Before the Ever After(2)

with the unbroken arm holding the handlebars and then not holding them and Daniel flying around the park like some kid

gravity couldn’t mess with.

While me and Darry and Ollie watched him amazed.

And terrified.





ZJ


I used to wonder who I’d be if “Zachariah 44” Johnson wasn’t my daddy.

First time people who know even a little bit about football meet me, it’s like they know him, not me. To them, I’m Zachariah’s son.

The tight end guy’s kid.

I’m Zachariah Johnson Jr. ZJ. I’m the one whose daddy plays pro ball. I’m the tall kid with my daddy’s same broad shoulders. I’m the one who doesn’t dream of going pro.

Music maybe.

But not football.

Still, even at school, feels like my dad’s in two places at once—dropping me off out front, saying Learn lots, little man, then walking into the classroom ahead of me.

I mean, not him but his shadow. And me almost invisible inside it.

Except to my boys

who see me walking into the classroom and say What’s up, ZJ?

Your mom throw any cookies in your lunch?

Then all three of them open their hands beneath their desks so that when the teacher’s back is turned I can sneak them one.





You Love a Thing?


Ever since I was a little kid, I’ve loved football, my daddy told me.

Through every broken toe and cracked rib and jammed finger

and slam to the shoulder

and slam to the head, I still

loved it.

You got something you love, little man?

Then you good.

You love food? You cook.

You love clothes? You design.

You love the wind and water? You sail.

Me, my daddy said,

I love everything about the game.

Even the smell of the ball.

Then he laughed, said

Imagine loving something so much, you love the smell of it?

It smells like leather and dirt and sweat and new snow.

I love football with all

of my senses. Love the taste and feel of the air in my mouth

running with the ball on a cold day. Love the smell of the ball when I press it to my face and the smell of the field right after it rains.

I love the way the sky looks as we stare up at it while some celebrity sings “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

Love the sound of the crowd cheering us on.

When you love a thing, little man, my dad said, you gotta love it with everything you got.

Till you can’t even tell where that thing you love begins and where you end.





Who We Are & What We Love


Ollie divides fractions in his head, can multiply them too—gives you the answer while you’re still trying to write down the problem, knows so much about so much but doesn’t show off about knowing.

Darry—besides running fast, he can dance. Get the music going and my boy moves like water flowing.

All smooth like that.

Daniel’s super chill, says stuff like You okay, my man? You need to talk?

And really means it. And really listens.

Calls his bike a Magic Broom, spins it in so many circles we all get dizzy, but not Daniel, who bounces the front tire back to earth without even blinking,

says That was for all of y’all who are stuck on the ground.

Me, I play the guitar. Mostly songs that come into my head. Music is always circling my brain. Hard to explain how songs do that.

But when I play them, everything makes some kind of strange sense like my guitar has all the answers.

When I sing, the songs feel as magic as Daniel’s bike

as brilliant as Ollie’s numbers as smooth as Darry’s moves

as good as the four of us hanging out on a bright cold Saturday afternoon.

It feels right

and clear

and always.





Ollie


Ollie says he doesn’t really remember the beginning of his story.

Says he’s glad about that.

It was a tragedy, he says.

And when things like that happen, your mind blanks out.

It’s like your mind knows, he says, how to take care of itself.

Before he was one of my best friends, he was a baby with green eyes and a bright red Afro left outside a Texas church in a basket with a note pinned to his blanket

Please take care of this baby. And love him like crazy too.

He used to take the note out of his pocket all the time.

Now he keeps it stored away, in a plastic bag, the paper inside yellowish and ripped on one corner.

Too delicate, Ollie says, to show anybody anymore.

We all know what came next in the story Ollie says he can’t remember.

A preacher and his wife found

and kept him.

Loved Ollie just like the note asked them to do.

Then the preacher died and it was only his wife— Bernadette, who’s Ollie’s mom.

Bernadette, who comes over sometimes to drink coffee with my own mama and sometimes, if it’s a Friday night, one glass of wine.

Any more than that, Bernadette says, and I forget my own name.

Even though she’s said that a hundred times, she and Mama laugh anyway.

Ollie looks at my dad sometimes with those bright green eyes like he’s deep in a dream of remembering his own father living.