The Hard Count(29)

“I’m not quitting just because of some cast. I’ll be there tonight—on the sidelines. I’ll be there at practice. I’ll be there with these guys—my brothers. I’m not going to stop until I put one more banner on that wall!”

The gym erupts, and the “No-ah” chants come in quickly. My mouth hurts from my smile, and I look at everyone, all smiling just the same. Everyone except two people.

When my eyes fall to my father, I notice two things. His eyes are forward, to a spot on the floor somewhere between where the tips of his shoes end and the back of my brother’s heels begin. And his mind is not on the words my brother is saying. My dad is conflicted. I see it, just as I’ve seen in on his face for the last year, since the big loss. I saw it during every cruel prank phone call with threats in the middle of the night, and I see it now. And then it hits me.

My dad wants to start Nico.

“I might not be QB-One, but I will always lead this team. That’s what you do when you’re a part of The Tradition! You step up! You step up and lead no matter what your role is, what your jersey says, where you are on the field. I’ll lead! We lead! Whose house is this?”

“Our house!” The team shouts behind my brother.

He only does it once, because it will be said a lot today. That chant will echo on through the night. I just hope that it gets said in about five minutes, when the guy who I’ve long thought to be the cockiest person I’ve ever met stands up in front of a team that does not yet trust him and asks them that very question.

Nico’s legs are bouncing. First it was the right. Then the left. Now both bob with tremors that I see easily between the row of muscular bodies all sitting still and relaxed in front of him. Too nervous to sit any more, I hold my camera steady against my chest, tilting the screen up so I can watch comfortably when I need to. I keep my eyes forward, on Nico’s legs, on my father’s mouth—the hard line still there to match the deep divot above his brow, a wrinkle from fear and what I am guessing was also probably another sleepless night.

Noah turns to where my father sits, and my dad stands, walking over and taking the mic from him, shaking his hand and squeezing his shoulder. Only a split second passes where their eyes meet, and in that tiny sliver I see how unhappy both of them really are. My brother was supposed to finish this. My dad wanted that for him.

Plans fell apart. Plans are shit. A person can’t count on anything except their gut.

Instincts.

Those are what my father has always rode—his instincts. I shut my eyes, but hold my body still. I don’t pray often. We aren’t the kind of family that goes to church unless there’s a social reason we’re expected to. But I do pray. I don’t talk about it. I do it for me. I do it when I need to escape being a Prescott. I do it when I need to know I’m not crazy, when I’m worried things aren’t going to be okay. I do it for others.

I do it now—for my dad and for Nico.

The cheers are heavy again as I open my eyes to watch my father walk with the mic to stand in front of his team. His coaching staff sits in the first row just behind him—deep-blue shirts, whistles, low-slung hats, and khakis. I could flip through more than two decades of team photos and those men, though different people, would always look the same. Behind them, his team is silent. Their eyes on their coach, all of them waiting to know who to follow. Only a handful of them are truly prepared.

“With great adversity comes great opportunity,” my father begins as chatter subsides. He glances to his team, looking at them for several long seconds without speaking again. A few of the guys shift their weight under his scrutiny, but most of them hold their position—both feet flat on the floor, hands on their knees, eyes on their coach.

“Football is a dangerous sport. I’m not saying anything earthshattering or new to any of you. We all know the risks. We’ve all seen the injuries. Hell, this isn’t even the first bone football has broken on Noah’s body. I…” My father’s head falls forward as he chuckles. “I remember when he was eight, the first time he broke his wrist. My wife, Lauren—oh she was pissed. She was ready to pull him.”

The audience responds with a mix of laughter and “noooooo!” chants.

My dad holds up a hand.

“Clearly…I prevailed in that argument,” my dad says, and the laughter grows.

“Noah has broken his wrist twice. He’s lost a tooth—one permanently—had a few concussions, had some pretty deep bruises, including one that bulged out of his thigh for what…seven weeks?”

My brother shouts “eight!”

“Eight, yeah…right,” my dad says, his laughter quieter now. “He’s had more stitches than the clothes I’m wearing. And he’s just one of more than three dozen of our state’s finest gentlemen sitting up there who can point to countless body parts and spout off injury reports.”

“Yet they all come back. They show up every summer, for training. They show up for first practice…for second practice…for fiftieth practice. They show up under the hot lights, under our high expectations. And they perform!”

There’s a wave of cheers for this part, and my dad expected it, so he lets it die out. He’s never been one to take away from the praise his boys earn. But he does not milk it.

“They show up. And they respect. And they follow. They follow each other because inside of each of them is someone who can lead. These men are all leaders. And they are going to take what they learn out here on the field and bring it forward…into their lives. They are going to lead in life. Through commitment. Through promises they make to each other. Through the strength of their brotherhood.”