fact. He hadn't told Sean to leave, but the message was clear. Sean wasn't big on nonverbal communication, he couldn't miss this.
Sean sighed. "Look, man, I'm sorry. But . . ." But what?
Jason sighed too. Almost apologetically, he explained, "You think I'm gonna play on Saturday? I bust my butt out there, and that little pansy who'd rather be in a tutu than a uniform is the one on the field." He signed, resigned. "Dude, I don't know what game we're playin', but it ain't in my league. It's, like . . " He shook his head.
Suddenly, it hit Sean, almost like a revelation. "Dude!" He grinned. "That's it!"
Jason looked at him. Sean was beaming. "Dude!" He said again. "You're right man, this ain't football."
"Yeah" Jason raised an eyebrow. "That's what I said."
"But," Sean was excited. "if it's not, then we can find out what it is, fix it, and you go back to being quarterback. Ta da! Just don't screw up by like, skipping practice or somethin'."
Jason rolled his eyes, amused but skeptical. "Uh huh."
"Listen, if you were Coach Ross, why would you play Richardson?" More recorded gunshots. Almost subconsciously, Jason shut the computer and silence filled the room.
"I dunno."
"Me either. But I bet it's not a good reason."
"Wait." Jason screwed his face into an incredulous expression. "You sayin' you think Coach is cheating?"
"I dunno. If he is, I don't think he likes it very much. Maybe somebody's, I don't know, like pressuring him or something." Sean nodded vigorously, beginning to convince himself. "Richardson's dad would do it."
"You mean, like blackmail?" Jason shook his head. "I dunno. . ."
Sean was quiet. Then he shrugged. "Man, there's gotta be something. It doesn't make any sense, unless . . ." He shook his head. "There's gotta be somethin'."
Jason stared for a moment at the chinks of light edging around the yellowed blinds. A door slammed down the hall. "It's no good man. If there is blackmail or somethin' . . . well, how we gonna fix that?" He kicked a take-out box across the floor. "No go, man."
Sean looked pointedly around the room, noting the coke bottles, the greasy take out trays, the wads of red-stained homework. "You got a better plan?"
Jason sighed, following his gaze. He tried to look annoyed. "Fine. Let me hear it."
Sean chewed his lip thoughtfully, staring at a visible inch of greenish tile. "Maybe . . . . maybe all we gotta do is, like, make the right people suspicious." He grinned. "Then they'll do the work for us!" Sean's grin broadened. "Actually, suspicion may raise itself. Everybody knows it's weird. A couple losses, a drop in ticket sales--the deans may check it out on their own."
Jason shook his head. "Dang, man. It could be all stinkin' season 'fore they get around to that!"
"Okay, Eeyore, so we'll help 'em out."
"Okay, jeez." Jason grinned. "So what is the plan?"
"Well, first things first. You gotta come to practice." Sean shrugged. "After that . . . well, we'll think of something."


True to form, Jason showed up to practice the next day. He even apologized. Most of the guys were sympathetic . . . and relieved. Even Coach Ross looked relieved. Jason worked hard too, and by the end of the day, he had made his point: he deserved to play. Sean left that afternoon thinking, thinking, trying to make sense of it all. Just before he fell asleep, he realized that things felt more right than they had since, well, since he hurt his knee.
In the middle of the night, Sean suddenly bolted up in bed. His preoccupations had morphed into dreams about the beginning of the season, the tryouts when all the freshmen wannabees thronged the field. He remembered Taylor Richardson standing there, looking miserable and out of place. He remembered Old Richardson standing on the sidelines. There had been a lot of lousy players on the field that day, but only Taylor was intentional about it. If he'd had the skill of Peyton Manning, Coach wouldn't have taken him. So why had he? Sean rolled out of bed, and typed an excited and hopefully coherent facebook message to Jason. Then he laid back down and stared at the ceiling.


Sean caught Jason walking across the quad the next morning. "Hey, man. Did you get my message?"
"Yeah. You think Rich shouldn't have made the team."
"Yeah. Look, I think we're goin' at this from the wrong end. The dirt isn't that Rich's playing now. It's that he ever made the team in the first place. Maybe if Coach cheated a little there . . . it's hard to stop that kinda thing. And it's not like Rich took anybody's place."
"Okay, maybe. But man, I don't think that's gonna get me off that freakin' bench."
"Naw, man, listen. I don't think we need to look for any real big reason--just enough to, ya know, make it kinda of convenient thing. Probably it wasn't even a real bribe."
Sean looked at Jason's face, waiting for a grin of comprehension that didn't come. He decided to try another tactic. "Look, Jay, I think it would take something really big to make Coach jeopardize the season like this." He paused, staring at the fluffy clouds and searching for the right word. It was so obvious! "But, what if, say, his son looses a scholarship and his wife wrecks a car, and old Richardson comes up and tells Coach he can smooth things over with the dean or the insurance or whatever if his son gets to walk on. Coach figures Rich, Jr can't do any harm, and there isn't anybody else who deserves to make the team anyway." Sean paused, reading Jason's expression. They'd stopped walking and were standing under a Bradford Pear that was just beginning to change.
"Okay." Jason dragged the word out non-commitally.
Sean continued, using his hands. "Well then, old Rich tells the coach that he's gonna bust him for taking a bribe if his son doesn't get to play. Voila! Blackmail!"
"I dunno man."
"Dude, you've heard Rich on TV and stuff, right? He could talk Mr. Rogers into killing his grandma. A stunt like this he could pull in his sleep!"
Jason laughed, but still looked uncertain. "We can't prove it. And I mean, like, to accuse Coach of somethin' like this . . . "
Both were silent for a minute. Then Jason shrugged. "Dude, why don't we just ask coach about it? Tell him it don't make sense. Tell him I wanna play. Maybe he got a reason."
Sean felt disappointed, deflated for a moment. But then he looked at his friend with new respect. His fantastic daydreams suddenly felt childish. "Okay. Sure."


All the next day, various versions of the meeting played themselves out in Sean's imagination. In some of the them, his brilliant wit ruthlessly dissected Coach's lies. In others, Coach broke down, and Sean's creative genius freed him from an entrapping situation. And in others . . . But all these visions seemed hopelessly juvenile when Sean and Jason sat on a bench in the gray locker room that smelled of stale sweat and mildew, with both Jason and Coach looking at Sean expectantly.
"Uh, Coach Ross, sir." Sean stopped, clearing his throat. "Sir, you see, Jason and I, well we were thinking, sir, that, well, it's kinda like, I mean, sort of . . . that is." He took a deep breath. "We think it's weird that Richardson is playing so much." He said it very fast, exhaled. The corners of the coach's mouth twitched.
"You were, huh?
"Yes sir."
"And you think a month and a half of coaching experience qualifies you to question my decisions?" He sounded amused.
"Oh no, sir." Sean grinned, feeling his tension dissipate. "I think a week of playing JV football would have qualified me to question this decision." Had he really just said that out loud? Maybe his relaxation had been premature. Jason snorted, and tried to cover it up with a cough.
Coach Ross froze for a second, his mouth twitching. Sean could tell he was trying to decide whether to laugh or blow up. He blew up. He stood, throwing the towel that had been across his knees emphatically to the floor. "I don't have to listen to this. Consider yourself warned, son." He stuck a finger in Sean's face. "Mouth off like this again, and you'll have to find yourself a new job." He turned toward Jason. "And you--you know you're already on probation."
He turned on his heel and began striding angrily toward the door. They were about to lose their chance. "Wait sir." Sean yelled.
Jason muttered under his breath, "Shut up, man. It's okay."
Sean ignored him. "Sir, we . . . I. I think there has to be foul play somewhere. That's the only reason . . . that's the only explanation that makes any sense."
Coach Ross was half way to the door. It seemed to take him forever to turn around. Sean had played his last card.
Coach Ross's voice was very quiet. "What are you accusing me of, Son?"
Sean thought Coach intended to sound threatening, but he also sounded scared, maybe hurt. "Not you, I mean, not really. I . . . I think Richardson, like, tricked you into letting his son on the team, and then blackmailed you into letting him play, er, um, somethin' like that."
Coach's mouth twisted into an ironic grin. "That's your theory, huh? Clever." He was trying to look mocking, but he didn't quite pull it off. Sean searched for a witty but respectful response, but Jason was quicker.
"Sir, I think it might be clever enough to interest the deans." He was respectful, but equally inexorable. Sean's position suddenly felt much stronger.
Coach looked from one to the other. He retraced his steps and sank heavily onto the metal bench. "I didn't mean to. It just . . . I mean, what was it gonna hurt?" He could've been talking to himself. "None of those boys were serious about football. Why not make Jen happy and Richardson happy and the same time? He's been bugging me all summer about that stupid kid of his. And Jen's been badgering me about that quack doctor she wants to see. It was just . . . just getting them off my back, earnin' a little money for the program." He sighed, burying his face in his hands. "I've been a good coach. For twenty years, I've been a good coach."
Sean and Jason looked at the floor, as the coach repeated himself, softer. He sound so old, so fragile, so defeated. And they knew he was right. And they knew how stupid, pointless, almost accidental, his cheating had been. But . . . could he stop? Could he still be a good coach?
Coach Ross looked up. His hands hung between his knees. "So . . . what are you going to do?"
The silence filled the room. Sean was vaguely conscious of intermittent traffic and someone playing a car stereo too loud. He stared hard at the floor. Jason cleared his throat. "Well sir . . . what would you do?"
The coach leaned back a little. Then he snorted mirthlessly. "If I were you?" He examined the floor. "I'd turn me in." He met Jason's eyes with a wry smile. "And I'd be dang happy doin' it."
"Yes, sir." Jason grinned. "Well, I mean, I dunno 'bout know about being 'dang happy'," He paused. So much seemed to hang in the balance."But, well, sir, ya see . . . I sure would like to play again."
Coach frowned. "I'd like that too, Son."
Jason stood up, and Sean followed. "Wait!" Coach looked confused. "What're you gonna do?"
"I'm not sure yet, sir." Jason paused, holding Coach's gaze, compassionate, firm. "What are you gonna do?" They walked out, leaving Coach alone. The first stars were emerging as, side by side, they came out into the night.