The Hard Count(74)

I wait, letting the silence sink in and keep my camera tight on Noah’s face, his passion playing out behind him, obscured but recognizable.

“You know what the doctor said when they set my leg?” Noah asks.

“No…what?” I respond.

He chews at the inside of his mouth and then looks up, but not quite to the camera.

“He said my break was nothing more than just dumb luck,” he says.

He doesn’t smile or laugh. His mouth falls, and his lips curve down slightly. His eyes make their way back to me through the lens.

“Dumb luck,” he repeats, his mouth held open, as if he’s working out the words that follow. “I am losing the future I thought I had. I’m going to end up playing for some school that has no shot in hell of being seen by anyone, and then I’m going to graduate with some degree I don’t even know how to use because football, Reagan? It’s the only goddamned thing I know. What does that mean for me? Why am I even bothering? There’s a part of me that just…hell…”

I swallow, because I know. I’ve watched him give in. I’ve watched him quit. He’s given up.

“You’re too good to give up,” I say.

“Am I?” he asks.

I nod, not speaking.

“Tell me why you love this game, and being a part of The Tradition?” I ask.

Noah shifts his weight and looks out to the right. The team is breaking for water behind him, and our father is walking across the field slowly in our direction, just out of the camera’s view.

“When I started? I wanted to make Dad proud,” Noah says. My father is too far to hear it, and I know it’s why he said it now.

“Okay, but why keep going?” I ask, pushing him for more.

He leans forward, his leg stretched out in the only position it can rest, his hands on his knees, his fingers flexing around the caps.

“Because being the son of a man who had a legacy, though not big…it puts thoughts in your head. You start to think you can beat that legacy. You start to think people expect you to at least meet it. And then, there’s this weird life we have because this team…it’s so important to people. And the way they look at Dad when he wins? The way they treat us when we lose? It’s f*cked up, Reagan…”

He pauses, and holds up a hand to apologize for swearing.

“It’s okay. It’s a documentary. Speak like you really do,” I say.

“Fine, well…yeah, then. It’s f*cked up,” he says, his eyes low again, his lids blinking. I feel our father’s presence behind me. That’s why Noah isn’t talking, and I start to tell him we can finish this up later, but he looks right into the lens and doesn’t give me the chance.

“As screwed up as it is to live your lives for a game, I still wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. Getting to lead these guys, getting to have them look up at me…have the alumni look up to me, the boosters…Dad—well, I imagine that’s what it’s like for people that get voted into seats in Congress or get to run major corporations. It’s such an unbelievable privilege. And I lost it, because of…dumb luck.”

Noah glances over my shoulder, and I know he’s looking at our dad.

“Doesn’t mean I don’t still want to see them win, see Dad win. Doesn’t mean I don’t believe in them…without me. I just hate it. It hurts more than anything I’ve ever known,” Noah says.

“You’ll get it back,” our father says, his voice carrying from over my shoulder. I don’t turn, instead keeping my focus on my brother’s face. He chuckles to himself quietly, but keeps his eyes on our dad’s.

“You think so?” he asks.

“I know so,” Dad says. “Dumb luck be damned. It hasn’t seen the spirit of a Prescott boy pissed off at the world.”

Noah’s lips twist as he tries to keep his smile in check. The right side finally lifts high enough that he gives in and smiles, nodding.

“True story,” he says.

“True story,” my father echoes.

I cut the camera off, and step away.

“We’re going to see if we can work on a few of the blitz plays, teach Nico how to read them and avoid them. Think you’re up for helping?”

My father stands with his hand out for my brother, and after a second, Noah takes it and lets my dad help him up to a stand. He pulls his crutches under his arms and swings a step or two away from the bench.

“I’d love to,” he says.

I wish I’d gotten that on film. But maybe…maybe some things are meant to be private.

I watch them both begin to walk away, but before my brother gets too far, he stops, urging my dad to keep walking. Noah takes a few swinging strides back in my direction, stopping, his weight propped up on his crutches.

“Your video isn’t stupid,” he says.

“I know,” I say, proud that I had that response ready.

Noah smirks, looking down at his feet and nodding.

“I was a dick to say that the other night,” he says.

“I know,” I say again, twice as proud this time.

Noah laughs.

“I deserve that,” he says.

“Yes, you do,” I say.

“We good then?” he asks.

“Not even close,” I say. His eyes flash to mine, and I let my lip curl the tiniest bit on the right side, just to ease his conscience enough that he can get through today. I don’t want him off the hook, but I do want my brother back.