The Hard Count(6)

I set the camera on my tripod to capture the scene in focus, my father’s form passing through my frame as he jogs behind, along with his coaching staff. They all seem like heroes—bigger than life, and juiced with aggression and desire for victory. They’re made this way. My dad makes them this way.

It’s beautiful.

It’s also sad.

My video runs for nineteen minutes, mostly capturing warm-ups and the kickoff before the sun finally sets and I shut my recording off. I wanted to capture the drama of the performance so I could fast-forward it in editing and layer it with music.

I’m making a documentary on Cornwall. Mostly, it’s on my dad and brother. They only half know that part, but they both like the attention—Noah more than anyone. My film is about the legacy of this program, but also about the pressure it puts on people—on families.

On my family.

The storyline is epic, and the potential for a fairytale or tragic ending is equal. This documentary is also my ticket into the film school at Prestige, a private art institution in the Northeast. My family lives football. My mom is queen bee of the social circle that comes with being a major donor and booster; my father is the man four wins away from setting a state record for the most wins ever with a single program. My brother is being courted by The Big Ten, and he’s been interviewed by all of the big press that comes along with it.

All of that is the fairytale side of the story.

The dark side is the dysfunction we live with: my dad’s blind eye to the rules my brother breaks. He drove his car into the river last season with six of his teammates packed inside, along with empty bottles and cans that somehow disappeared before any authorities showed up. It’s also the pills my mom takes to keep the grin on her face, to stay in her marriage and not to sob herself to sleep when people write horrible things in chalk on our driveway about my dad losing his job.

It’s the blood I know my father coughs up from ulcers.

The price of winning is steep, and sometimes it doesn’t seem worth it. Yet, I adore my dad, and I root for my brother, and want to see my mom happy. I guess it’s like Nico said; people don’t make any decision unless they get some personal pleasure from the outcome. My family’s success gives me pleasure—even when it’s killing us.

I pull my camera from the tripod and close the screen, my eyes watching the end zone where my brother has just leapt over the Mountain Crest High defensive line to score six. The band kicks in, the drums beating hard and fast, gaining speed with the chants the crowd yells every time we score. They count to six, and fireworks will soon mark the extra point. I smile, because this is the fairytale stuff.

“Nice keeper,” I fumble the camera and nearly drop it with my startle, but a swift, warm hand covers mine and pushes everything back into a cradle against my chest. I recognize the voice, but the touch is foreign, and it takes my mind a second longer to catch up to what my eyes see. Nico’s shirtless, but still in his dark jeans that he wore to school, his T-shirt tucked into the waistband and his arm damp with sweat.

“Thanks,” I say, peering at his bare skin, but quickly turning my attention over to my camera that I almost dropped on the asphalt. I’m sweating.

“For rescuing that fancy lens of yours?” he asks, taking a step or two away while he shuffles a football from one hand to the other. “Or for complimenting your brother?”

“Both, I guess,” I stammer, my eyes unable to look away from the ball now clutched at the center of his chest. I force my gaze up, and I’m greeted by the dimple. That small trait of his kicks in my stubbornness. I open my mouth to speak, hoping something strong and independent will come out, but in a quick flash I recognize that Nico’s not alone. Five or six guys are walking up behind him, all of them shirtless and out of breath, a few with gallons of water in their hands. I don’t know why I’m overcome with nerves now; my brother’s team is at the house swimming and running around half naked all the time.

“Yo, if you want to hit on baby girl, do it on your own time, Nico. Don’t take the f*ckin’ game ball with you,” one of them says.

His words stun my mouth shut instantly, and my brow pinches in an effort to ward off the red embarrassment I can already feel creeping up my ears as the rest of the guys snicker and call out “ooooh” while they high five. Nico Medina is not hitting on me. That’s not our routine. In fact, talking outside of the one class we share is not part of the routine. He shouldn’t be here, and...

“I’m nobody’s baby girl,” I say the instant his words truly register. My chest begins to pound, not from nerves, but with that same anger I get when I’m in a debate with Nico or trying to convince my parents that film school is the right place for me after graduation.

I bend down to set my camera in the bag at my feet, and take the opportunity to squeeze my eyes closed and calm my pounding heart and heavy breath.

“You’re Coach’s girl. That’s just what we call you,” he laughs out his words. Nico shoots him a hard stare that I catch, and I also notice his friend shrug his shoulders and mouth the word what in question-slash-apology. He rolls his eyes and looks back to me. “Sorry,” he huffs. It’s completely not genuine. “I’m mostly bustin’ my boy because douchebag took the ball. Come on, Nic. We’ve got game,” the guy says, brushing his hand forward until his fingers touch my arm. I fight the instinct to flinch and instead nod. He nods back with a wink, pushing Nico off balance as he runs back to the empty practice field lit only by the spill-off of light from the main field on the other side of the parking lot.