Today Will Be Different(54)

“My plan now.” The coach headed out, full of vim. “Thanks, Joe!”

“Got the whole family here,” Vonte said as Joe cut the foam.

“My wife too,” Joe said. “Her first game.”

“First game?” Vonte’s head jerked back. He launched into a long, sympathetic laugh. “Man, oh, man.”

Joe said nothing.

Eleanor not going to games had been understandable at first; over time, it grew annoying; over more time, it felt like a personal dig. Which was why Joe had insisted she come today.

Joe applied the splint himself. It would give Vonte’s wrist good stability but allow full movement of the fingers.

“First pick-six is for you, Doc,” Vonte said.

“I’d expect nothing less,” said Joe.

Joe followed up with other players and their minor dings. A sore knee. A back spasm. A sprained toe from a barbecue flip-flop accident.

Close to game time, Joe found himself in the flow of players and personnel making their way to the field. Spirits were high but not too high. It boded well for a win.

The team waited for their cue in the shadowy mouth of the tunnel. Out on the field, men rolled fire-shooting columns into place. The Sea Gals formed their glamorous gauntlet. Yellow-vested video crews swarmed. When the camera lights hit, the players pressed together in an amoeba-like cluster, bouncing and chanting.

Joe ducked out of the way and found his friend Kevin, another team physician who’d agreed to run lead today on account of Eleanor’s rare appearance.

“I’ll be in the stands,” Joe told him.

“Cool,” Kevin said. “I’ll text if we need you.”

Joe pulled out his shiny ticket and headed up.


He emerged from the pleasantly echoing concrete of the concourse into a swaying, sparkling ocean, the seventy thousand fans an undulation of blue. White lights set the field ablaze in freakishly fake green. The September sky felt moody with patches of black; wisps of clouds rushed overhead. A twist of wind brushed Joe’s face. He breathed in the salty air.

This.

Jeopardy! champ and Seattle native Ken Jennings hoisted the 12 flag, then rushed to the rail, whipping a rally towel over his head, twirling the ecstatic crowd into a frenzy. Even the kickoff siren couldn’t compete with the ear-busting roar. The stadium quaked underfoot.

Kickoff!

The Cardinal return man signaled fair catch. The fans registered their disappointment, ripples on the sea.

Joe lingered on the promenade, basking in the optimism. How he wished Timby were here! First thing Monday, Joe would submit a ticket request for every home game. On his way out, he’d hit the fan shop and scoop up matching jerseys.

“We’ll take that if you’re not using it.” A pair of shopworn blondes with blue-and-green streaked hair made puppy eyes at Joe and the ID around his neck: FIELD AND LOCKER ROOM ACCESS.

Joe chuckled and tucked the lanyard inside his shirt. He started down the popcorn-littered stairs. Every few steps a tipsy white dude high-fived him.

“Seahawks!” screamed one who’d forgotten he was holding a beer. A wave of amber grain sloshed onto his fingers. He slurped at them lovingly.

Every face said what didn’t need to be spoken: We made it inside this place, the best place. The collective pride buoyed Joe as he made his way to row J.

His seat was six in. He scanned the row for Eleanor. Perhaps she hadn’t arrived yet.

“Sorry, folks,” Joe said cheerily, making his way to his seat. “Hate to do this.”

Eleanor was there. Sitting, legs crossed, hugging the purse in her lap. She stood to let Joe pass.

“Hey, babe!” Joe had to yell. “Can you believe this craziness?”

“I know! The rows are like sliced prosciutto. You have to be Flat Stanley to get by.”

“That too,” he said, and gave her a peck on the cheek.

“Oh!” she said. “I just stopped by the hospitality suite. Have you been?”

“I don’t think so.”

The Cardinal offense had taken the field. The first play of the year, a running play. Gain of five.

“Gah,” Joe said. “We should have stopped that.”

Those around him grumbled in stressed-out agreement.

“All they have there,” Eleanor was saying, “is bottles of room-temperature water, SunChips, and a giant bowl of watery fruit salad. It looked canned. At least the apples were fresh. You know how I know?”

“Honey,” Joe said. “The game.”

A pass play, the Cardinals quarterback going long… broken up… by Vonte!

“There’s my man!” Joe cheered.

A riot of high-fives, Joe giving and getting the love from all sides.

Two rows down, four jerseys bobbed: DAGGATT, DAGGATT, DAGGATT, DAGGATT. Vonte’s family. Joe recognized them from the hospital. His wife, Chrissy, going bananas as the girls, Michaela, Asia, and Vanessa, took videos of the video replay.

Joe sensed something near his face.

Eleanor’s thumb. On it, the sticker from an apple.

“Look what I almost choked on!” she said, grinning.

A sudden rush of dark thoughts grabbed Joe by the throat.

She doesn’t want to be here. She doesn’t like anything I like. Jazz, documentaries, bike rides. If it’s not her idea, she’ll sit there making disturbing grimace-y faces. My wife is a solo act. She’s always been a solo act. Why am I just seeing it now?